Surviving Doctor Vincent: The Good Doctor Trilogy Book 2 (2 page)

I raised my glass to my lips and took a gulp of water. “Yes, I met Dr. Vincent.”

“Oh my God, what was he like?” She sat up in her seat, eyes wide.

I took a deep breath. “Everything you can imagine and more.”

She leaned forward, just like she did when we were children and I brought tales of high school exploits to her fragile elementary school mind. Gretchen was impossible to corrupt. Never had there been someone so pure of heart; the story of my saucy romp in a foreign land was bound to shock her. Hell, even I found it hard to believe at times.

The water wet my throat, and I laid my plight out on the table. “I slept with him.”

She gasped and the old couple at the nearby table whipped their heads around to stare at us. The man’s artificial hair bounced with his movements. Gretchen choked back a giggle and whispered, “Come on, details.”

“Promise you won’t judge me.”

She reached across the table and grabbed my hand. “Have I ever?”

I smiled. She hadn’t in the past. All the crazy things I did while growing up, she never once met me with anything but wide-eyed enthusiasm. The standards she held for herself, however, sat upon a higher rung of the moral ladder. I hoped she would never change. More importantly, I prayed her perception of me would remain the same. My week in Paris was a far cry from making out with John Smith under the bleachers in tenth grade.

“The story is rather long and complicated. I’ll share the details, I swear.” I sliced my head toward the table next to us. “I don’t want an audience.”

She squeezed my hand, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “Are you going to see him again? Are you dating?”

I laughed, but the sound came from a painful place. Date him? That would have been a logical step, considering he’d confessed his love for me. But hell, I didn’t even know where he was. His empty promises and meaningless declarations were the real source of my foul mood. Weeks had passed; not one returned phone call.

“No, we’re not dating. As for seeing him again, I thought I would, but you know how things go sometimes... They just don’t call back.”

“Oh, Elaine, I’m so sorry.” Her enthusiasm fell along with her smile.

I lifted my napkin to my face, dabbed my mouth, and then placed the cloth on the table. I waved my hand in the air, signaling for the waiter to bring the check. “There’s nothing to be sorry about. My time was enjoyable, but the trip didn’t end as I had hoped. Nothing I won’t get over.” Someday, but not today. Perhaps never.

“Maybe he’ll change his mind. Realize what a fool he was to let you go.”

I chuckled. “I’m not going to hold my breath.”

The waiter, with his crooked smile and messy boy-band hair, approached the table. “Anything else I can get you ladies?”

I smiled at him and hoped it masked the melancholy disposition I had succumbed to. “Just the check, please.”

He pulled a black folder from the red apron tied around his waist and handed the bill to me.

Gretchen stood. I tucked the slip of paper under my arm and stepped in front of her, clasping both of her hands in mine. “Gretchen, please understand. I love you, and I am really happy for you. I’ve been in a funk lately because of...
him
. I promise I’ll snap out of it before we go dress shopping. I can’t wait to plan your bridal shower.”

She smiled. “No embarrassing gifts. I’m still blushing from my birthday.”

I retrieved my purse from the back of the chair, fished out some cash and placed the money along with the receipt on the table. “Oh, come on. James loved the pasties.”

We walked toward the exit and her laughter filled the archway.

“When we get to the car, you’re going to spill those details,” Gretchen insisted, in an overly loud whisper.

I laughed, but my exuberance soon died. Before I reached the large glass doors, they opened, placing me face-to-face with Dr. Xavier Vincent—all six-plus feet of him. His dark hair, with trace strands of gray, and his steel blue, mesmerizing eyes...

I froze.

So did he.

Gretchen latched onto my arm.

Had Xavier been alone, I might have salvaged the moment, but the leggy blonde hanging onto his arm made me want to throw up.

The moment grew more awkward as I stared into his hard, unfamiliar eyes.

“Elaine,” he breathed my name like a curse.

“Dr. Vincent,” I returned his salutation with short, crisp consonants while yanking my arm from my sister’s tightening grasp.

I needed to channel my anger. He hadn’t been kidnapped and held in a dungeon away from a phone or executed by sociopaths. The crushing force of truth would destroy me later. Now I’d take him head-on, starting with her.

I took a deep breath. “Hi, I’m Elaine. I work for Dr. Vincent’s company. And you are?” I extended a hand to the woman, in her custom suit and expensive haircut. I hated her.

She took my hand and gave me a beauty-pageant smile—all teeth. “I’m Monica. So nice to meet you.”

Being disrespectful would have made me look immature. “Likewise.”

The doctor’s stare burned intense, hostile even.

Fuck him. He could have told me our relationship was over. After all those beautiful words. Those soul-crippling declarations. I looked up at his face and remembered when his lips once said, “I love you.” I crossed my arms.

Gretchen pushed past me and offered him her hand. “Hi, Dr. Vincent. I’m Gretchen, Elaine’s sister. I wanted to thank you for saving my life. Without your cancer drug, I’d be dead.”

His eyes grew large; wonderment crossed his features. “It’s very nice to meet you. I’m so glad everything worked out for the best.”

She cradled his palm in hers. “Thank you for all you’ve done for us.”

I needed to get her out of there before she begged him to sleep with me again. Or worse yet, told him just how miserable I’d been since our last encounter.

Pushing past Gretchen and through the doorway, I bid my farewell. “Nice to meet you, Monica.” I glared at the man who broke my heart, towering over me. “Doctor.”

I snatched Gretchen’s wrist and pulled her toward the door.

Before I made my escape, his hand clamped down on my elbow and squeezed. His words were forced, “Elaine. I’m sure I’ll see you again soon.”

I wanted to laugh and release the vitriol that threatened to consume me, but instead, gave a polite smile. “Goodbye, Doctor.”

He squeezed harder one last time.

I pulled my arm free from his grip and stumbled into the door, while my gaze remained fixed on the doctor.

As I fought embarrassment, so much bubbled through me. I loathed him and the Barbie wanna be. But above all, I hated my own weakness.

I stopped just outside the door, willing myself not to cry and secretly hoping he might chase after me. I took a deep breath and turned to see Gretchen peering through the glass door at the doctor. I inhaled a shaky breath. “Gretchen...can I take a rain check on our shopping trip?”

She crossed her arms, pursing her lips. “You can, but the distraction might be good for you.”

Shit. Now my distractions needed distractions.

“I’m so sorry. I need some time alone. I thought I was mature enough to handle something casual with Dr. Vincent, but I guess not.” The first tear escaped. I had to leave.

“OK, I understand.” She wrapped her arms around me. “But call me when you’re ready to talk.” She patted my back. “It’s not the end of the world.”

“I know. I just need some time to think.”

She gave me a quick squeeze. “When you’re in a better frame of mind, we’ll go dress shopping. I really want you to help me pick my gown.”

I gave a pained smile. “Sure. Sounds great.”

She kissed me on the cheek. “It really is his loss.”

“Nice of you to say.”

She stepped onto the edge of the sidewalk and hailed a cab. “Wanna share a ride?”

“Nah, the walk will do me good. I need to burn off some of this frustration.”

Another big hug. “Love you. Call me.”

“Of course. Love you too.” I patted her back.

She turned, opened the door to her cab, and slid onto the black leather seat. She waved as the car pulled away from the curb.

Watching as she drove out of sight, I took a deep breath. I willed myself not to go back inside and let him see what a mess he had made of me. I closed my eyes for a moment and clenched my fists.

Fucking Alaska. Fucking Doctor. Fucking leggy blonde. Fucking hope.

Fracture

M
y feet hit the pavement, setting a furious pace for the entire fifteen blocks to my apartment. Monica. Beautiful Monica. She even had a perfect name. How could I have been so stupid? The encounter made me sick. A night of wine and self-loathing would do me good.

With my hair damp from sweat and a hollow feeling inside my chest, I turned the key to my apartment building. I walked down the hallway and to the door labeled 1C.

I leaned my head on the door frame and undid the lock. Why did I care? Why should it matter? Shouldn’t I be accustomed to disappointment by now? The blonde on his arm made my acceptance harder.

After Paris, he took forever to find me. When he came to the office that day, reaffirming his love for me, I’d believed him. And then silence. What hurt most was that I’d believed
in
him. If he had been the only one present for our re-acquaintance today, I might have coped. But my constant companion—the ache in my chest that accompanied betrayal—assaulted me with each thought of him. I clenched my fists in anger. I had helped him realize a normal life, and yet was easily forgotten when he climbed into another woman’s bed.

I locked the door behind me and headed straight to the metal wine rack perched atop the counter in my small but efficient kitchen. I retrieved the red blend I’d become so fond of since...Paris. I fought the urge to smash the bottle; the relief from its destruction would only last an instant, but getting sloppy drunk would keep me occupied all night. I retrieved a glass from the rack and stared at the corkscrew on the counter—my metallic, spiral savior. With a few twists and turns, the cork pulled free, and I tipped the bottle, allowing streams of deep red to flow from the opening of the long neck.

The liquid sloshed in the glass as I bent and retrieved the envelopes the mailwoman had shoved through the slot in my door. Craver Adams, my father’s attorney, was trying to reconnect. Well...fuck him. I had no desire to hear what the basement killer or his minion had to say. The day I discovered my dad moonlighted as a serial killer, I ceased listening. I tossed the mail onto the island and turned the corner to the living room.

The metal box resting on the dark oak bookcase reflected the light from the window. Xavier had sent me the trinket the night he crashed my meeting in Chicago after our return from Paris. The lid’s intricately woven knot work gleamed, demanding my attention. I gulped the wine while the container mocked me.

Productive focus of my anger would serve me well. I needed closure. I set the wine glass on the shelf and picked up the trinket. On my way through the kitchen, I retrieved a discarded Amazon box that had once contained a duvet. Reaching behind my neck, I unclasped the necklace with its dangling birdcage. I dropped the silver chain and pendant into the decorative box. He’d placed the necklace around my neck the night he first told me he loved me, before succumbing to his apocalypse. I felt stupid wearing it. Had he noticed? Did he see what a foolish child he had made of me? No matter, after tonight that girl would no longer exist.

When I closed the lid of the box, my heart fell. After all, it had contained hope. But I’d been right all along; hope unfulfilled was nothing more than sorrow.

A tear fell from my eye and fueled my determination. I stormed into the bedroom and ripped the clothes he’d bought me in Paris from their hangers. I wanted him gone. All of him. Any trace extinguished. I wanted what he’d promised me from the beginning—one week of sex, nothing more—to be all we’d had. France, and the interlude in my office, needed to be erased from existence.

I gathered the garments in my arms and tossed them into the duvet box. I returned to the bedroom and gathered the shoes I’d worn to Le Jules Verne, the pearls that bound his wrists that night at the Opera House, and the dress I’d worn when he gave in. Every painful reminder I found joined the others between the heavy cardboard walls.

The first flap, then the next, and the box was neatly closed. I opened a drawer and grabbed the packing tape. I wanted to rip out my heart and add the dying organ to the collection of things I never wanted to see again. What would be the point? He had already refused it with his silence. If Paris had only been sex... I was such a fool.

The tape creaked as I sealed the seams. My tears fell, leaving dark spots on the brown paper of the package.

I could have thrown the items away, but that wouldn’t have been poetic enough. I wanted him to know I’d closed the door, that I’d taken control. That he was no longer my king.

From the same drawer as the tape, I retrieved a Sharpie. I removed the cap with my mouth, held the black top between my teeth, and wrote:
Dr. Xavier Vincent c/o Chatam D. Western Labs.
My script muddled; the act—cathartic.

Long overdue for a new start, the doctor wasn’t my only memory to erase. I glanced at the counter and grabbed the envelope from my father’s attorney. I labeled the unopened letter:
Return To Sender
.

In that moment, my path crystallized. Decisiveness remained my biggest strength. Alaska. A new start with the only person who had never betrayed me.

I wrapped my hand around the wine glass and moved the red filled vessel to the coffee table next to my laptop. One last string to cut. I flipped open the lid and then clicked the mail icon. The screen popped up, and I typed: