His Forbidden Bride: 50 Loving States, West Virginia by Theodora Taylor Page B

the peds nurses at the door of the office I’m allowed to use when my attending is making rounds. “Veronica Greenwell’s mother is here. She’s asking to talk to you.”
    I start. “Do you mean Dr. Higgson? She’s doing rounds, but if Caren has more questions…”
    “No, she’s already met with Dr. Higgson, but now she’s asking to speak with you directly.”
    I look back at Ronnie’s chart, then close it before standing.
    “Okay,” I say softly. Not wanting to speak with Ronnie’s mother. Deeply aware I’m a three-year fellowship away from becoming an official Pediatric Oncologist. But knowing I can’t turn down her request.
    “Okay,” I agree again. Then I get to my feet and take a deep breath.

    * * *
    T he house smells amazing when I walk into the apartment that night; the very opposite of a hospital. As usual, John’s finishing up his workout in the corner, so instead of bothering him, I go straight to the kitchen and find a curry simmering on the stovetop.
    “Indian food?” I ask a few minutes later when he joins me in the kitchen; Meek Mill’s “Ima Boss” bleeding out of the the black-and-gray Beats around his neck. “Is that new?”
    “Yeah, Indian food is new,” he tells me, pressing a kiss into my temple. “But the recipe sounded good and you had all the ingredients.”
    “Thanks to Amazon,” I grumble, thinking of the first time I discovered that unlike L.A., most grocery stores in West Virginia don’t carry garam masala.
    “Speaking of that…you got a package delivered. But it ain’t from Amazon.”
    My eyes go to the rather large box waiting for me like a specter on the coffee table. I sigh, wishing it had come any day but today.
    “You want to talk about it?” he asks.
    “My day or the box?” I answer with a tired smile.
    “Either,” he answers back, hooking the cast behind my back, and caressing my face with the side of his knuckles.
    “Not really,” I admit. Because it’s the truth. Because I don’t feel like recounting my day or my past to him tonight.
    He studies me for a moment, shrewd eyes gauging. But in the end, he presses another kiss to my temple and says, “All right, I’m gonna go take a shower before dinner.”
    As soon as he’s gone, I go over to the box. I don’t even bother to read the return label. It’s from Sandy. Of course it is. Inside I find the usual: a Hermés Birkin, which I will never actually wear on my person; a new special phone with a post-it reading “same number” attached; a couple of shoe boxes, most likely filled with the kind of heels a real doctor wouldn’t wear outside a TV show.
    After a few minutes of fishing things out, I throw everything but the new special phone back in the box and go through the monthly routine. Print out the label from my laptop. Tape it to the box with the same industrial-sized roll of packing tape I’ve been using for years. But this month, instead of putting the package by the door, I take it all the way downstairs and throw it into the trunk of my car.
    “How many times do I have to ask you to stop sending me these boxes?” I text Sandy after I close the trunk.
    “Eight more days,” is all she texts back.
    When I get back to the apartment, John’s already out of the shower, and he’s got our plates set up on the same coffee table where the box Sandy sent me used to be. I can feel his curious gaze on me as I go over to the small wine rack sitting on the kitchen counter. Since it’s Friday, and I don’t have to work the next day, I pick out a white to go along with this week’s beer.
    We’ve established that beer is “old” to John. So I’ve been trying a variety of beers from Pabst to Bud to see if anything sparks a memory.
    But so far, the only thing we’ve really established is that John likes beer and doesn’t “understand” wine.
    He squints at the Stella Artois I set in front of him, takes a swig, and says, “That’s new. But I don’t like it as much as the Yuengling