Page 51 of Doctor One Night

“Hey,” she says, sliding onto the stool next to mine. God, she has effortlessly cool down to a science. I want to be like Frankie when I grow up.

“Hey, you,” I reply, nodding to the bartender who comes over to take her drink order. She asks for a gin and tonic, and I watch as she settles in, her posture relaxed, but there’s something guarded in her eyes.

“I opted for a whiskey instead of a beer. Feels more like a Monday-appropriate decision.”

“Excellent choice. Cheers. This place is nice. I haven’t been here before.”

“Yeah, it’s got a good vibe,” I say, taking a sip. “Figured it would be better than some stuffy restaurant.”

She nods, and we lapse into a bit of small talk about the menu, the food, the kind of things you say when you’re trying to avoid the real conversation. The unspoken words between us are almost unavoidable, but I’m not ready to go there yet. Not here, not now.

Probably not ever, if I can avoid it.

As we order a couple of appetizers to share, I decide to address the obvious. “About yesterday,” I start, keeping my tone light. “I’m sorry for leaving like that. I didn’t want to wake you. It was early and I needed to get a few things done.”

She glances at me, her expression unreadable. “It’s fine,” she says, but there’s a slight edge to her voice. “No worries at all, I get it”

I nod, relieved that she’s not pushing the issue.“Thanks,” I say, finishing my drink. “I just didn’t want things to get weird, you know?”

“Right,” she replies, her tone still cool. “No need to complicate this trial. Our schedule is jam-packed for the foreseeable future.

As a moment of silence ensues, the food arrives just in time to relieve the tension. We both dig in, focusing on the Cajun Angels and pimento cheese dip, but I am completely aware it is all a fragile shroud that keeps us both safe from going there.

After a few bites, she speaks up again, her voice softer. ”Actually, I got some good news today. The person I mentioned the other night—the one with Hodgkin’s—he got his labs back, and it looks like the treatment might be working.”

I glance at her, surprised by the shift in conversation. “Yeah? That’s great news.” She said “he.” Unexpectedly jealousy rises up at the idea she is seeing someone else.

She nods, her eyes flicking to mine briefly before she looks back down at her drink. “I mean, it’s still early, but he said things aren’t getting worse. And there’s a chance it could be improving. What do you think?”

I lean back slightly, considering her words.

“That’s definitely a good sign. Hodgkin’s is often very curable, especially if the treatment’s showing results early on. The fact that it’s not getting worse is a win in itself. If he keeps responding well, there’s a good chance he'll beat it.”

She looks relieved, and I can see the tension in her shoulders ease a little. But as I say the words, I can’t help but think about my mom. She’s got a long road ahead, and while I’ve been trying to keep my distance, this conversation brings it all back to the surface.

I should be doing more—calling her doctor, checking on her treatment plan—but every time I think about it, that familiar resistance, that wall I’ve built to keep her at arm’s length, and I always find a reason why I can't in that moment, keeps me at bay.

Frankie’s voice pulls me back to the present. “That’s good to hear. I was worried, but… this gives me hope.”

I nod, not trusting myself to say more. My thoughts are too all over the place about what I should be doing, what I’ve been avoiding, and what it all means. The last thing I need is to let my guard down again, especially after this weekend.

Opening up to her was a fleeting moment of bad judgement. That, and the sex, of course.

We continue to eat, the conversation shifting back to work—discussing the trial, the next steps, and keeping things as professional as possible. But the tension lingers, like a current running beneath the surface.

As the night winds down, I realize I’m not ready to walk away from this—whatever “this” is. But I also know I’m not ready to face it head-on.

Not yet.

Frankie catches my eye as we finish the last of our drinks, and there’s something unspoken there, something that tells me I’m not the only one. “Hey, you up for a walk tonight? It's a nice night.”

“That would be nice.”

9:19 pm

The evening air is crisp, a slight breeze rustling through the trees as our enjoyable walk is coming to a natural end. We are back at the entrance near the restaurant, where both of our cars are parked.

We’ve been talking, mostly about work and about the trial, but we've come to an end, and the conversation has slowed. The sudden silence between us is startling with everything we've left unspoken. Luckily, we can each go our separate ways.

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