J ames

There’s this line I use on patients who can’t start chemo now, can’t go under the knife, ‘cause they still feel fine, and there’s things to do, and there simply isn’t time : “You’ll be fine...till you’re not. And then, it’ll be too late.” Must’ve said it a hundred times, but now, fuck—looks like I’m about to live it .

My first morning back started perfectly. Kissed Diana goodbye at the airport, sneaking a fancy chocolate into her pocket for her to find later. Had my favorite breakfast at my favorite diner: greasy hash browns, bacon, and a fruit salad. Even work started sweet: got in early and snaked Nasmith’s parking space. Breezed through my normal routine, settling in like I’d never been gone. It’s good to be essential, but better to set things up so good you can disappear for a week, and nothing falls apart .

But I had to get cocky. Had to eat lunch in my office. That was my mistake. Should’ve gone to the gym, grabbed sandwiches with Tom—anything that would’ve kept me out of the Nasmith zone. Tried to hide behind my monitor, when I spotted him through the window wall, but I’ve got one of those stupid glass desks. No hiding behind that .

He doesn’t even knock, just oozes on in like he owns the place. I dip my head and act busy .

“So. That was some wedding .”

I grunt. Ignoring Nasmith has never made him go away, but there’s a first time for everything .

“Pictures came out great. Just—what a show! I’ve seen royal weddings get less coverage .”

Whatever point he’s circling, I wish he’d arrive .

“The ring, though, that was a masterstroke. Your war-widow great-granny’s treasured engagement band: Too bad you’re married.” He kisses his fingertips—mwah! “’Cause you just moistened panties from here to Texas .”

Gross. There’s a sour taste in my mouth. I’m starting to feel sexually harassed .

Nasmith settles into my couch, feet on the coffee table, like he’s planning on staying a while. “I was wondering, though—How long’ve you known that bride of yours ?”

“Long enough.” I start a game of Solitaire—anything to look busy .

“So I guess you know all about her father’s body .”

Now, that, I wasn’t expecting. I half-turn to face him. “Her father’s...body ?”

“Yeah—how she waited almost twenty-four hours after he kicked the bucket to call for help?” He shakes his head. “Can you imagine? A whole night and day with a corpse in the house, starting to swell up and — “

“O-kay! ” I throw up my hands—that’s what he’s blithering about? “How do you even—why do you know that? What could you possibly gain from—actually, you know what? Don’t tell me. I don’t care .”

“You don’t?” He crosses his legs at the ankles. “Doesn’t strike you as, I don’t know—mentally ill ?”

What the hell? “Mentally ill? Aren’t you supposed to be, if not in the medical profession, medicine-adjacent?” I’m seeing red. Going to say something I’ll regret, if I’m not careful. I force myself to slow down, take a cleansing breath. “People take time with their loved ones for all sorts of reasons: to say goodbye, clean ‘em up, give ‘em some dignity. Or they’re in shock. Not everyone knows what to do, or feels up to doing it. Man in your position ought to know that .”

“If you say so.” Way he’s stretched over the couch has me thinking, again, how much he reminds me of a lizard. Something long and scaly: an iguana on a log. Wouldn’t be surprised to see his tongue dart out and snag a fly. “How about in seventh grade, when she snuck some homeless guy into her school cafeteria, let him eat half the — “

“Enough!” I’m on my feet. “The fuck’s the matter with you? You’re like—you’re like a hog with a busted snout, digging up shit instead of truffles. And on the nicest, sweetest—“ I fling open the door, hoping he’ll get the hint and go out. “Ugh! Go away !”

Nasmith’s on the move, sidling past me. I can feel him getting ready to deliver his parting shot, and he doesn’t disappoint. “I know you think you’ve proved...something...with this wedding of yours. But it was a stunt, and a dumb one, at that. Whether you know it or not, you’ve just shot yourself in the foot .”

I watch him stride off, leaving a cloud of hate in his wake. I hate to admit it, but I’m rattled. He doesn’t seem to have anything on Diana—nothing legitimately damaging, anyway—but I’m not sure that was ever the point. He could’ve told me the wedding didn’t solve anything, that the heat’s still on. If there’s dirt, he’ll find it. If there isn’t, why, he’ll sprinkle some. He could’ve told me all that, and I’d’ve believed him, but he had to drag Diana into it. Had to drag her through my mud .

Can’t stand people like that, people who’ll take anything and turn it cheap and ugly .

I turn back to my lunch, but my appetite’s gone. Vending-machine egg salad—why’d I even want that? I swipe it into the trash. I want something else. Not food, but ....

My phone catches my eye. Yeah—why not? Not sure anything short of a shower can rid me of the Nasmith stain, but if anyone has a chance, it’s Diana .

“Hey!” She picks up on the second ring, sounding a little out of breath. “Good first day back ?”

“The best,” I lie. “How about you? Whatcha doing ?”

“Packing up a few things.” I hear the farty creak of duct tape spooling off the roll. “Felt too weird, walking into your house for the first time, and you’re not there. Figured I’d spend one last day at home, drive over when you’re back .”

“I’ll be there around seven. Gotta pick up Percy from the sitter .”

“Remember to pick him up that jerky ?”

“Yup.” I am feeling better hearing her voice. Never really had anyone I could call in the middle of the day, just to say hi .

“Thought I’d stop by Sobey’s on the way home, pick up some stuff for the fridge. Anything special I could get you ?”

Never had that before, either. “Uh...chicken ?”

Laughter crackles down the line. “What, like...any chicken? Rotisserie chicken? Chicken soup? That little bag of guts—or is that only in turkeys ?”

“All of the above.” I’m actually smiling. “Nah, scratch that. Sorry. Haven’t made a shopping list since...hell, since ever. Get what you like. I’ll eat anything .”

“So...chicken feet .”

“Funny.”

I’m about to tell her I’ll see her at home—been waiting to say that a while—when someone clears his throat from the doorway. I don’t have to turn around to catch Tom’s reflection in my coffee mug. Throws my mojo right off. I’ve been waiting for this, waiting for him, since I got in, but I figured he’d waylay me on my way home. He doesn’t usually bug me during working hours. Which means —

“Shit—sorry. Someone just walked in; I gotta ...”

“Sure, go ahead. See you at home !”

And... She stole my line. Perfect .

I swivel around. “Hey, Tom .”

He shuts the door behind him: going to be one of those discussions, then. “Seen Nasmith today ?”

Definitely one of those. I nod. “Twenty minutes ago .”

“So, no need to beat around the bush. We need damage control, stat.” He nudges my dandelion paperweight till it lines up with my pen jar. Every damn time, with the micromanaging, every detail in place! I mean, I guess that’s why he’s so good at his job, but it starts getting annoying when he pulls my desk toys into it .

I snap my attention back to the issue at hand. “Not sure what else I can do. I’m settled down, keeping it clean—if he wants to take that and make something dirty out of it, how can I stop him ?”

“You go into rehab .”

“What?” I’m genuinely taken aback. “I mean, what’s that gonna—It’d just make me look like an addict! And I’m not. Didn’t even have champagne at my wedding, and look—“ I hold up my hand, steady as a rock. “No DTs here !”

Tom glares till I drop my hand. He’s got this way of making me feel small and chastised—got to remind myself he’s not my father. “Ready to get serious ?”

I nod, abashed .

“I’ll tell you, getting married, that was a nice little PR boost. But if Nasmith wants to find something on you, he will. And when he does, you’d better look like a changed man—or at the very least, someone committed to reform. Rehab’ll help with that. Concrete steps. Things you can point to and say, look, this is me. Penitent. Contrite. Redressing my sins .”

“And when they find out it’s fake?” I shake my head. “No. No way. Not doing that .”

“Okay, then—your other option is, make it impossible for them to push you out without looking like monsters .”

“And I’d do that by ...?”

“Keeping the PR train rolling. That wife of yours—camera loves her. So don’t let her out of the spotlight. Have her read to sick kids, train seeing-eye dogs, feed the hungry with her own two hands—whatever it takes. Make her an angel. A saint. Someone whose good deeds outstrip anything you could possibly have done .”

I don’t like this. “Sounds like I’d be setting her up for a fall .”

“Not if she’s as perfect as you seem to think.” Tom plucks the one pencil from my pen jar. “I’m taking this .”

“’Course you are.” I shake my head. This is all coming at me too fast. “Look, why don’t I just—why don’t I do it, read to the blind, or whatever? You and I both know whoever’s in the limelight gets the target on their back .”

“Because you can’t. ” Tom scowls. “You need to be under the radar. Living in the lab. Keeping your work front and center. You do anything else, it comes off as a cheap stunt. She does it, she looks like a sweet girl who found herself with a bit of money and time, and decided to play Florence Nightingale .”

“That’s....” Cynical. Manipulative. Wrong. “I’d have to talk to her. Lay it out—all the risks .”

“Do it fast.” He tucks my pencil in his pocket. “And I’d downplay those risks, if I were you. She says anything other than yes, this is over .”

“And what if something does go wrong? Say Nasmith finds what he’s looking for, throws it in her face—what happens then ?”

Tom presses his lips together. “Then you’re shocked. Devastated. The injured innocent, taken for a ride by the charming con artist.” He turns his back on me. I peer at his reflection, but his expression’s unreadable, broken up by the shadows of the blinds. Can’t tell if that’s shame he’s hiding, or the lack of it. Either way, I don’t like this side of him. I’ve seen it before, but never aimed at someone I...someone I’m starting to care about. Someone I’d do a lot to protect .

I look away, feeling sick. “Wouldn’t that be just as bad? I’d look like a moron .”

“You’ll look like every housewife with a stolen identity, every sadass with his heart broken by a mail order bride—everyone who’s been lied to, cheated on, ripped off, left high and dry. They’ll be on your side. Especially if you’ve put a lot of money into her. A lot of trust. You’ll act shocked, humiliated—the selfless doctor who only wanted to save the world, thought everyone else felt the same. You’ll be golden .”

“Golden...” I frown. “Not quite the word I had in mind .”

Tom shrugs. “Potato, potahto .”

“Don’t know I could even do that to her, turn my back on her like that. She’s not some lowlife scumming for a payday. Even if there’s dirt on her, somewhere—even if her halo’s kinda tarnished—she’s a good person .”

“A good person walking away with a million dollars—don’t forget that little detail. Nobody loses here. Not really. And what we’re talking, that’s the worst-case scenario. Best-case, Nasmith finds diddly, you buy back your controlling interest, everyone lives happily ever after.” He snorts. “Except Nasmith .”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. It’s not often I find myself at a loss for words. Even Tom can’t believe a million dollars could cover that kind of hurt. I’ve known him half my life. He’s not that dumb, or that cold .

Something else has to be going on here. Feels like I’m missing something important, something that’s going to jump up and bite me on the ass, but damned if I can spot it .

Think I might be in over my head .