Boxer wasn’t Jeff.
I stood in the living room, gathering my thoughts and then decided to level with him. “This young woman came in,” I began. “Dislocated shoulder. Bruises on her neck and cheek. A black eye.”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah. Her X-rays showed so many healed breaks. I gave her my cell phone number to call me if she wanted help.” I paused. “She’ll never call, Boxer. None of them ever call.”
I fell silent, and he didn’t reply.
“You asked,” I accused.
“I did,” he agreed.
“I became a doctor because I wanted to help people. I wanted to fix things that were broken. Surgery can do that. But how do you repair someone’s soul?”
I’d been trying for years to fix my own issues, but I was starting to believe they’d never be resolved. Were we all doomed to being imperfect people patched together, concealing the rot beneath?
“It makes you a good doctor,” Boxer said.
“What does?”
“Feeling the losses. You let them cut deep. It means you care. It means you want to make a difference.”
“Adderly Ford,” I murmured. “You are a constant surprise.”
“The name is Boxer.”
“No,” I said emphatically. “Not right now it isn’t. Right now, you’re not the charming playboy biker. Right now, you’re…”
“I’m what?” he asked gruffly.
I sighed. “Exactly what I need.”
* * *
“Linden!” Amanda called. “Over here!”
I grabbed my lunch tray, stalked across the cafeteria, and plunked it down at the table. Emily smiled around the juice box she was drinking from, and Peyton scooted the empty chair out next to her.
“Hey,” I said. “What are we talking about?”
“Emily’s birthday next month,” Peyton said.
“I usually keep it low key,” Emily said. “Have friends over, grill, drink some beers.”
“That sounds fun.”
My phone vibrated across the table. I caught the flash of Boxer’s name, and I instantly scooped up my cell and set it in my lap. I discreetly opened my phone to read the text.
Boxer:How long has it been since I’ve been inside you?
I squeaked and dropped my phone into my lap.
Peyton look at me and frowned. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” I said.
“You’re blushing,” she noted.