Page 89 of What's Left of Us

“I saw my wife today. Her new boyfriend bought me a coffee. Wasn’t that nice of him?”

The good doctor is quiet for a moment, her voice softer when she speaks again. “That must have been very hard for you.”

“Oh, it was the best part of my day. I think we had a dick measuring contest in the middle of the coffee shop.” I laugh at my pathetic joke, my eyebrow twitching when I think about his reference to Conklin. “Do you want to know whose is bigger?”

She clears her throat. “Not particularly.”

“Suit yourself,” I say with a grin.

Theresa Castro sighs. “You should have come to talk to me. Using alcohol to get through problems isn’t a healthy coping mechanism.”

“I’m not an alcoholic.”

“I never said you were,” she reasons when she hears the defensiveness in my tone. “But it’s obvious that you decided alcohol was a better way to sort out your feelings than therapy. All I’m saying is that there’s a reason I’m here. It’s to talk. To listen. To offer help.”

What could she do to help me? There are a few X-rated things I could think of that I doubt she’d be game for. “Have you ever drank to avoid your problems?”

There’s no hesitation this time. “Yes, I have. I’m human too. Which is why I’m telling you that it’s better to talk it out rather than to self-destruct at a bar.”

I’d hardly say I’m self-destructing. “What did you do when you lost your husband?”

It’s fifty-fifty on whether she’ll answer me. I know it’s a sensitive subject and none of my business. But curiosity killed the cat.

After a minute of silence, I almost change the subject when she gives me an answer. “I took time away from school. From work. From…life. I grieved. Mourned. Cried. Yelled. I’m far from perfect, Lincoln. In fact, I don’t think there is such a thing. We are all flawed in some ways. To be flawed is to be human.”

A small smile tilts the corners of my lips when I replay those words back. “You called me Lincoln,” I murmur, the name on her lips warming me more than the alcohol does.

“I think you should reschedule your appointment instead of waiting for next week’s,” she replies, not addressing the slip of the tongue.

The smile grows on my face. “Is that your way of saying you’d like to see me?”

“I would like tohelpyou,” she states, that firm voice leaving little room to push boundaries. As much as I’d like to flirt with her, I have a feeling it won’t go anywhere.

“I’ll reschedule if you answer one question.”

I expect her to tell me no. To tell me I’m in no position to request anything. But she doesn’t say anything—doesn’t reject me or agree.

“Have you seen anybody since your husband passed away?”

It’s another prying question I’m not owed an answer to. I wouldn’t blame her if she told me to fuck off by asking it. I’m not surprised when she doesn’t.

“No,” she admits. “I have not.”

I nod to myself, not that she can see me.

“All right,” I agree without pressing her. It tells me all I need to. That she knows how I feel. That, to some degree, she understands. “I’ll reschedule.”

“Friday at six?”

I almost say, “It’s a date,” but stop myself at the last second. Instead, I say, “Happy Valentine’s Day, doc.”

When the call disconnects, I realize the anger I’d felt since my run-in with Georgia is nearly dissipated. And it has nothing to do with the buzz coursing through my body and everything to do with Doctor Theresa Castro.

And I don’t know what to think about that, so I choose not to think at all. At least not for the rest of the night.

*

My boots crunchover what’s left of the melting snow as I walk through the graveyard. It’s a short walk from the path to where a brand new marble gravestone sticks out in the back corner of the cemetery withCONKLINcarved in black lettering on the top.

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