Page 12 of Doctor Second Chance

That’s how easily he left me behind. Poof. Done.

Gainesville became a ghost town of memories I couldn’t escape from fast enough. It took me years to enjoy some of the places that were so strongly associated with him. Gainesville was now my city, but he was still lurking around every corner.

Over the years, I built my career from the ground up. I achieved things I’m proud of, but there was always that lingering ache, the question of what might have been if we’d stayed together.

He moved on, too, or so I heard. Casual relationships, a player leaving broken hearts in his wake, or so I’ve heard. It tracks, though. No commitment means you can blow through life, never letting anyone down.

He has the face and body for it. I guess if you’re hot, you can be a player if that is your thing. I, for one, would love to punch him in that pretty little face of his.

A decade has passed, and I’m still surprisingly bitter. It’s shocking, really, how that bitterness has clung to me, shadowing every relationship I’ve tried to start. Even now, I’m mistrustful and never put my whole self into relationships.

I should be over this by now. I should have moved on—I thought I had. But maybe some wounds are too deep to heal fully.

There’s something else, too, something that I haven’t let myself think about in years. The night he left, I said something I still think about. Something along the lines of “You will never be able to care about another person because your ego is too damn big, and it is sucking all of the oxygen out of the relationship.” It was harsh, and insults aren’t my personality, but I still feel that way today.

Of course, I don’t know him anymore. Maybe he grew up and learned that he isn’t the center of the universe.

It is unfair to pin our breaking up solely on him because we were both hellbent on pursuing our separate careers. But I felt like he had a choice more than I did. And more than anything, I was hurt and desperate. He left without another word, and I’ve carried guilt ever since—I shouldn’t have shut him down like that.

We had separate friend groups, for the most part, so once we broke up, I didn’t really get any updates. I never get on social media. It isn’t my thing.

Now, talking to him is surreal. He was only in my room for a couple of minutes at most, but my mouth is dry, and my pulse is beating faster than it did when Dr. Hampton told me about needing surgery.

I have mixed emotions about seeing him, frustration being the strongest. How could he walk in here like nothing happened between us? Like he didn’t shatter my heart and leave me to pick up the pieces on my own while he went on with his life? Like he never bothered to reach out over the years, find out how I was doing?

I wanted to tell him to get out, to never think of me or try to talk to me again, but I couldn’t. I played nice, letting him see a calm exterior while inside, I was boiling. That’s usually my MO: keep it in, grin, and bear it.

He looked at me with those eyes, the same eyes that once made me feel so loved, and my body betrayed me. My vajayjay did a jump, my breath hitched, and for a moment, I couldn’t find words to speak. It makes me furious that he still has this effect on me, that my body can react contrary to what my brain is screaming.

I’m stuck in this damn bed, in this hospital, and I can’t escape him. It’s like some cruel joke the universe is playing on me.

He asked if it was okay to stop by tomorrow, and I couldn’t bring myself to say no. We’re both adults. He’s trying to be friendly, trying to make amends, and I can suck it up.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to calm myself. This is just a blip, a temporary situation. I’ll get through it, just like I got through everything else. But as I lie here, I feel the weight of the past pressing down on me, suffocating me in a way.

All of it—the injury, missing the party, surgery, and now Shep. It’s more than I feel like I can handle right now, and I feel like I might lose my shit.

1:39 am

I hear three light taps on the door, and it slides open. It’s like Grand Central Station around here.

In saunters Wentworth, III, looking every bit the successful, self-assured wealth manager. He's sporting a tailored tuxedo. It’s a little ruffled after a night of partying, but intact nonetheless.

His hair is slicked back, and his smug grin is plastered on his face. It's almost comical how he carries himself like some kind of Hollywood celebrity, as if he is walking the red carpet and it is a normal time of night to pay someone a visit.

“Hey there, I say to him,” trying to hide my disdain. “Fancy seeing you here.” I may be desperate for some companionship in this lonely hospital room, but I’m suddenly confident that in no context does that mean him.

“Well, I decided that if my date couldn't be at the party, I should bring the party to her. The party is over, and just a handful of people are sitting around the patio. I had to sneak in after Nurse Rachet left her post.”

It's a nice thought, I guess. But did he think two in the morning, or close to it, was a good time to make a hospital call? He should've stayed at Isabella’s or called it a night. I didn't want to be with him at the party, and I don't want to be with him here.

“It's so nice of you to come. But Wentworth, it’s so late. They have visiting hours for a reason, you know. I’m sure you would much rather be in bed if the party is over. Not in some stinky old hospital.”

He pulls up a chair beside my bed, settling himself with exaggerated movements. I can practically feel the smugness radiating off him. It’s that or the vodka. When he breathes entirely too close to my face, the stench is so thick it’s literally making me drunk.

“Oh, I can sleep another time. It is more important to me to make sure you’re okay. I’m so sorry about your fall,” he slurs sincerely. “Suddenly, he feels a tiny bit more human. I didn't think he had empathy in him.

“Thank you. It was a stupid freak accident.”

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