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CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO Benedict

" W e missed out on you completing your residency here, Dr. Hawthorne. But we'd love to offer you an Attending Physician position here at UCLA Medical Center," Dr. Holland, the Chief of Medicine, said.

"I'm doing a year at my family's clinic located in a small town in Montana currently," I answered.

"Are both of your parents doctors and also work at the clinic?" he asked. "I don't remember seeing their names on your original Curriculum Vitae as references."

"The clinic is a third-generation facility in a town of a thousand people," I said. "My parents are not doctors; a grandparent started the clinic. A family trust funds the facility, and to an extent, much of the townsfolk's healthcare is supported through that trust."

"That is remarkable, young man," he stated. "And am I hearing you say that after working in a small community, you miss the big city?"

That was the million-dollar question. Did I miss New York? Did I still long to live and work in LA? Did I miss the crazy pace of a big city? Or the endless amounts of people scurrying about like mice in a maze?

Sure, I missed the excitement of a busy city. The great restaurants. Stuff being open around the clock was nice too. But the anonymity of being just a cog in a massive wheel of nothingness had been numbing. Because of that, I'd been numb to my life. I felt more alive now in a small town.

"Truthfully, Dr. Holland. I'm not sure if I do miss a big city. But I did call to thank you for the offer letter and to let you know I am considering the job."

"Is it the money, Ben? You'd be a junior physician in the beginning, but I could pull strings for a doctor with your pedigree."

"The salary offer was fine, sir," I said. "I'll tell you what. I'm wrapping up this calendar year and then I would be available for the academic year that begins in June of next year if I decide to move on from Plentywood."

"Plentywood?" he mused. "Interesting name for a town. Sounds quaint."

"That it is," I agreed. "But it's big on personality and its residents are terrific folks."

When had I begun to use the word folks ? Not to mention, when had I begun to see Plentywood as big on personality?

"Very well, Dr. Hawthorne. Just say the word and I'll send the contract out to you via courier."

"Thank you, sir. I'll make my final decision after the new year."

After hanging up the phone, I scrolled through old text messages. Rocco had been texting for weeks now and I still hadn't replied. The latest ones threatened to come find me if I didn't answer him. Apparently, he'd been struggling without me. He even said he missed me, and that maybe he'd been too hasty to let me leave without putting up more of a fight. I don't remember him putting up any fight.

He'd also included short videos of himself playing with his dick. Because I didn't want to encourage him any further, I'd ignored his texts and his R-rated videos. But now I was receiving long and pleading emails begging me to return to New York. He had me wondering if, in fact, he did love me. His latest email ended with Love, Rocco . Rocco had never used the word love in any situation that involved us as a couple. As usual, where Rocco was concerned, I was probably reaching.

I almost dropped my phone when Agnes came bursting through the door. "Jesus!" I gasped, shoving my phone into my top desk drawer.

"What?" she snapped. "Am I supposed to knock before I come into my job?"

"Never mind," I muttered. "I was caught off guard."

"You don't say," she wisecracked. "Kinda like I was when I heard you and the Sheriff are on some kinda break."

I looked up at her accusingly. "Who told you that?"

"You ain't that stupid, kiddo," she huffed. "We live in a town of less than a thousand. I know when you take a shit before you do."

"Gross!" I said, standing and placing that morning's patient files on her desk with notes I'd made the night before. "Notes are completed for today's visits," I said.

"I knew it! You are fucking bored," she growled. "Patient files ready before eight AM? Notes and shit already done? Spill it, asshole."

"You are incorrigible, Agnes."

"Think I give a flying fuck?" she snapped, hanging her heavy winter coat on the coat tree by the door she came through. "It's too cold to give a shit about manners at my age."

"You're a cranky old hag, no matter the weather," I quipped.

"There you go, kiddo," she said, chuckling and grinning at me. "That's the first wise-ass comment out of ya in a week. So, who killed your puppy?"

"Buzz off, old woman. I'm fine," I lied.

Agnes pulled out the chair across from me, her fave spot to harass me, and sat down, motioning for me to sit back in my chair. "You ain't fine, doc. You haven't been to Jill's in a week and she even made that ridiculous bean casserole you love. And Hunt ain't been in for his meatloaf," she added. "So, in my world, the moon and sun ain't lining up right. Who dumped who and why?"

This was not how I wanted to start a new week, but I'd been miserable pretending that I was fine all last week. Acting like I was pleased with my behavior a week ago Sunday wasn't working. I had allowed a bunch of petty things to build in my mind without letting some steam out. I should have spoken to Hunt before I began resenting him and his rigid life.

"Hunt is so… he's just so…" I began.

"Fucking uptight?" she offered. "A stubborn asshole? As hard-headed as a fence post? Am I getting close?"

"You're kind of right on the money," I admitted. "He's stuck, Agnes."

"Then unstuck the fucker," she stated. "He's a goddamned man, doc. They're all stuck in their own little heads. Often only thinking with the one between their legs."

Her joke should've made me laugh, but the seriousness with which I took Hunt's obsession with not letting go of Mark's ghost invaded my mind and my heart. Of course, I understood his grief. Of course, he had a right to remember and to memorialize his dead husband. But two-year-old notes with instructions from how many scoops of coffee to use to squeezing from the end of the toothpaste tube, were too much for a grown man.

"His house," I whispered. "The… the… I don't know. It's odd," I ended.

"The notes, right?" she asked, filling in what I'd deemed too personal to reveal to her. "Those goddamned notes and the way he keeps his house a shrine to Mark? Is that what you're on about?"

"It's weird, Agnes," I said, feeling horrible when I said the words out loud.

"You don't fucking say?" she guffawed. "It's creepy as fuck, is what it is."

"You know about the notes?"

"I went over to his house and fed him for a month after Mark passed. I saw the notes and his incessant need to keep every little tchotchke he owned lined up just so," she said. "I'm just guessing here, but I'm betting he was trying to keep himself from crackin' up."

"When were you last there?" I asked.

"At least a year or more ago," she confirmed.

"Nothing's changed," I said. Agnes shook her head in sympathy. "He still has Mark's toothbrush in a paper Dixie Cup , Agnes. The cup is half-full of two-year-old water that he keeps adding to as it evaporates."

"Jesus!" she whispered. "Seriously?"

I nodded. Something I hadn't seen from Agnes overcame her face. I watched her face crumble as her lips quivered. Her eyes welled up, too. She appeared heartbroken by my news.

"You okay?" I asked, reaching across my desk.

"Hunter hasn't been to work in a week," she revealed. "No one has seen him and now, after hearing this shit, I'm worried about him again."

Her news update was like a bomb exploding in my heart. I was angry and disappointed by what had happened between us. And like any other person in a love squabble or suffering from break-up hurt, I wanted Hunt to suffer a little. It's natural to have those thoughts, but now I was worried too.

"And Jill?" Agnes shook her head. "He's not even eating at the diner?" I questioned.

"He won't return Jill's calls and he doesn't come to town to eat the food she's been leaving for him at the Sheriff's office," she stated. "Not that he's going into the Sheriff's office. I even had Charlie go check on him, but Hunter won't answer the door."

Now I was bordering on frantic. I loved Hunter. I believed he loved me too, but he seemed inflexible toward change, and I couldn't go back to being secondary in a relationship. If he continued to hole up in his house without at least reaching out and saying he would try to work on things, on us, then I couldn't compromise my position. But he hadn't reached out to me and now I wanted to compromise, worrying that he didn't feel the same way about us as I had.

"I won't be another Charlie to him," I confessed. "I saw what his pain did to Charlie, Agnes. I will not allow him to do that to me."

"You're wise, Ben, but Charlie is not you," she corrected. "I love my grandson, but he's a fuck-up. I knew Hunt would shit on Charlie. Hell, Charlie knew Hunt would shit on him," she added. "But Charlie took just as much advantage of Hunter as Hunter did of Charlie."

"That's harsh," I said.

"It's the truth," she replied. "Charlie obsessed over Hunt. He did and has his entire life. And this is going to sound like a horrible thing to say about my grandson, but he used Mark's death to worm his way into Hunter's life."

"Yikes, Agnes."

"He was just as fucked-up a person in his life as Hunt was after Mark died. I warned him. I threatened him. He listened to nothing and no one and headed straight for Hunt and into a disaster."

"And I feel like I am the next man that should heed the warning signs, Agnes," I said. "I can't be another casualty to Hunt's pain." I leaned closer and whispered, even though we were alone in the office. "I'm probably leaving in five months, anyway."

Agnes's face registered shock and anger, but instead of letting loose with her impressive repertoire of curse words, she stood and walked across the room, facing the wall for a few moments before turning back to me. "You can't do that, Ben," she stated. "You just can't do that. You can't because of Hunter, and you can't because of this town. You were sent here to save us, son."

I frowned, pinching my mouth, and waved her off as a crazy woman. "That is nuts. I have my own ghosts, Agnes. And I'll continue to support the town through my trust whether or not I'm here," I said. "I have no reason to stay. Plentywood will survive just fine."

She hurried back to my desk and leaned over me, panic written on her face. "It's not just your money, son. This town needs your heart," she stressed, grabbing my hands. "Mark and Hunt were the heart of this town, and I was certain we were fucked until you showed up. Hunt needs you. Plentywood needs you. I need you!"

"I cannot be Mark," I protested.

"But you can be Ben. This town adores you, son. True, Hunt is a fucking mess right now, but he loves you. He absolutely loves you, Ben. And that must count for something, right?"

"I just don't know," I said. "I'm afraid."

"Of what?" she asked. "Afraid that you'll regret leaving a place that loves you? Needs you? Afraid that Hunt is your true destiny?" she pushed, sitting down again and pleading with me. " He is why you came here, Ben. I believe it with all my heart. That boy needs a stronger boy. That broken boy needs a boy smart enough to love him through this. You are that boy."

"But you said he won't even answer his door?" I reminded her.

"He will for you," she whispered, squeezing my hand. "Be the stronger man, Ben. For Hunt. I know Hunt is tough and acts all rough around the edges, but he is being eaten alive by his fear of letting go of Mark. He needs you to convince him it's okay to let go and love again."

I swiped at my eyes. Agnes was many things, but apparently, she had a heart. Something I had actually suspected for some time now. "Are you sure?"

"You came to our town to save him," she said. "I believe that fact with all my heart. You are our gift, son. Please know how important you are to all of us, but especially to that boy."

Tears fell onto my desk, forming tiny pools of hope. "Okay, Agnes. I'll go out there. I will try."

"Thank you, Ben," she stated, smiling through wet and shiny eyes. "You are such a kind young man. Your parents must be so proud of you."

I shook my head and nervously adjusted in my chair. I hated telling people about my childhood. But I trusted Agnes and felt she deserved to know that this little boy was as fucked up as her Charlie and Hunt.

"My mother didn't have the time of day for me," I confessed. "She was never present in my life and, like my father, didn't truly know who I am."

"Then I guess it's Plentywood's job to be proud of you," she said. "I know I'm proud of you, son."

"I used to think I hated you, Agnes."

"I know that," she stated. "That's my charm. I grow on folks. Sorta like mold."

"I actually love you, Agnes," I specified.

She looked away. "No, you don't," she whispered, quickly looking back at me, checking in to see if she'd heard correctly.

I nodded. "Yeah, you old goat. I do."

Every tender emotion that I believed truly lived in Agnes's heart radiated on her face after I told her I loved her. She sat across from me and smiled, touching her heart instead of speaking. I'm pretty sure she couldn't speak at the moment.

I was raised by parents that never truly saw me. Perhaps their ability to show love was different than most, but I remembered it hurt. Agnes made my heart hurt, too. But this ache in my heart felt good.

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