Page 63 of After Everything
"Yeah." Something shifted in his expression. "You were amazing then too."
The air in the office suddenly felt too thin.
David cleared his throat. "Anyway. I should let you get back to work. Just wanted to drop those off."
"Thanks." I walked him to the door, hand on the doorknob.Professional, I reminded myself.Keep it professional.
He paused in the doorway. "Oh, and Emma? Fair warning… Maria might call you directly. She's convinced you're some kind of miracle worker. I tried to explain that you're just exceptionally good at your job, but she wasn't having it."
"I'll prepare for sainthood, then."
"You laugh, but I'm pretty sure she's already building a shrine. You might want toget ahead of it. Maybe issue a statement: 'I'm just an NP, please stop bringing me offerings.'"
I laughed. Actually laughed, the sound surprising me.
And for just a second—just one brief, unguarded moment—it wasn't like talking to David, my ex-husband, the man who'd betrayed me. It was like talking to someone new. Someone who made jokes about patient shrines and noticed that my organized chaos was organized.
Two people who'd never met before, sharing a laugh in a doorway.
The thought hit me so suddenly I forgot to breathe.
"I should get back to work," I said quickly. "Lots of charts to finish. Thanks for dropping this off."
"Right. Yeah. Of course." David stepped back into the hallway. "Take care, Emma."
"You too."
I closed the door and leaned against it.
My heart was racing. Why was my heart racing?
It was just David. David dropping offfiles. David making a stupid joke about patient shrines. David being... easy to talk to.
No. Not easy. Familiar. That's all it was. Old habit, old muscle memory from when we used to talk like this all the time. Before everything went wrong.
I walked back to my desk and sat down, pulling the nearest patient chart toward me. Mrs. Smith, hypertension follow-up. Routine. Normal.
I stared at the chart without seeing it.
Two people who'd never met before.
Where had that thought even come from?
I shook my head and picked up my pen. This was ridiculous. David was a professional contact. A colleague, at best. Someone I worked with because we both helped DV survivors, not because there was anything between us.
There wasn't anything between us.
There couldn't be.
I forced myself to focus on the chart. Blood pressure readings. Medication compliance. Diet and exercise recommendations.
Work things. Things that had nothing to do with the fact that I'd laughed at David's joke and for one brief moment had forgotten to hate him.
I didn't hate him.
The realization settled over me, unwelcome and undeniable.
I didn't hate him anymore. Somewhere in the past nine months of professional emails and case referrals and watching him show up for vulnerable women who needed help, I'd stopped hating him.
