Page 87 of Sexting the Cowboy
Over a decade of schooling. A rotation at a prestigious hospital. Owning my own clinic. And every person over fifty assumes my employee is my boss because he’s a guy.
I silently count to ten, because I know she doesn’t mean anything by it, and because I know I’m on edge and my fuse is nonexistent. Force a smile. Try not to be smarmy. “He works for me.”
“Oh.” Her cheeks pink.
“Happens all the time,” I say dismissively, trying to sweep it under the rug. “And I appreciate the sentiment, but doctors don’t take tips.”
“Well, alright, if you insist…”
Jaden cracks in. “If you want to give your money away to someone, Mrs. Douglass, I saw the Cowboy Crisis Fund is collecting by the kettle corn.”
“Perfect. Thank you.” Her smile is warm again. “Thank you both.” I’m grateful that she takes her sharp perfume scent with her.
We fix what we can fix and deflect what we can’t, and no matter how many times I wipe the counter, the faint smell of blood and Betadine and sweat hangs around like a stubborn thought. Or maybe my senses are heightened thanks to the time bomb in my uterus.
“You good?” Jaden asks in the soft voice he reserves for the moments when my spine looks straight but my face gives me away.
“Fine.”
“Liar.”
“Functional,” I correct. It’s the best I can do today.
He accepts it with a little nod and turns his attention back to triage. It’s hot enough that the edges of the paper curl as we write. He presses them flat with his palm as if the forms will ever behave.
We have a lull—ten minutes where the tent sits and hums—so I re-check the lot I already checked, because inventory feels like a thing I can control. Gauze, sutures, steri-strips. Oral rehydration packets. Habits and rituals to keep me calm for now.
A shadow cuts across the flap, and before I can decide whether to be grateful for the shade, he’s inside.
Reno.
He comes in loud even before the sound, shoulders squared in a way that says he’s braced for a fight, and I better be too. He’s handsome and furious and not sober enough for this conversation, not today, not ever. The smell hits first—whiskey and heat and the kind of sweat that means a body’s trying to rinse something from the inside out.
“We’re open to patients, not tantrums,” I say, and my voice is calmer than I feel.
He doesn’t blink. “You ruined my life.”
Jaden straightens at the sink and goes very still, the way a person does when lightning lands closer than the forecast promised. He looks at me. I give the quickest tilt of my head that says, I’ve got this. He drifts toward the back flap like he’s stepping out for ice. He doesn’t leave. His eyes are locked on Reno.
“I’m treating patients,” I say, turning the stack of forms so the clip faces me. “If you need medical attention, get on a cot. If not, get out.”
“So you’re just gonna sit there and pretend you’ve done nothing wrong?”
I arch a brow his direction. “I haven’t. And what happened between me and him isn’t about you?—”
“What happens between you and my father has everything to do with me!”
“No,” I say, meeting his eyes. “It doesn’t. Your father’s life is his. My life is mine. What happens between us has nothing to do with you.”
“You only met him because of me,” he snaps.
“I met him long after you and I broke up. Our meeting had nothing to do with you, Reno.”
“We were good together, Annie. And you threw it all away!”
“I threw nothing away. Things changed between us. People break up. Reality doesn’t ask your permission first. If you can’t handle reality, put the bottle down.”
His mouth hardens. He steps closer, invading the safe space I draw around my cot line like he wants to be a problem instead of a person. “You think you’re better than me because you never went through shit?—”
