Holiday Tides (Wilks Beach Holiday Novella)

10. Summer

ten

Summer

“ Y our next appointment is in room seven,” Ivy, my nurse, tells me the following Friday afternoon. She pauses at my standing desk beside the bank of exam rooms I’m splitting with Dr. Avila. “Let’s hope this one isn’t a biter.”

I chuckle as my fingers fly over the keyboard, finishing out the notes on the feisty eighteen-month-old I just seen. She was not happy to receive her routine vaccinations. Since we usually have the parents hold kiddos that age, the mom unfortunately received a nasty bite mark. This week has been hectic, squeezing sick walk-ins between my scheduled well-check appointments.

“I sincerely hope not.”

My four-thirty is my other favorite kind of patient—a tween girl. I love helping tween and teen girls understand their bodies and embrace changes while encouraging body positivity. That was something my middle sister, Sage, really helped me with growing up. I learned in medical school that not every family discusses puberty and routine self-care so openly. Being a safe space for my patients to ask questions is one of the best parts of my job.

“A few of us are heading over to the Jingle & Mingle happy hour after work. You should join us.” Ivy sing-songs that last part. “Especially since you’re already dressed for it.”

I own twelve holiday-themed scrub tops, but since this practice prefers its doctors in business clothes, I’m wearing a green light strand-patterned cardigan over my white button-down and gray slacks. It’s just this side of ugly sweater, but I’ve been getting compliments all day.

“I’d love to, but I’ve got a hot date.”

“Oh, that’s right. The boyfriend.” A smile lifts her lips. “What are you two doing tonight?”

I freeze. By ‘hot date’ I’d meant that I was going to finally decorate my grandmother’s cottage. I’d used my lunch break to grab a pickup order of exterior lights from Home Depot. I’m still holding out on buying a new stove since the cheapest one is six hundred dollars. I need to see how much it’ll cost to fix the water heater before I splurge on something luxurious like boiling water for pasta. Living off microwave dinners this past week has worked just fine. To solve the smelling-like-a-through-hiker issue, I’ve signed up for a trial membership to the local YMCA and shower before work.

It sounds like a sob story, but I’m doing great. Better than great. I’m thriving. I’ve got an essentially rent-free ocean-adjacent roof over my head—even if that home desperately needs some work. My broken window had been repaired Monday, a new frame painted to match the existing one. Nothing else seemed disturbed or changed. There was just a cheeky note from Nick that I could pay him in gratuitous compliments about his character and appearance. I’d marched over to the dwindling-down jobsite only to be informed that Nick had left for the day. So far, he hasn’t responded to my relayed message to speak to me regarding payment for the window repair. I’ll have to find him this weekend.

Keeping my eyes on the electronic chart, I say, “Decorating.”

Ivy sighs. “I always wanted to couple over the holidays and do sickeningly sweet things like wearing matching pajamas and decorate for Christmas together, but I’ve never made it past Halloween.” Her lip pushes into a pout before brightening. “Please tell me you wear red Scotch-plaid ones.”

I laugh because my Christmas pajama set is in that exact pattern. Truthfully, I have several—elf pattern thermals, footie snowman pjs with a hood, ornament-patterned collared ones, candy cane knit jersey, but I always wear my plaid ones on Christmas morning.

“I do.”

“I knew it. So classic.” Ivy pushes off the wall, moving toward the waiting room to bring back another patient.

My mind drifts to all the sweet holiday couple things I should be doing with my boyfriend, but I’m pretty sure Cooper doesn’t own any Christmas-themed pajamas. We had dinner last night, but he seemed distant. The conversation had been so stilted that the server actually backed away from the table when Cooper started in on how inconvenient it was that I’d moved to Wilks Beach. I’d offered to spend this evening with him, but he didn’t want to cancel his weekly trivia night with his friends. Early in our relationship, I’d gone along once, but since I only know in-depth medical knowledge, I was a useless teammate.

My shoulder muscles bunch. If Kayla was still talking to me, she’d tell me to break it off with Cooper. But since my longest and most secure friendship severed, I’ve been clutching to every other relationship like it’ll slip through my fingers. Luckily, my local siblings and parents didn’t note the desperation in my attempts to get together. They just assumed that I wanted to catch up after years of living elsewhere.

In all honesty, Cooper and I are probably not meant for forever. But the idea of spending my favorite holiday friendless and boyfriendless feels as bone-numbing as that first night in the cottage without heat. Is it the most mature decision to cling to a failing relationship because Christmas is around the corner? Absolutely not. But I’ve been a responsible adult before I even was legally an adult, so I’m allowing myself this.

It’s the most wonderful time of the year, after all.

I pick my phone off the desktop to text Cooper, and it rings with a call from Baker Plumbing. Erik informs me he had a cancellation for tomorrow and can come over in the morning to evaluate my water heater. After profuse thanks, I hang up and toggle to my text messages.

I get halfway through typing, Thinking about you , when one of Dr. Avila’s exam rooms flies open. The door slams against the jungle-muraled wall, and a four-year-old boy sprints toward me—naked as the day he was born.

“Peter!” the mom yells in hot pursuit.

Peter with his little—well, never mind that—ignores his mother, running like he’s winning the 100-meter dash at the Olympics. I’ve got exactly half a second to make a decision. Dropping my phone onto the edge of my desk, I stoop to catch Peter. His momentum brings his sturdy feet into my kidneys as I stand, the action knocking my phone from the standing desk. It clatters to the floor at the same instant the fierce preschooler tries another tactic.

When warm liquid meets my side, I immediately separate the child from my body, but the damage is done. Urine saturates my clothing, and Peter isn’t finished yet. His steady stream splashes to the floor, coating the broken screen of my phone.

“ Peter, ” his mother seethes as she snatches him from my outstretched arms.

I chuckle reflexively, thinking about how this would make such a good story to tell…

Then I remember that my best friend said she never wanted to speak to me again. And my boyfriend doesn’t want to spend time with me tonight because I don’t know anything about the Marvel universe, or 1980s hair bands, or sports. And I’ll have to wait for the Aqua Zumba ladies to be done in the locker room before I can shower off the remnants of this child’s urine.

What did I tell you? Thriving.