Page 82 of Summer with the Single Dad

“Then talk to them. I’m sure they’ve experienced similar situations … at least regarding lost-cause patients and losing patients.”

Justine shook her head. “I’ve been avoiding their calls and text messages. I can’t face them. I can’t tell them … not yet anyway. I don’t know how. My mother is the queen of leaving her personal life outside the hospital.” That made a snicker of irony rumble in her nose. “She’s the queen of leaving her personal life outside of her personal life.” She glanced at Keturah. “She’s not the warmest woman. And I don’t think she’d understand how I’m feeling. My dad might. But not my mom. And they liked Tad. He’s from a good family and is a neurosurgeon. On paper, he’s the perfect son-in-law. I don’t know how to tell them about my patient, about my doubt in myself and my career, or about the end of my engagement. So … like a coward, I’ve just been avoiding them. Which just piles on more guilt, of course.”

“That’s a lot to carry around when you’re supposed to be on vacation and finding some clarity. How can you find any peace through all that pain and guilt?”

What a loaded question.

The truth was, Justine couldn’t find much of anything these days. Besides the joy that Bennett and his daughters brought her, anyway.

“I’m not an easy fix, I guess.”

“The good ones never are, dear.”

Justine huffed a humorless laugh.

“Come in for a drink?”

“Raincheck?” Justine asked. “I’m ready for bed.” The taste of vomit lingered in her mouth and embarrassment hit her hard. “Oh god. I just barfed in your driveway. Do you have a hose? Let me clean it up.” What was the proper protocol after you barfed in someone’s driveway?

Keturah shook her head. “Oh, don’t worry about it. I’ll spray it off when I water the garden once it’s a little cooler out.” She removed her hand. “Don’t be a stranger, dear. I have nothing to do but feed the birds, garden and talk. And the birds and flowers don’t really answer back.” Her warm smile eased some of that tension in Justine’s chest.

“I will. I promise. Thank you.”

“Thank you for the ride home and the lovely chat.”

Justine huffed. “Not sure it was a lovely chat. I spent the entire time dumping my emotional baggage on you.”

“Because I asked you to.”

“Still …”

“Still, you need to forgive.” Then she squeezed Justine’s hand before opening the passenger door. “Don’t be a stranger. Otherwise, I’ll send one of the many ghosts I’m friends with to haunt you.”

Justine chuckled as Keturah slammed the door.

It was only polite to wait until the older woman was safely inside her house before Justine backed up and headed down the long driveway back toward the road.

There was still plenty of light out, but the sun was sinking fast. The clock on the dash said it was nearly eight o’clock. Not late, but her heart and head were as heavy as boulders and she needed to get home.

Home.

How weird was it to consider Bennett’s house home?

Would the trailer be there when she got back? Did he expect her to sleep in it tonight?

Maybe if she put herself to bed early enough in his bed, he wouldn’t wake her up and kick her out.

She drove the twenty minutes across the island and let out a deep sigh of relief when none of the brothers’ trucks were parked in front of their houses after she made it through the gate. And thankfully—yes, thankfully—the trailer wasn’t there either.

Her heart remained heavy and her ribs squeezed it with no remorse as she opened the door to Bennett’s house. In less than a week, this place felt more like home than her own apartment back in Seattle. She was more at peace than she had been in ages, and the fresh air and calm, safe vibe soothed her tattered soul.

All she wanted to do right now was have a shower and go to bed.

She knew Keturah’s words to be true. Bennett said them, too. And she wasn’t an idiot. She knew what she needed to do, but knowing what to do and actually doing it are two very different things. You can try to tell yourself not to think about something anymore, but that just makes you think about it more. She could try to forgive herself for what happened to Mr. O’Malley—and she could try—but deep down in her heart, in her very soul, she wouldn’t feel it.

Her trudge up the stairs was dramatic and slow. But nobody was around to see her wallow, and she tuned out her mother’s criticizing voice with a carousel of lamentations from her own conscience about how she froze today on that field and the little boy nearly died.

The tears flowed in the shower, mixing with the warm water and flowing down the drain.

---