Page 4 of Just My Style

With these words, the last shred of my patience snaps. “I didn’t abandon you. I had no idea you existed. As soon as I knew, I quit my job, sold my house, and packed up everything, turning my life upside down to move to Friendly, Georgia.”

“It’s your own fault you didn’t know about me,” he argues. “You used Mom and then you dropped her like a hot potato.” His voice shakes with fury.

“I did not!” I should end the call. Nothing good will come from having this discussion, but I feel compelled to defend myself. “Your mother and I had a completely consensual summer fling. We both agreed that it was temporary. Just for the summer—”

“Don’t you dare impugn my mother’s honor,” he bellows.

“Impugn her honor?” I shove a hand impatiently through my hair. “Good grief, Jared. You sound like you’re going to challenge me to a duel.”

“Maybe I should,” he mutters. Ouch. On some level, my son wants to shoot me.

All the anger leaves my body in a whoosh, replaced with nothing but a deep and hollow sadness. He’s a teenager, I remind myself. His brain’s not fully developed.

I take a deep breath, trying to regain a sense of composure. “Besides the fact that it’s illegal, a duel wouldn’t help me achieve my goal of having a relationship with you. That’s all I want, Jared.”

“Well, we can’t always get what we want.” Silence descends again, and this time, I know he’s hung up.

With a frustrated sigh, I sling my duffel bag over my shoulder with a bit too much force, narrowly missing a passerby. A part of my brain acknowledges that the woman is stunning, with wavy chestnut hair, big, blue eyes framed with long lashes, and a pouty little mouth. Unfortunately, she dodges my bag like it’s filled with plutonium. At the same moment, a man dragging a massive suitcase behind him crosses her path.

She trips over the wheels of the suitcase, sprawling across the floor like a baseball player sliding into home base. A woman in stiletto heels attempts to jump out of the way, barely managing to avoid stomping on the brunette’s pretty face and coming down on one of her outstretched hands instead.

The brunette wails in agony. The stilettoed woman clutches her mouth in horror, kneeling to check on the other woman.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “Are you okay?”

Tears spill from the brunette’s eyes as she shakes her head. “It’s over. It’s all over,” she sobs.

“What’s over?” The woman in the stilettoes looks uncomfortable, glancing around for someone to help her.

“Everything,” the brunette blubbers. “Every. Single. Thing. There’s no point in going to Mexico now.”

I spring into action. “I’m a doctor,” I say, pushing through the crowd that’s started to gather around. The stilettoed woman smiles at me gratefully, but the brunette just glares at me.

“What’s your name?” I ask her.

“What’s it to you?” she demands, blinking angrily through her tears.

Okay…

“I’m Dr. Margolis,” I say gently, “May I remove your glove to get a better look at your hand?” She continues to glare at me with an unmistakable look of hatred in her eyes, but she nods. Pulling gently at the fingertips, I slide off her glove. Grasping her hand, I probe it gently to ascertain if there are any broken bones. Fortunately, there aren’t. “There appears to be a minor contusion, but no broken bones. And the skin is intact. The shoe didn’t cut you.”

She stares at her hand as if seeing it for the first time in her life. “Everything is ruined,” she whimpers.

“It’ll be fine,” I assure her. “A contusion is just a fancy word for a bruise. See the red spot? That will darken into a bruise over the next few hours, but it’ll be gone in a week or two. So, no harm done.”

She jerks her hand away. “No harm done?” Her voice is as shrill as a car alarm. “Are you serious?”

I frown. “Well, there’s some harm, but the bruise will heal before you know it.”

Tears stream down her face as she stares at her hand. “It’s over. It’s all over.”

“If you’d like a second opinion, I can take you to the hospital for x-ray confirmation, but in my medical opinion, it merely requires an ice pack to keep the inflammation down.”

Her blue eyes snap to mine. “Why couldn’t you watch where you were swinging your bag? You’ve ruined my life,” she wails dramatically.

I suppress a sigh. How many irrational people do I have to deal with today? From the corner of my eye, I see the stilettoed woman backing away slowly before turning on her heel and sprinting down the corridor. Can’t blame her for that.

I smile kindly at the brunette. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I should have looked first. I was on a frustrating call and swung my bag a bit too hard. I’m very sorry for startling you and causing you to trip, but I assure you, you’ll be fine.”

---