Wildflowers and Wide Receivers

2. Sophie

Chapter 2

Sophie

C oming out of my office, I look down at the iPad and see I’m finally on my last patient for the day, one that’s been recently added. It’s been a long day, but that’s to be expected. Youth sports in Florida ebb and flow, and currently, we are on the upswing of ebb as high school lacrosse, track and field, softball, and baseball seasons are all underway. But I don’t mind. I love my job, and I love my patients even more.

It’s been almost a year since I finished my pediatric orthopedic fellowship, and I am thankful that I get to work in this practice every day. While my dream has always been to get back home where I’m from, not many physicians end up staying and working in the town where they finished their training. Do I see myself here long term? No, but there are no openings up north at the moment, so I’m learning what I can, seeing patients, and biding my time.

I’m from Minnesota. In fact, my dad still lives there, but fortunately for me, I love Tampa, too. I loved it from the moment I stepped into this growing, kind of quaint, beautiful city. From the weather, the beaches, the history, the food, to the professional sports teams, I really can’t think of a better place to be until something opens up and I can move. So when I heard TBPO was expanding and had an opening, I jumped at the opportunity. Fortunately for me, one of the attendings I trained under is also one of the founding physicians of this practice, and we get along swimmingly. He was delighted when I asked about the position, and it just kind of became mine. I’m now one of seven, along with five physician assistants, and we have two locations. Occasionally, I have to fill in at our St. Petersburg office, but I mainly work here in our Tampa office.

“Hey, Sophie. Hold up a minute.” I turn to find Dr. Blair, or Isaac as I call him, walking my way. He’s smiling, which makes me smile too.

Isaac, one of the seven in this practice, and I have been casually dating over the past couple of months. In general, I have a very strict “don’t mix business with pleasure” policy, but when he asked me out, I didn’t want to say no. He’s a few years older than I am, but there’s something so boyishly handsome about him that I just want to hug him every time I see him.

“Hi,” I say as he comes to stand next to me. I grin at his tie. He’s notorious for wearing funny kid-friendly ties, and this one has Goofy all over it.

“Hey,” he says, smiling back at me. “How’s your day been? I’ve been so busy, I haven’t had two seconds to check in on you.”

He does this. At least once a day, he always comes and asks how my day is. It’s sweet.

“My day is great. I’m about to see my last patient, finish up some notes, and then head out.”

“Pilates tonight, right?” he asks as he runs one hand through his hair, and it fluffs up before settling down.

I smile because of course he remembers. Every Thursday, I meet my friend Camille for Pilates. Her schedule is just as crazy as mine. She owns her own business called Vintage Soul, where she refurbishes old furniture to make them shabby, modern, or whatever the client wants. Her wait list is a mile long, but she’s so good at what she does. How could it not be?

“Yep. My bag is packed and in my car.”

His smile grows. “Well, I won’t keep you. Just wanted to say hi and I hope you have a good night.”

“Thank you, and you too,” I tell him as he runs a hand over my shoulder, affectionately squeezes my arm, and walks in the other direction. It occurs to me that I didn’t ask him about his night. I feel a little guilty over this, but we’ll catch up tomorrow.

“Hi, Dr. Black.” I turn to see Polly, a recent patient of mine, leaving the physical therapy room.

“Polly!” I give her and the therapist both a wave. “How’s it going?” I ask as Polly walks over, wraps her arm around my waist, and hugs me. Polly tore her rotator cuff at the beginning of the winter season while playing volleyball, and she should almost be done with recovery.

“Very well,” the therapist says. “I’m predicting a lot of serving and spiking will be happening real soon.”

“I’m happy to hear that,” I tell her, my smile widening even more.

These kids and their resilience—it’s just another layer to why I love my job. Adults tend to make recovery a dramatic experience. Kids, though, are back at it in no time. It’s inspiring.

As they walk past me to the waiting room to meet her mom, I look around the office. It’s your standard doctor’s office with two hallways full of patient rooms and another hidden hallway with physician offices. We have imaging in the middle that connects both patient hallways and a large nurses' station. Our floor is large gray-and-white checkered tiles, our walls are a pale gray, and they are covered with pictures of sea life. It’s always decorated or themed if there is a holiday, and today, pastel Easter eggs hang from the ceiling and all around the office. It’s almost Easter, and whereas in the past I’ve gone home to spend it with my dad, I’m staying here this year. Isaac sort of hinted the other day that we should make plans for this weekend, so maybe we’ll spend it together.

Turning down the hall toward the patient rooms, I look back at the iPad and spot the last name of the patient, Dallmann. I pause as my excitement for the weekend dissipates, and an unwanted feeling of rejection sweeps over me. I know it’s irrational to feel this way after all this time, but does one ever really get over being stood up? Especially after having already spent the night with that person and thinking it was amazing.

I know one-night stands happen all the time, and I did set myself up for one, but I didn’t see myself becoming one after the night we had. It was New Year’s Eve into the following morning, and we had made plans for later that day. He was going to come back over, and I went out of my way to prepare food for him, clean my townhouse, wash and dry my hair so it looked casual yet pretty, and spent the day giddy with excitement that I was going to see him, but then I didn’t. He did not show, did not call, and it burned badly. I put myself out there, exposed a few vulnerable sides, and then was left with that icky feeling of not being good enough for someone. It’s a terrible feeling and pretty much sums up most of my dating life: nonexistent and ghosted.

Well, until Isaac. But then again, when I say casual, except for him kissing me good night each time we go out, I would say we are so casual that it’s almost not even dating. I don’t know. I’m just going with the flow and not overthinking it. Time will tell.

Shoving those memories to the side, I walk into the room, wondering if this person might be a relative of Jonah’s. I spot the little girl sitting on the examination table and smile at her. Her back is straight, and her arms are crossed over her chest. She has dried tear tracks down her face, and she’s frowning. She’s wearing a blue-and-white private school uniform and has on a navy satin headband, pulling her hair off her face.

“Hi, Vivi,” I say softly, hoping to defuse some of her tension.

“Sophie?” I hear whispered from the parent chairs. It’s a voice I would recognize almost anywhere and still hear in my dreams at night. It’s like I conjured him with my thoughts in the hallway, and my back goes ramrod straight.

Turning slowly because he’s sitting, I come face-to-face with tanned skin, a jaw that should be used in men’s razor commercials, and large, surprised hazel eyes. The same eyes from that night, which were a mixture of kind and heated. So heated, I can still feel the track of how they raked over me once my clothes fell to the floor.

My stomach tightens.

Suddenly, this ten-by-ten room is shrinking, and I wish for nothing more than to be able to slink out of it. That feeling of not being enough for this guy burns through me. I can feel my cheeks and ears turning pink, and then I get angry with myself. This is stupid. My reaction to him is stupid. He’s just a guy. A guy who chose not to include me in his life, and that’s on him, not me.

He’s also the same guy who gave me one of the best nights of my life.The night was filled with dancing, laughter, and intimacy that still leaves me blushing to this day when I think about it.

It’s then that I notice he looks good. Like really good. He’s wearing a black baseball hat pulled down over his forehead, a white T-shirt with the Tarpons logo on it, black athletic shorts showing off his muscular legs, and a nice pair of running shoes. These past two years have been kind to him, and suddenly, self-consciousness slips under my white coat, and I wish I could pull it tighter around me. It’s not that I think I look bad. In fact, I think I’m in the best shape I’ve ever been in, but like Maya Angelou said, “People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”

He made me feel lied to and inconsequential. If he didn’t want to see me again, he just could have said so. Instead, he gave me false hope with zero regard for how his standing me up would ultimately make me feel.

“You’re a doctor?” he says, more like a statement and less like a question. There’s confusion on his face as two distinct lines form between his eyes.

“Yes. Surgeon, actually,” I tell him with an unwavering voice.

Pride defuses through me at him finally knowing this. The night we met, there wasn’t a lot of getting-to-know-you happening. I don’t know why I didn’t mention that I was a doctor. I just didn’t. But I worked so hard to get to this point, and while I do think I’m an all-around catch, it feels great to let him know that he missed out on someone amazing, driven, incredibly smart, and successful.

Silence engulfs us as his confusion slowly slips to something that looks like a mixture of esteem and regret. My mind must be playing tricks on me because, deep down, I know that’s not true. Not at all. While he might be impressed with my professional accolades, this man has no regrets, or he would have found a way to reach me a long time ago.

“You know her?” the little girl asks.

Her voice breaks our staring contest. I'd forgotten she was even in the room, and I can feel the heat under my skin climbing up my neck and into my face.

I turn to look at her, and an unfamiliar pang jolts me.

One that feels a lot like jealousy, longing, and unrequited heartache.

She looks just like him.

Well, not just like him. But her hair color, eye color, and a few of her features are identical, and I have to work hard to hide my shock.

He has a daughter. A seven-year-old daughter, according to the chart.

And suddenly, it’s really easy to answer her question.

“No. We do not know each other. We only met once at a friend’s house several years ago.”

In my peripheral vision, I see his shoulders slump just a little. I mean, what did he expect my answer to be? We were together for less than twelve hours in total, and most of that time, we weren’t speaking.

Clearing my throat, I look back at the iPad and see they’re here for her ankle.

“So, Vivi, my name is Dr. Black, but you can call me Sophie, too. How about you tell me what happened today.” I pat the back of the exam table to get her to scoot all the way back so both feet are out in front of her.

Jonah stands to move next to her, and I swear the room shrinks even more. Why is he so tall and so wide? His broad shoulders and chest, combined with his long arms, means he’s bigger than the examining table, again sucking up more space in the room. Space I desperately wish I could sneak out of.

Is it hot in here?

“I don’t know. I was walking down the stairs, and then I fell. My ankle twisted, and I kind of landed on it.”

“Do you lose your balance frequently?” I probe her swollen ankle a little to see how she reacts. A few winces here and there from tenderness, which is better than her crying out, but with the location and the purple bruising, this tells me all I need to know.

“No,” she replies.

“What kind of shoes were you wearing?”

“White tennis shoes. Those.” She points at the pair on the floor.

Moving to the small desk next to the sink, I lean against the edge to put as much distance from Jonah and me as possible. Glancing down at the chart details, I look at her extracurricular activities. “It says here that you’re a dancer.”

“I am.” She sits a little taller and tilts her head, almost in defiance.

Interesting. Most little girls by this age tend to be in dance because their parents tell them they should be. It’s routine more than a passion, but I see that’s not the case here.

“Did you perhaps roll your ankle or injure a leg muscle this week that might have contributed to falling?”

“No,” she says, her back now arching in defeat.

Jonah’s head is yo-yoing back and forth between the two of us. His blond hair curls out from under the edge of the hat. I hate that I notice that detail.

“Okay. So just a freak random trip, then?” I ask her.

She nods her head. “Yes.”

“Hmm.” Sitting at the desk, I pull up her X-ray films, which she had taken before I came in, and review the radiologist’s notes even though I already know what they are going to say. There’s a monitor for the patients to see the images, but I don’t take the time to explain anything. Instead, this gives me a minute to breathe and collect myself even though I know both of them are staring at the back of me.

Taking a deep breath, I move back to the examination table. The poor little girl is so tense, I think about how to best explain what is going on in words she’ll understand. I glance at Jonah, who’s intently watching me, and look away as quickly as possible. Butterflies awaken inside me and stretch their wings.

I hate that I react this way to him.

“Currently, which I think you’re probably hoping for, your ankle presents as a sprain. But do you see the swelling here?” I point toward the bottom of her leg. “This bone is the fibula or the calf bone, and right here, where the tenderness and the bruising is, is a growth plate. Often, fractures of the growth plate don’t show up on an X-ray, but given the location, the bruise coming in, and the symptoms, it’s safe to assume there is a fracture, so we’ll treat it as such. We can do advanced imaging if you’d like, but the course of treatment and therapy will be the same.”

“And what is that?” Vivi asks; her hands are clenched tight into fists by her side.

“I’m thinking you look pretty responsible and can be trusted to use a walking boot instead of being placed in a cast.”

“But I don’t want to wear that!” She turns to Jonah, panicked.

He steps closer to her, which means closer to me. Internally, I’m reeling. Then he places a hand on her good leg, and flashbacks of those hands on me flip through my mind: on my lower back when we danced, on my stomach as he slid it across my bare skin, and how he gently wrapped them around my head as he brought his mouth to mine.

Another blush burns through my cheeks, and I blink to clear the images and bring myself back into this room.

“Vivi,” I call to get her attention. She looks at me, and big tears are floating in her eyes. “If we don’t treat it and it gets worse, there could be long-term damage, such as growth arrest, where the bone stops growing.”

“What does that mean?” she asks.

“What do you think it means?” In school, we are taught that with adults, it’s easiest if you just state the obvious, but with kids, the outcome is easier to absorb if they tell you what is happening. It makes them feel more in control of the situation and the diagnosis easier to swallow.

“One leg would be longer than the other?”

“It’s possible.” I nod.

She frowns and looks down at her legs. Jonah and I both watch as she wiggles her hips, stretching her legs as far as they will go, and she points her toes on her uninjured leg.

“Do either of you have any questions?” I ask.

Jonah shakes his head, but Vivi asks, “How long will I have to wear it?”

“Six weeks,” I tell her, and those large tears start to drop.

Jonah, sensing her distress, moves closer to her, wraps her in his arms, and she turns to bury her face in his chest. I hate it when they cry, and this little girl is breaking my heart. At this moment, any looks he might have been giving me stop. He is fully committed to consoling the broken child in his arms.

“Well, someone will be right in to get her fitted. If you think of any questions, if her ankle gets worse, or if you need anything, please don’t hesitate to call the office. Otherwise, I’ll see you in six weeks.”

I put on my best fake smile as I look at them both. Vivi doesn’t acknowledge me, and Jonah’s eyes catch mine and hold. His gaze is intimate, as if he is concerned for Vivi, and gratitude pours out of them. My stomach dips. It might have been over two years since I’ve seen him in person, but I remember his eyes as well as his hands and how they feel when trained on me. They are hypnotizing and lethal, which I cannot be a victim to once again. And it’s with that thought that my fight or flight kicks in, and flight is telling me to get out of the room as fast as possible.