Page 83 of Protecting What's Mine
Mack’s heart clenched just a little. She’d always been grateful—painfully, pathetically so—for Dottie and Winston Nguyen (comically known as Win-Win) and the ten weeks she’d had with them as a child. Strangers who’d immediately proved to be far more stable than any blood relative Mack had known. They’d all cried when she left. She’d spent years after wishing it could have been longer. When she’d turned eighteen, she’d found Dottie on Facebook and sent her a message. “You probably don’t remember me, but…”
Dottie had remembered. And she’d been overjoyed then, too. Had peppered her with questions about how she was and what she was doing. And when Mack had confessed her desire to go into medicine, Winston, a thin, energetic podiatrist with an entire catalog of terrible foot jokes, had counseled her on pre-med programs. They’d offered to help her pay for college. She hadn’t accepted. It was a point of pride to do it all on her own. But the memory of that earnest offer still made the stalwart Mack just a little teary-eyed.
“Vi just asked me when I was coming to visit you guys.” Violet had been the foster kid Dottie and Winstoncouldkeep. Mack had been both overjoyed for them and profoundly sad that it hadn’t been her. But the decision hadn’t been in the Nguyen’s hands any more than it had been in her own.
“No reason not to do both,” Dottie insisted. “What are you doing for Thanksgiving?”
Mack laughed, feeling her chest loosen. “I haven’t even picked up candy for trick-or-treaters yet.”
“I know you, Mackenzie. If I don’t nail you down and make you put the date in your calendar, it will never happen. We’ll come to you for Thanksgiving,” she decided.
She felt a tickle of panic. “My place is the size of a dollhouse.”
“We’ll get a hotel room.”
“I don’t know how to cook a Thanksgiving feast, and I might be on call.”
“Win will use us as sous chefs. And I know darn well that town of yours has an urgent care that will be open on Thanksgiving. Andifyoudoget called to the clinic, we’ll hold dinner for you. But you are expressly forbidden from taking a flight shift that day. Got it?”
“Yeah, about that,” Mack said, studying the ugly boot on her foot. “I can’t take any air med shifts until I’m out of the walking boot.”
There was a beat of silence, and then, “Why are you in a walking boot, Mackenzie?” Dottie shrieked.
Mack filled her in with a toned-down version.
“What kind of town is this? Was he on meth? Are you living in a meth hub?” Dottie demanded.
Mack laughed. “No. I promise. It’s actually a very nice town. And that’s kind of why I was calling. There’s a guy.”
Another pause during which she could hear Dottie tear open a single-serve bag of chips, her one and only vice. “Tell meeverything. But be prepared to circle back to the broken ankle thing so I can guilt-trip you about not telling us the moment it happened. We care about you, Mackenzie O’Neil.”
“I know. And thanks. And I’m sorry.”
“Good. Now spill it.”
27
“Good morning, Mackenzie.” Russell clapped his palms together enthusiastically. “Guess what you get to do today?”
She was already exhausted and barely in the door of her office. She was not ready for enthusiasm of any sort.
The boot was pissing her off more than usual today. Hell, everything was. Everything was unsettled and would remain so until she hashed things out with Linc. But she needed to plan out her apology. Carefully structure it. Give him a couple of days to cool off. She needed at least two or three days.Maybe put together an outline and then work her way up to a Venn diagram?
She wasn’t a groveler. But she’d been an asshole, and he deserved a real apology.
“What do I get to do today?”
Gingerly, she lowered herself into the chair she’d yet to replace. It was a matter of principle now. She was determined to wait out the chair’s lifespan. It couldn’t hang on much longer. It gave a terrifying clunking noise and dropped her three inches. But the chair remained intact, and she remained upright.
Russell watched her chair drama with amusement. “You and Freida get to go to the fire station for firefighter physicals today,” he said with a big, toothy grin.
Shit.
“I don’t think that’s a great idea,” she hedged.
“Oh, it’s not really a choice,” he said, dropping into the chair in front of her desk and steepling his fingers. “You see, the physician who does the physicals has to examine close to forty patients. Burly, farting firefighters who don’t take kindly when you point out that they are in danger of failing the physical requirements of their service.”
“Your daughter is one of those burly, farting firefighters,” she reminded him. “And what requirements?”
