Page 45 of After Everything
Not punishing myself forever
Respecting Emma's boundaries even when it hurts
I stared at that last one for a long time.
Then I closed my phone and went to bed.
Thursday came toofast and not fast enough.
I picked up Maria at her sister's apartment at 2:30. She was dressed carefully: clean jeans, a modest sweater, her hair pulled back. She'd printed out the photos like I'd asked, had her old hospital records in a folder.
"Are you ready?" I asked.
She nodded, but I could see her hands shaking. "I'm nervous."
"That's normal. But Emma—Ms. Peterson—she's reallygood at what she does. She's going to make this as easy as possible for you."
We drove to the clinic in silence. Maria stared out the window, her hands clasped in her lap. I kept my eyes on the road and tried not to think about the fact that I'd be seeing Emma in twenty minutes.
The clinic was in a renovated brick building on Walnut Street. Clean, professional, welcoming. The kind of place that felt safe. I held the door for Maria and followed her inside.
The waiting room was small but comfortable. Soft lighting, plants in the corners, chairs that looked actually comfortable instead of the usual plastic torture devices. A sign at the front desk said "All are welcome here" in English and Spanish.
I walked up to the receptionist. "Maria Rodriguez. Three PM appointment with Emma Peterson."
The receptionist smiled at Maria. "Hi, Maria. I'm going to need you to fill out some paperwork. Do you prefer English or Spanish?"
"Spanish, please," Maria said quietly.
"No problem." The receptionist handed her a clipboard. "Have a seat and fill this out. Someone will be with you shortly."
Maria and I sat in the corner. She bent over the forms, concentrating hard, her pen moving slowly across the page. I sat next to her, hands in my lap, trying not to look at the door that led back to the exam rooms.
Trying not to imagine Emma on the other side.
At 3:05, the door opened.
And there she was.
Emma, in navy blue scrubs, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, a tablet in her hand. She looked professional, competent, calm. She looked like someone who knew exactly what she was doing and wouldn't tolerate any nonsense from anyone.
And… she looked beautiful. Maybe I shouldn’t be thinking of that, I knew, but she did. She looked so beautiful it hurt.
Her eyes scanned the waiting room, landed on us, but her expression didn't change—no surprise, no discomfort, just professional acknowledgment.
"Maria Rodriguez?" she called.
Maria stood up, clutching her folder. I stood too, instinctively, then caught myself.
Emma's eyes flicked to me. "You can wait here, Mr. Harrison. This will take about forty-five minutes."
"Of course." I sat back down. "Thank you."
