Page 26 of The Long Way Home
“Yeah,” I say finally, forcing a small laugh. “You’re probably right. It was just nice to hear, I guess.”
Ben smiles clearly satisfied with himself, and reaches for another slice. “See? No need to overthink it. You’re good where you are.”
I nod, staring at the TV screen without registering it. The muted light flashes across the room, casting shifting shadows over his face.
Ben is right. I shouldn’t even be thinking about applying for that promotion. I don’t have the patience, the stamina, or whatever it takes to keep people in line without snapping or shutting down. I’d probably overthink every little decision until I collapse from exhaustion. Or worse, I’d make the wrong call and everyone would notice, and everyone would blame me.
I’m too soft, too easily flustered. I don’t have the kind of confidence that comes naturally to people like him, people who can command a room without even trying. I can try to be strong, to be capable, but maybe I’ll always come up short.
And he is right, last spring I tried to step up. I filled in for Dr. Faier while he was on paternity leave for a month. The first two weeks were fine. But in the third week, a new patient arrived, and I’ll never forget him.
Chris was a twenty-eight year old, survivor of a head-on car accident. He was learning to walk again after his accident. He had sandy blond hair and a round face, but when I looked at him, all I could see was Josh. And it was too much for me to handle.
“What do you wanna do after this? We could start that documentary unless you’re too tired.”
I hesitate to respond, suddenly desperate for some alone time.
“I’m kind of wiped,” I say, offering a small smile. “Maybe just a quiet night? I’ve been meaning to catch up on my reading.”
“Yeah, okay. That sounds good.”
“I actually found this new study,” I start, perking up a little. “It was on regenerative hip replacements and the effectiveness of water aerobics in recovery. The results were kind of incredible. Patients regained mobility weeks earlier than projected, especially the ones who started low-impact movement within the first seventy-two hours post-op.”
I glance at him, hoping for a spark of interest. Ben nods slowly, then takes another bite of pizza.
“That’s nice, babe,” he says, eyes still on his plate.
I let out a soft breath and fold my hands in my lap.
“Anyway,” I murmur, trying to tuck the enthusiasm back down. I wipe my hands on a dish towel, grab my book from the shelf and turn toward the hallway. “I think I’m going to read for a bit,” I say softly.
“Yeah, okay. I’ll be in later,” he replies, already halfway tuned out.
I linger a moment longer, watching him from the edge of the kitchen, but his eyes never leave the TV. I turn off the light and walk down the hall toward my room.
“Oh, Rach?” His voice catches me just before I disappear down the hall. I turn back, stepping into the doorway so he can see my face, my hands still wrapped around my book. For a split second, I let myself hope this is where he says he is proud of me. Or says anything meaningful at all.
“Hmm?”
“I forgot to mention, I’ve got guys’ night tomorrow.” He scratches his jaw, already halfway past the conversation. “Probably won’t be home till late. Probably won’t be sober.”
He says it like he’s reminding me to take the trash out.
Guys’ night. Again. I press my tongue to the back of my teeth and nod once, the way I always do. The way I’ve practiced.
“Okay.”
“That’s cool with you, right?”
“Yeah,” I say, because that’s the answer he is waiting for. Then, because something in my chest stretches too much to ignore, I add, “I just—sometimes I wish we spent more time together. Just us.”
He exhales through his nose. “Wewerejust hanging out, babe.” The word babe lands flat. “I asked if you wanted to watch something, but you wanted to read.”
I let out a small laugh, soft enough to smooth things over. Of course, how stupid am I? I should have known he wouldn’t understand. I back out of the room before the laugh can turn into anything else.
“I’m going to bed.”
He doesn’t answer.
