The Doctor (Nashville Neighborhood 1)

It was cold when he took the heat of his body away. He dug out his phone, answered it, and as the person on the other side of the line spoke, he paced, listening thoughtfully.

He asked a question about the patient, but I was still hazy, coming down out of my desire, and my gaze lingered over him. He didn’t just have beautiful hands—his forearms and biceps were perfect too. All tight and toned without being bulky.

Once the call was over, he gave me a somber look. “I have to go. I’m sorry.”

I didn’t ask him what exactly he was sorry for. That we’d been interrupted, and he had to leave? Or the things we’d done before the phone call? I couldn’t find my voice, anyway. Words wouldn’t even form in my head.

“Cassidy.” He looked pained. “What just happened . . .”

For the first time, he didn’t appear to know what to say. I stared up at him, unable to do anything but breathe shallow breaths.

“It was my fault,” he said.

I blinked. What was he talking about? He hadn’t coerced or persuaded me. I’d kissed him. The whole thing had been mutual. I opened my mouth to say something, to defend him, but my vocal cords didn’t work, and my brain was mute.

His eyebrows pulled together, creating a deep crease between them. The painful quiet grew acute, and the longer the silence stretched, the more hurt he looked.

Then, it became clear he couldn’t wait any longer. His patient needed both him and his scalpel.

“My fault,” he repeated. “You say that to Preston when you tell him about this.”

He marched to the door, yanked it open, and disappeared before I could do anything.

FIVE

IT HAD BEEN A WEEK and I hadn’t told a soul what happened. Not even my new best friend Lilith, who I saw every day as I interned at the animal hospital.

I tried not to think about Dr. Lowe and what we’d done. Instead, I thought about Preston. He hadn’t bothered to call or text, and anger rose inside me each day he remained silent. It was easier to focus on that. How did he not need closure? Ten seconds was all it took to undo three years.

Unless this was a power play on his part. Maybe he was waiting for me to call.

And maybe I’d been avoiding it because of what I’d done with his father. Would any good come from telling him? The relationship between father and son was okay, but not great, and I didn’t want to be part of the wedge that drove them further apart. I was being a coward about it, but I also saw no upside to confessing my sins. All it would do was cause pain.

Preston might not have needed closure, but I did, and couldn’t put it off any longer. On Friday, nine days after our breakup, I texted him.

Cassidy: Are we going to talk about this?

Preston: Talk about what?

Was he fucking kidding? I wasn’t going to get into everything via text.

Cassidy: What I said in the pool. What are you doing right now?

Preston: Playing Call of Duty.

I gnashed my teeth. Of course. He was just sitting around playing video games.

Cassidy: Is your dad home?

Preston: No.

The tight breath in my lungs relaxed. I could do this. Get in and get out, even though the thought of not seeing Dr. Lowe again brought on a surprising sharp pang of disappointment.

Cassidy: Can I come over?

Preston: You horny?

What? He thought I was asking about his father being gone so we could fuck in the house? Un—fucking—real. Was this how he was handling the breakup, like it had never happened? The three dots blinked across the screen.

Preston: Yeah, you can come over.

My stomach churned and roiled as I drove to Preston’s and parked in the driveway. I shut the car off and stared up at the dark windows of the house, working up the nerve to do what I needed to.

Like last time, I went in through the front door without knocking. There was no point. Preston would be in the basement and wouldn’t hear me. My flip-flops slapped against the soles of my feet as I marched through the living room and turned left, heading toward the basement door. I was so focused on my goal, the movement didn’t register until he spoke.

“Cassidy?”

Oh, Jesus. My mouth went dry as a desert, and my brain quit working. “He said you weren’t here,” I blurted.

Dr. Lowe’s face contorted into a strange expression. Guilt, confusion, and hurt. Perhaps a little fear too. It made me feel like garbage, and my gaze dropped down to see the stack of mail he was sorting in his hands and the plastic bag of takeout resting on the breakfast bar. The faint smell of garlic lingered.

He pulled his shoulders back. “I just got home.”