Page 11 of Burned By the Broken Doctor

I shake my head, forcing a smile. “No matchmaking needed, Dad. I'm good.”

He shrugs, a playful glint in his eyes. “Alright, alright. But don't blame me if I decide to go ahead with it. You might want to change your mind because I know a few lovely girls who would be happy to meet a handsome young doctor like you.”

“Dad,” I sigh, exasperation creeping into my voice. “You really don't have to do that.”

“Nonsense,” he says, waving his hand dismissively. “This is the least I can do, considering you're taking a whole month off work to be here. I don't know when I'll get another chance to have my son over for this long.”

A pang of guilt stabs at me, but I push it down. “Dad, I appreciate it,” I say, my voice sincere, “but I'd rather spend the time focusing on helping out at the hospital and with Damon's wedding. You know, best man duties and all.”

He gives me a skeptical look. “Damon's wedding, huh? Speaking of love, there's your perfect example, Liam. You need to take a leaf out of his book, son. Find someone special, fall in love, enjoy life.”

My jaw clenches. Of course, he wouldn't listen. Stubborn as a mule, that's what Dad is. “This meddling again, Dad?” My voice is tight with anger. “Is this your way of easing your guilt or something?”

He mumbles something under his breath, avoiding my gaze. “I just want you to be happy, Liam.”

“So, you think I haven't been happy?” I scoff. “Is that it? You're convinced somehow that I've lived some horrible, miserable life that’s your fault and if you just help 'clean up' everything, then suddenly everything will be alright?”

The silence that stretches between us is thick and suffocating. Dad just stares at me, his face etched with hurt. It only fuels my anger.

“I don't need your help, Dad,” I try to keep my voice from rising, but I fail. “Leave me alone. Let me live my own life.”

He flinches like I'd slapped him, his eyes widening in shock. “Liam—“ he begins, his voice cracking.

“No,” I cut him off, my voice laced with a bitterness I hate. “I don't need you. Don't you get it?”

The pain in his eyes mirrors the ache in my own heart. “You deserve to find someone you love, Liam,” he says, his voice barely a whisper.

I slam my fork down on the table, the clatter echoing through the room. “What use is love if it just leads to heartbreak in the end?” I yell the question. It’s a raw scream from the depths of my soul. “Don't you get it, Dad? I waited for years, hoping things would work out between you two. I prayed, made wishes on birthdays, wrote stupid letters to Santa Claus even though I never believed in him, wishing for a happy family Christmas morning. And what did I get? Nothing!”

“Liam–”

The sound of his broken voice makes my chest tighten. I heave in a couple of breaths, struggling to drag air through my lungs.

“Just please,” I plead, my voice thick with emotion. “Let me enjoy my time here in peace. Let me be here for Damon, that's all I ask.”

Dad opens his mouth to speak, but I cut him off again.

“No buts, Dad,” I declare, my voice firm. “This conversation is over.”

I push myself away from the table, the chair scraping harshly against the floor. I can't stay there any longer, not with the raw emotions churning inside me. Without another word, I storm out of the kitchen, the slam of the back door echoing behind me like a punctuation mark to the argument.

I storm out of the house, slamming the door behind me. The cool morning air hits my face, but it does little to cool my anger. My father and I always end up in these arguments, no matter how hard I try to avoid them. He means well, I know that, but he doesn’t understand.

I walk aimlessly, trying to calm down. I need to clear my head, to think rationally. My father is just trying to help, and I should be more understanding. But it’s hard when every conversation feels like he’s trying to fix me like I’m some broken toy.

As I walk, my stomach growls, reminding me that I left the table without finishing breakfast. I’m not ready to face my father again, so I decide to find something to eat elsewhere. After a few more minutes of walking, I spot a small grocery store, FreshOne Grocery. It’s as good a place as any to grab a snack.

I push open the door and step inside. The store is quaint, with a strange personal touch in the decor—handwritten signs, mismatched shelves, and a friendly chaos that feels oddly welcoming. It’s busier than I expected for a small town, and I nod at a couple of patrons as I head to the edibles section.

As I approach, I stop in my tracks. Standing by the cake display is Emma Cole. Great. Just what I need. My shoulders tense as I debate turning around and leaving. But my stomach rumbles again, and I realize I can’t keep avoiding her.

Emma is focused on a piece of cake, turning it over in her hands. She looks oddly intent, like she’s trying to decipher some hidden message in the frosting. Part of me is curious about what she’s thinking, but I tamp it down. I don’t need more complications this morning.

I hope she doesn’t notice me, but my luck has been particularly bad today. She looks up, and our eyes meet. Her expression shifts to one of irritation.

“Oh, perfect,” she says, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “I smelled something rotten, and it’s right here.”

Her words send a prickle up my spine, and I clench my fists. I should walk away, but I can’t stop myself from responding. “I’m not in the mood for childish games this morning.”

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