Page 43 of The Grumpy Doc's Surprise Delivery

My head hurts.

Since Emma asked the question, I keep coming back to it: why did I become a doctor? And I think it was for nights like this.

Of course, it’s not pleasant, not by a long stretch. The patient ran from her husband and was hit by a car, and it could have been fatal. Once she recovers, I’ll see to it that she and her child get everything they need to carve out a better life.

That’s not really my job, but I make it my business. It’s called going above and beyond.

So yes. I became a doctor for the great career prospects because everyone will always need a doctor, and for the fact that it helps.

At its core, it’s about help.

And sure, we can’t help everybody, but I know what it’s like to be that person. To know what it’s like to be so desperate to leave that you would risk bodily harm.

And no matter how much she claims to, Emma can never understand what that is truly like.

For two months, we’ve been seeing each other, and it’s been fun. I like her, and I can’t deny it. I like her more than I possibly could have imagined. But I’m losing my focus.

I’m here to work. I’m here to make people’s lives better.

I’ve been doing less overtime than ever, and people are starting to gossip about me. I’ve heard them whispering, letting rumors fly that I’m seeing someone, that I’m going to quit, that I’m sick.

Gossip is a distraction. Emma is a distraction. I need to get my head back in the game.

And though it hurts to think about, my job has to come first. It’s still steady now, but that threat in the back of my head that I might lose it — that terrifies me. Work is my life because I don’t want to imagine a life without it.

I don’t want to live a life where I have nothing.

As if she knows that I’m thinking about her, my phone pings with a message from Emma. Slowly, I peel my hands away from my face and stare blankly at the wall, grounding myself to reality. When I get home, I’m going to have a long shower and sleep.

I might love work, but I can’t pretend I’m not grateful that this is the end of my shift. I’d do overtime if I had to, but even I know that I have to rest sometimes.

Before I look at her message, I drag myself up to my feet, take the deepest steadying breath I can muster, and then walk to the vending machine to get a coffee. They aren’t the greatest coffees ever, but that’s beside the point.

I drink it while it’s hot, and the way it scorches down my throat is a good feeling. It almost hurts, but it’s real. It’s something to feel that isn’t my trembling hand or the sinking of my heart knowing I’m going to have to break up with the only girl who’s ever made me think dating could be an option for me.

When I’ve finished the coffee, I stall for time by throwing the cup in the trash, taking long, slow strides to the other side of the room, watching as the cup bounces to the bottom. Then I cave to the inevitable and take my phone from my pocket.

I take another long breath, then open my notifications. I knew it was from Emma because nobody else ever texts me.

Hey,she writes with a smiley face.Want to meet for lunch tomorrow?

My thumbs hover over the keyboard as I try to figure out a response. I don’t want to tell her I want to end things like this. It’s cruel to do it by text, and I do want to see her.

I want to hold her in my arms and breathe in the scent of her and tell her about my day. Let her hold me in return and soothe some of the weight I’m carrying. Being with her is making me so complacent. How can I keep being strong when I keep relying on her for everything?

But to say no like this… I can’t do it to her.

Busy tomorrow, sorry,I reply in the end.

Her response is instant.No worries, I know you’re busy! Let me know another time this week that would be good for you?

Again, I hesitate. She will know as well as I do that I have my full schedule for the week, that I can tell her all of my lunch breaks without looking. Will she find it strange if I don’t tell her? Would it hurt her if I just left it hanging here?

Okay, will do,I send back, feeling bad at the idea of ghosting her.

Can’t wait to see you!

I shove my phone back in my pocket so I don’t have to look at it, the guilt gnawing away at my ribs. Why is it so hard to say goodbye to her? This isn’t a serious thing; we’ve both been totally clear about that. And if Emma had wanted to make it more, I’m sure she would have asked.

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