Page 12 of Midnight Mate
All three seemed like a good way to go. So did day drinking, honestly.
Before I could decide, my phone rang.
I slid it out of my pocket, hands still shaky and clammy, then groaned.
The name on the screen only sent me spiraling further.
Travis was a shit-show I could not deal with right now.
I ignored the call and then turned off the ringer. Closing my eyes, I tried not to see Easton’s ruggedly handsome face behind my lids. But it was useless.
He was everywhere. No longer only alive in memory but here, now. In Midnight Falls and in my clinic. In my life.
Rudy would probably call it fate. Or a test. Or some other weirdo woo-woo prophecy. But I knew it for what it was: I was terrible at picking men. And now my past choices were back to haunt me.
* * *
“You didn’t finish your Moo Shu. Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”
I could feel Rudy’s concern wash over me and did my best to school my features into something neutral. It had been hours, after all. You’d think I could have put this morning behind me.
“I’m just not hungry,” I said. “Big lunch.”
“Lies. You walked out with half a salad, and you’re too much of a workaholic to leave and get something.”
“I ordered delivery.”
He stared at me with narrowed eyes.
I loved Rudy for his attentiveness. And I hated Rudy for his attentiveness.
“You look sallow.”
“Sallow?” I repeated. “Is that even a thing?”
“Fine. Haunted. Like you’ve seen a ghost or some shit. You look disturbed.” He grabbed the remote and paused our movie. “You’re not even paying attention to Charlize breaking bad in her Mini Cooper. Spill.”
His tone was firm like an order. And because it was Rudy, I gave in.
“I had a new patient today,” I said.
“And? Sorry, but that’s not exactly earth-shattering news.”
“It was someone I knew.”
Rudy turned so that he was fully facing me on the couch, his eyes wide. “Dear God, please tell me Travis didn’t hurt himself just so he could come to you for rehabilitation.”
“No, although if he keeps blowing up my phone, I might injure him.”
“Girlfriend, there’s a feature called block. You should try it.”
“I did, I did. Today’s call was the last one.” I waved a hand dismissively. For the first time in weeks, Travis was not the problem.
“Okay. So, this new patient . . . Is it someone terrible? Are you rehabilitating Stephanie Buchanan’s butt job gone wrong?”
“What? Gross.” I wrinkled my nose.
Stephanie Buchanan was the town’s gossip and, back in my mother’s day, had won Miss Midnight five years in a row. Nowadays, she could be found slinking out of the plastic surgeon’s office and maintaining that her youthful look was “completely natural” and the result of good genes.
