“For what you’ve done to me? I am indifferent to you. For what you’ve done to her? I hate you. I wouldn’t have touched you with a one-million-foot pole if I’d realized the type of man you really are. Fool me once, never again. That’s the new saying.”
With that, I tug my suitcase up and spin on my heel, flinging the door open so hard it smashes into the wall behind it. I hate how fired up I am. How out of control I feel. But I hold my chin up, press my shoulders down, and walk out of that house with all the placid, unaffected composure I can muster.
“Does that mean you’re leaving me?”
How can someone so educated be so stupid? I almost laugh. I keep walking, patting him on the shoulder like the dog he is as I pass by. “Use that fancy medical degree and figure it out for yourself.”
“You don’t even like her!” he yells in a whiny tone that scrapes down my neck like nails on a chalkboard. “You gonna run back to her and beg for forgiveness after what a royal cunt you’ve been to her all these years? Good luck with that. I’ll be here when you come crawling back.”
But I don’t dignify his jabs with a single glance back. Instead, I flip him the finger over my shoulder and take satisfaction in knowing he’s wrong.
That he’s not as smart as he thinks he is.
And I’m not either. I feel very small and very stupid right now.
Because I love my sister.
I just have a fucked-up way of showing it.
I hope I don’t die now that I’m taking some control of my life back.
I want to start fresh. And yet I’m terrified to do it at all.
Chestnut Springs General Hospital is only an hour away from the house I live in, so why does it feel like the longest drive of my life?
I started taking shifts here a few months ago, so I could make the drive with my eyes closed, but today it’s snowing hard enough that I’m white-knuckling the steering wheel.
I’m also still stewing over losing my cool.
Rob started that fight by saying he couldn't fathom why I’d want to work at this dingy hospital, and I wasn’t inclined to tell him the truth.
One, that working in a hospital where I’m not his wife and my mother’s daughter is a relief. I can practice medicine and take pride in my work without having to contend with all the whispers and pitying glances. Without that shit hanging over my head.
Because everyone knows, but no one talks about it, and that approach to life is wearing on my sanity. I know how everyone sees me. I’m not oblivious to it. They might not speak it, but I hear it loud and clear all the same.
A doctor who got her position at the hospital through family connections and marriage.
A woman who is unapproachable, cold, and unhappy.
A wife who is pathetic enough to ignore her husband’s betrayal.
And two, because I’ve never wanted to be around my sister more than I do now. When she was sick, I used to sneak into the hospital and check on her, read her chart so I knew how she was doing even though I was still only in university. And now? Now, I look at my little sister and all I see are the years I missed.
I see a woman who lived in misery to save me a little of my own.
It would seem we’re kindred that way.
She’s happy now, engaged to a man whose hair is far too long but who loves her in a way that I’ll never experience. But I’m also happy for her—god knows she deserves a little peace. She left her law degree and secure job at our father’s sports management firm in the rear-view mirror to run a gym and live on a picturesque little country bumpkin ranch.
I admire her.
But I have no idea how to mend the rift between us. So, I took a part-time position in the small town she’s living in, hoping I might run into her and fix things organically.
I have this recurring story in my head, one that crops up all the time. I must be trying to manifest it or some shit.
In it, she’s strolling down the sidewalk, and I bump straight into her as I exit the adorable little Parisian coffee shop on Main Street. She looks shocked to see me. I offer her a warm smile, and it isn’t forced. Then, I hike a thumb over my shoulder and say, “Hey, you, uh . . . wanna grab a coffee?” in a casual and charming way that will make her smile back at me.
Of course, I’d have to spend time somewhere other than the hospital or hotel for that to happen. But I keep slinking between the two safety zones, too scared and too embarrassed to face her.
“Fuck it,” I mumble as I sniff and sit up taller, eyes laser-focused on the road. “Siri, call Summer Hamilton.”
The beat of heavy silence that greets me is laden with years of anticipation.
“Calling Summer Hamilton,” the robotic voice replies. The formality is a jab to the chest. Most sisters would have some cute nickname programmed in their phone. Perhaps I’d call her Sum if we were friends. As it is now, I might as well include her middle name in the contact listing.
The phone rings. Once. Twice.
And then she’s there. “Winter?” she asks breathlessly. My name isn’t an accusation on her lips though. It’s . . . hopeful.
“Hi,” I say stupidly. No amount of education or medical textbooks could prepare me for this conversation. Since everything blew up in the hospital that day, I’ve played out this conversation in my head a million times. I’ve laid awake at night preparing myself.
And it wasn’t enough.
“Hi . . . are you . . . are you okay?”
I nod while the bridge of my nose stings. I’ve been awful to Summer over the years and her first inclination is to ask if I’m okay.
“Win?”
I suck in a deep breath of air. Win. Fuck. That nickname. She just falls into it so easily. I absently wonder how I’m named in her contacts. I always imagined it was “Evil Half Sister” or something along those lines.
She’s just so fucking nice. It almost makes me nauseous that someone could be this nice to me after everything that we’ve been through, after how cold I’ve been to her.
I don’t deserve Summer. But I want to. And that comes with being honest.
“No. I don’t think I’m okay,” I say, trying to cover the hitch in my voice by clearing my throat.
“Okay.” I can imagine her nodding right now, rolling her lips together, mind whirring as she tries to solve this problem for me. That’s just who she is. A fixer.
I might be a doctor, but Summer has always been a healer.
“Where are you? Do you need me to come and get you? Are you hurt?” She pauses. “Oh! Do you need legal help? I’m not practicing anymore, but I could—”
“Can I see you?” I blurt. And now it seems like it’s her turn for stunned silence. “I’m on my way to Chestnut Springs already. I could . . . I don’t know.” A ragged sigh drags its way up my throat. “Buy you a coffee?” I finish lamely, glancing at the digital clock that shows it’s already 6 p.m.
Her voice comes through the phone a little thick, a little soft. “I would love that. But could we do wine instead?”
A knot of tension unfurls in my chest, one I didn’t even know was there until now. And now that I’ve noticed it, I can’t help but feel like it’s been there for years.
“Yeah.” My fingers pulse on the steering wheel. “Yeah. Wine. Good.”
I sound like a fucking cavewoman.
“We’re having a family dinner at the main house tonight. There will be a bunch of people. I’d love if you came too.”
My throat clogs uncharacteristically. This brand of kindness feels foreign after living in a sterile bubble with Rob and my mom for so long. This brand of forgiveness . . . I don’t know how to react to it.
So I just roll with it. Seems like the least I can do.
“Can you send me the address?”
In my haste to pick up my package and get the hell out of the city, I ignored my gas tank for as long as I could. No doubt cutting it dangerously close. Which only added to my anxiety the farther away I’ve gotten from that city limit.
So, I give in and stop for gas in Chestnut Springs before hitting the sketchy back road my phone mapped out to the ranch.
As I stand here, freezing and wishing I’d worn more appropriate outdoor winter clothing, I let all the worry creep in through my carefully erected walls.
Worry over seeing Summer.
Worry over sitting down to dinner with a bunch of people who no doubt think I’m a heinous bitch.
Worry over the snow-packed roads. I’ve seen too many car accident traumas roll into the ER lately.
Worry over my career and what the hell I’m going to do—where I’m going to land.
Hilariously—albeit a dark hilarious—I feel next to no concern over the thought of leaving Rob for good. I’ve strung that out for a long time. I’ve thought about it, analyzed it from every angle.
I kept thinking of divorce as a failure. But leaving tonight didn’t feel like failing.
It felt like relief. Like someone has been standing on my chest and I finally got my shit together enough to push them off. My muscles are tired from pushing, and I’ve got some bumps and bruises from the fight.