Page 16 of Baby for Dr. Damaged

Chapter eight

Amanda

Jackson’sgotagreatbathroom, the sort where the shower is an open space, stone floor and stone walls. I take my time cleaning up and use what appears to be his very expensive shampoo; a realization that makes me smile, if only for a moment.

The warm water soothes away my aches and helps my mood, but only for so long as I’m actively under the spray of it. The moment I get out and start toweling off, the irritation comes back again.

On some level, I know that he only left because he needed to. Being a doctor basically means you have no personal life at all. Not that they chain you to the hospital, but it comes pretty damn close, making it hard not to consider your time a commodity.

That has always been part of being constantly on call and has only gotten worse since cell phones became practice use. At least there was an ounce of privacy when you had to rely on a beeper—or before that, when going home really meant that you were going home.

Speaking of, my phone goes off too. I snatch it up. “Hello?”

Cara’s voice rings through, “I need a favor.”

“Why does it sound like I’m not going to like this favor?”

“You aren’t. Look, I have to totally skip out on work tomorrow evening. It’s important.”

“Is it important, or do you just have a hot doctor you want to get dinner with, and their shift ends early?”

The silence is telling.

I groan, “You know what? You areluckythat I’m such a good friend. Fine. But you have to stay until I get there.”

Cara squeals. “You’re the absolute best!”

The line clicks off. Point? Proven.

So on some level, I get it.

It’s not his fault that someone didn’t show, or that they got slammed with patients, or whatever the problem might have been.

The issue is… He didn’t seem even a bit put out by it.

I’m still thinking about this as I get dressed, pulling my pants back on, and then hooking my bra into place. Jackson had just treated it like it was expected. Maybe it’s because he’s been without a partner for so long?

At some point, he probably stopped caring. What was the difference between work and home, right?

So, I get it.

My top comes on, and I tug at the hem of it, worrying at my lower lip. I just need to figure out whether I’m okay with that or not.

Drifting out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, I do a quick scan of the items that he’s got on hand for cooking. It’s not great, but it’s not awful either. I suppose that the nannies take care of making dinner for Bonnie, so there’s a fair bit that’s geared toward kids. Plenty of healthy snack foods like apples, and proteins like chicken.

I start the prep, the onion is cut up with more force than needed. The longer I’m in the house on my own, the more irritated I get. Overwhelmed by those thoughts, my hand slips and I almost slice through my own thumb.

“Fuck!” Shoving it in my mouth, I force myself to take a deep breath. “Come on, Amanda. Calm down. You don’t even have something picked out to cook. Stop chopping and just…”

Breathe.

I stand there for a few minutes, forcing my thoughts to the food I can make, slowly managing to calm myself down a little.

I end up making a honey mustard chicken with an apple and onion relish on the side and eating at the big kitchen table all on my own, watching the clock. It gets later and later. There are no calls to let me know what’s going on, which only serves to sully my mood that little bit more.

Eventually, I have to accept that Jackson just isn’t going to be coming back tonight.

With a huff, I put the leftovers into a container and start cleaning up the mess from eating. While I’m washing off my plate, the house phone doesn't ring, but I hear the answering machine begin its spiel.

---