2. CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER TWO

J ustine was completely unpacked in fifteen minutes. Since she was the only guest in the cabin, she didn't bring much. Sure, it looked like she had a lot of stuff, given how full her SUV hatch was, but after she unpacked, she realized just how much she forgot to bring. Like a beach towel, sunscreen, seasonings for the kitchen, and most importantly—earplugs.

It only took her half a second to dismiss driving into town and the grocery store. She was settled in and had no desire to leave her cozy, new, little place of refuge. She could suffer through one un-silent night. Tomorrow, she'd go explore, visit the town center, and pick up what she needed.

Staring into her open fridge, she grumbled and chewed on her lip. She could and probably should cook dinner for herself. She certainly brought enough provisions, but she took a peek at the pub menu while on the ferry, and the Cajun Chicken Burger and homemade beer-soaked fries had her belly rumbling. She could cook tomorrow.

The warm breeze lifted stray strands of hair off her neck and warmed her soul as she stepped out of her cabin onto the wooden deck, complete with a barbecue, a couple of comfy-looking Adirondack chairs, and a hammock. She'd definitely be using that hammock over the next seven weeks. She had a stack of books on her nightstand and was determined to read every single one.

A smile curled her lips as she walked past the other cabins toward the pub.

But as soon as she realized she was smiling, she frowned again.

If Mr. O'Malley wasn't alive to feel joy, she didn't deserve to feel joy either.

The scent of barbecue and smoke wafting up into the air drew her attention to the other cabins. Children waiting for their supper, laughed and played on the small front lawns of a few bungalows. Men and women waved at her and said "Hello." She greeted them and waved back, only to frown again as soon as she faced forward.

Joy was a luxury of life she didn't deserve. Not after her colossal mistake.

The pub came into view, the sounds of laughter and music caused unease to flicker in her belly. She hated eating alone in public. But this trip was about finding herself again. About figuring out what she wanted—what she deserved out of life. So she needed to step outside of her comfort zone, pull up her scrub pants and go sit at the bar by herself and order dinner.

The parking lot was packed but most places had at least one seat open at the bar for loser loners.

"Justine!" came a squeaky child's voice.

She spun around to find the younger, blonde little girl she met earlier. One of Bennett's daughters. Five seconds of searching her short-term memory had her saying, "Hi, Aya."

Aya beamed. "We're going to get sorbet from the restaurant freezer."

Justine's gaze lifted to Bennett for a moment and heat flooded her chest, worming its way up her face. She ignored the frenzy of butterflies in her belly and focused back on the charming little girl. "Well, that sounds like a real treat. For any special occasion?"

Aya shrugged and glanced at her dad for an answer. "Dunno. Dad just said we should get ice cream. Is there a special occasion, Daddy?"

Bennett peeled his blue eyes away from Justine and smiled down at his daughter, running his big hand over the back of her head. "No, sweetie. I just thought it'd be nice for dessert."

"We're having turkey tacos for dinner," Aya went on. "Uncle Jagger is up at the house making them." Her face scrunched up in displeasure and she focused back on Bennett. "I don't have to eat the tomatoes, do I? I hate tomatoes."

"You need to pick a vegetable. So we'll see what Uncle Jagger puts on the table."

Aya rolled her brown eyes. "I hope it's cucumbers, or peppers, or something. I hate tomatoes."

Bennett cleared his throat and lifted a brow at her.

She rolled her eyes again. "Sorry. I dislike tomatoes. They feel funny on my tongue."

"If it makes you feel better," Justine said with a small chuckle, "I'm not a huge fan of tomatoes either. It's the texture for me too."

Aya's eyes glowed with excitement and she pulled on Bennett's hand. "See, Dad? Justine doesn't like tomatoes either. It's not just me." Her nose wrinkled. "Did Mama like tomatoes?"

Bennett cleared his throat again, and a sexy flush filled his cheeks beneath his thick brown scruff. "She did, yes."

"Hmm," Aya mused. "I wonder who I get my dislike of tomatoes from then?"

"We should get going," Bennett said, encouraging his daughter to start walking again, only it wasn't to the front door like Justine, it was to the rear of the building. Probably a staff door.

"Bye, Justine!" Aya called, giving Justine an enormous wave with one hand while holding onto her father's hand with her other. "Have a good dinner."

"Thanks, Aya. You enjoy your tomato-free turkey tacos and sorbet."

That just made the little girl light up even more.

They disappeared a moment later around the corner and as soon as they were out of sight, Justine's heart hurt.

Maybe eating alone in a public place wasn't such a good idea.

Maybe she just needed to order her meal and take her food back to her cabin, or go eat on the beach.

Yeah, that was a better idea.

Small steps to make big changes.

She didn't need to take the big leap on her first day and eat in public alone. She could do that tomorrow, or next week.

With fewer nerves in her belly now, she opened the door to the pub and was instantly hit with an overload of people. Laughter and conversation blended with the Top 40 music until it all created a white noise.

A sign that said, "Please Seat Yourself" was at the front. So she didn't have to worry about having a host or hostess question her about her intentions.

She made her way toward the bar where a handsome man with long-ish hair, tied back in a small man bun greeted her with a smile. "Hi there. What can I get you?"

His eyes were the exact same shade as Bennett's. Was this one of the brothers he mentioned?

"I'd like a menu, please."

His smile widened, and he grabbed a leather-bound menu from a stack behind the bar. "Sure thing. You looking to place an order to go?"

She nodded.

"Just let me know when you're ready and I'll send it to the kitchen." Then he made his way down the bar to a server who was waiting to speak with him.

Justine opened the heavy menu.

Everything listed sounded delicious.

Besides tomatoes, she had no other food dislikes, and zero allergies. She was always drawn to Mediterranean flavors too. So the Greek Falafel Burger with the Beer-Soaked Garlic Fries sounded perfect.

"Ready to order?" the man with the man-bun asked, jerking his strong chin at her.

She placed her order, and he said it'd be about fifteen minutes. "Would you like a drink while you wait?" he asked, motioning to the recently vacated seat at the bar.

She slid onto the stool and nodded. "Sure … I'll have an, um …" Her eyes scanned the chalkboard full of drink specials behind him. "The Island Sunset sounds good."

"Coming right up." His smile was all kinds of playful and his eyes twinkled in a way that reminded her so much of Bennett and their exchange when he showed her to her cabin.

"Are you … uh, are you one of the brothers that owns the place?" she asked.

He plunked the tall, narrow glass with the sunset-colored liquids swirling around in front of her. "I am. I'm Dom." He thrust his hand over the top of the bar. "Are you staying here?"

"I just checked into one of the cabins. I've already met Bennett."

"Ah, gotcha. You're the last-minute booking?"

She shrugged. "I think so. I only just made the reservation last week."

"Which was a godsend because we had a cancellation and Bennett was shitting himself." He snorted in mirth, then jerked his chin in greeting at someone who walked in. "Well, welcome to the island, and to Sound Bites and the cabins." His grin was extremely flirtatious, but it didn't send her belly butterflies into an unmitigated frenzy the way Bennett's smile did.

Yes, Dom was handsome. Hell, the man was gorgeous, but he just didn't make her heart pound or her stomach flutter.

"If you'll excuse me, I'm sure your order will be ready in just a couple of minutes." Then he tossed her another flirty smile and went to tend to new people looking to place an order to-go.

Sipping on her delicious cocktail, Justine tuned into the world around her.

So many happy people. The room—and patio—was full of smiles and laughter, glowing eyes and endless joy.

It made sense considering how peaceful the island seemed, and the view was unparalleled. The water just beyond the outside patio glittered with the deep rays of the low-hanging sun. A few wispy white clouds floated carelessly in the sky and the breeze that swept through the pub from the open patio doors was balmy and deliciously briny from the sea.

She pulled in a deep inhale and closed her eyes, letting the music and people around her once again fade into a benign white noise.

She must have had her eyes closed for a while because the plunk on the bar top in front of her made her jump.

"Did you fall asleep?" Dom asked, still wearing that flirty smile. A paper bag sat in front of her. "Here's dinner. I also had them throw in Wyatt's to-die-for Raspberry, Chocolate Ganache Torte." Then a look of worry filled his blue eyes. "Unless you're, like, allergic to chocolate or raspberries or something?"

She finished her Island Sunset and shook her head. "No allergies. I'm just not a fan of tomatoes."

Relief dashed across his face. "Oh good. I double-checked that they got that memo, and can safely say that there are no tomatoes anywhere near your burger."

Justine grabbed the paper bag. "I appreciate the attention to detail. Thank you."

"No worries. Enjoy." Along came another flirty smile before he was distracted by the incoming drink order from the POS printer.

Navigating her way through the sudden influx of patrons arriving, she exhaled in relief the moment she reached the parking lot. Crowds were never her thing. The weather was too perfect to go eat her dinner inside the cabin, so she made her way down below the bustling patio deck, and onto the rocks. Gnarly, twisted madrona tree branches hung, reaching and battered, over the driftwood. They were an unusual and interesting tree. Although they looked deciduous, they were actually evergreen and kept their leaves year-round. The deep reddish-brown bark peeled away like an onion skin to reveal vibrant lima-bean green, silky flesh underneath. A lot of people liked to carve their names—mainly optimistic lovers—into the green flesh, with the hopes of immortalizing their affections.

Idiots.

Also, leave the trees alone.

She walked until she couldn't hear the music anymore. All that filled the air were the strident cries of hungry seabirds and the gentle lapping of the water against the shore.

She stayed above the tideline, studying where she put each foot as the rocks were all round and slid easily against each other, making her steps unstable.

Eventually, the perfect perch called to her—a fallen and washed ashore log—with no noticeable bird feces, bugs, or anything else that might get on her pants.

With a weary sigh, she took her seat, opening her bag.

The instant scent of Mediterranean spices wafted up to her, and her belly rumbled.

The smile stole across her face before she could stop it.

When she knew it was there, she banished it away and scowled again.

The burger was delicious, and she felt guilty for enjoying it.

The fries were incredible, and she hated that she'd never tasted fries so good.

And that raspberry ganache torte? It brought a solitary tear to her eye as she took the first bite. Nothing should ever taste so decadent. So sinful.

Why the hell did she deserve to eat something that wonderful?

Mr. O'Malley certainly wouldn't get to taste anything so marvelous.

He'd never get to taste anything again.

And all because of her.

All because of her screw up.

All because Justine let her emotions, her personal life, affect her professional life.

She knew better than to date a colleague. Then to get engaged to a colleague.

But nobody else understood the demands of a doctor, the intense hours and fatigue of a doctor, besides another doctor. So marrying Tad made sense.

She also loved him.

Or thought she did.

Now that her belly was full, she closed her eyes and tuned out everything around her.

As they often did when she replayed that day, that surgery, and that moment in her life, her hands came up and she pantomimed her fingers in Mr. O'Malley's chest cavity.

She did everything right.

Until that moment, she'd been a cardio-god. A rockstar. She saved ten times more lives than she ever lost. She performed surgeries that other surgeons wouldn't even attempt because it would affect their average. But Justine was a risk-taker. Maybe it was also her ego that made her take risks, but up until that day, her ego had never steered her wrong.

Up until that day, she was an innovative and patient doctor. A respected and sought-after surgeon. A preferred teacher and physician that not only had the skills in the OR but a reputable bedside manner as well.

Normally, she didn't make promises to patients or their families that they'd come through. You never really knew what you were walking into until you opened the patient up and peered inside. MRIs, CAT scans, and X-Rays only showed so much.

But she'd developed a caring relationship with Mr. O'Malley and his family.

They trusted her.

And she liked them. His wife knitted Justine a scarf. His grandchildren drew her pictures.

That was mistake number one: getting attached.

Mistake number two was promising them that she'd get Mr. O'Malley home so he could celebrate his granddaughter, Lizzie's, first birthday.

She made that promise because even though the man had a tangled, brilliant tumor wrapped around his heart, she figured she had the surgery in the bag. She had a plan and was one of the best. She intended to save that man and send him home with his wife so he could enjoy retired life with his grandchildren.

But the CT and MRI didn't show how shredded his aorta was.

And that tumor was even more woven around his heart than she first thought.

But still, she was confident she could help him. She was confident in herself.

Even after what she heard in the bathroom right before she scrubbed in, she was still confident. Rattled. Devastated. Broken hearted. But, confident.

But when she heard the name of the nurse beside her, the woman who would be handing her every single piece of surgical equipment that she required to save Mr. O'Malley's life, the woman who looked Justine in the eye with triumph in her own eyes—that's when Justine messed up.

That's when she made the mistake.

That's how she killed Mr. O'Malley.

She wasn't even sure how many times she went over that surgery in her head, with her eyes closed and the world tuned out. But a seagull squawk and the flap of wings way too close for comfort broke through her daytime nightmare and forced her eyes to flash open.

A gull with red eyes and a dirty yellow beak stood next to her on the log, eying her paper bag which had nothing but the empty to-go containers in it.

"Shoo," she said, swatting it away.

It was ballsy and unruffled by her hand. Rather, it tilted its head to the side to study her, then took a step forward and pecked at the paper bag.

"I said shoo !" She swatted it again, then stood up. The sun was setting beyond where she was on the island now. So nothing but muted light burned around the fringes of the treetops and the peninsula to the right.

A chilly gust off the water made her shiver.

The gull still hadn't given up though, and hopped closer toward her.

"I have nothing for you, you scavenger. Go raid the garbage or something." She glared at the beady-eyed thing, then turned to go. She'd never been a big fan of birds to begin with. She liked penguins. They were snappy dressers and would never shit on her car. The rest could just get lost.

She was nearly back below the patio, the music still thumped and the patron volume increased exponentially. She was glad she decided to get her meal to-go and eat on the beach.

A big, green garbage bin at the rear of the building became home to her empty containers, and she was almost back at her cabin when her phone started to vibrate and warble in her pocket. It would be one of five people, probably. Everyone else knew to leave her alone.

It probably wasn't Tad.

He knew better than to call her.

She glanced at the screen. Yeah, it was her mother. That was her first guess.

She let it go to voicemail.

A moment later, it began to ring and vibrate again. This time, it was her father.

She let that go to voicemail.

Then it was their landline.

She let that go to voicemail.

She reached her cabin porch and sat down on the hammock, staring at the voicemail notifications. Until her finger pressed the screen and opened her voicemail. She pressed "one " a moment later and put the phone to her ear. Her nerves were nearly shot even before her mother's voice began on the other end.

"Justine, it's your mother. Enough is enough. We don't know what is going on, but you need to pick up your phone. Please. We need to know you're all right."

Then the next message came from her dad. "Justine, what is wrong? What have we done? What have I done? Please talk to us. We're worried. We love you." His thick French-Canadian accent made her smile, but it was only for a second. She deleted both messages, then texted her dad.

I'm on vacation. Thank you for your concern. I love you too.

She didn't bother to text her mother. Her dad would relay the message to her.

He replied back immediately.

I wish we could speak in person.

I can't, Dad. Heading to bed now.

She could just imagine his disappointed face.

But what could she say to them?

"I let my personal life affect my professional life and a patient died because of it?"

She came from a family of doctors. Professionals. It was drilled into her sisters and her's brains since they were children that leaving emotions on the other side of the door was critical to success. Don't take your friendship woes with you into a math test. Leave your grief over your dead cat at home, otherwise your frog dissection will suffer.

Emotions were for home, not for work.

Her family was also exceptional at not getting personally invested with their patients.

Death was a part of life. They took an oath to do no harm, but sometimes too much harm had already been done before they got their shot to help.

They'd never understand. Not her parents. Not her sisters.

She was the black sheep. The middle child. The daughter who needed a math tutor, and a speech pathologist because she had a lisp. She was the difficult one. The one who made her parents miss work because she needed someone to drive her to her tutor or her speech path. She was the child who needed more help with her long division homework in the evenings.

She needed to study harder to get good grades. Daniela had an eidetic memory and an IQ of one hundred forty. She skipped three grades and graduated with her bachelor's degree in two and a half years. She was accepted to six med schools, all of them offering her full scholarships.

Everything just came easy to Tasha too. She was valedictorian, captain of the debate team and the mathletes, and won numerous awards for science. MIT, Caltech, and NASA expressed interest in buying the patent to her junior year science project. But Tasha wasn't interested in the money. Or so she said. For now, she was just sitting on the patent, waiting to see if she wanted to pursue it, or just pass it along to someone else.

Justine's parents were so proud of their two daughters and their achievements. Meanwhile, they were just glad that Justine was accepted to Johns Hopkins and made it through med school.

She was their disappointment. The problem child. The middle kid with no real identity or place. A spare. A filler. An extra mouth to feed.

They may not have ever called her that, or said such things to her, but she knew it. She felt it.

So, no, she wouldn't tell them, or her sisters, what she did. That she overheard nurses talking in the bathroom right before surgery, then she took what she heard into the OR and let it affect how she operated. She thought she was doing fine. Thought she had left that information on the other side of the door. But when one nurse addressed another by name, Nurse Busche , Nurse Ashli Busche, Justine's hand slipped. The hand holding the razor-sharp scalpel less than a millimeter away from Mr. O'Malley's artery slipped.

And Justine killed him.

A hot tear slid down her cheek, and her chin trembled. It was ten days ago, but with how fresh it all still remained in her mind, it just as easily could have been yesterday.

She couldn't tell her parents that she gave up medicine. That she gave up her career.

They'd never understand, and she'd be an even bigger problem, an even bigger failure in their eyes than ever before. It'd also give her sisters something to gloat about. How many patients did Tasha kill as an orthopedic surgeon? Probably not many. She built bones and repaired severed limbs. And Daniela was an OB-GYN. She brought life into the world; she didn't take it out.

No. Justine worked with hearts. The epicenter of the body. The nucleus. A fragile, yet resilient organ she could draw from memory down to the finest detail. Until it looked like a photograph.

And she'd messed up and caused Mr. O'Malley to bleed out and his heart, his fragile, yet resilient heart, to stop and never beat again.

It was better for everyone, for the world, if she stopped practicing medicine. She brought her emotions with her, and that was unsafe. That was unprofessional.

Swallowing past the painful lump in her throat, she got up from the hammock and made her way into the cabin.

It was still light out, but the sounds of frogs and crickets competed with the music coming from the pub. People were still barbecuing on the cabin porches and children's joyful squeals tugged at the tattered and frayed strands of her heart.

She knew the heart wasn't actually where we felt emotions. It was all in the amygdala. All in the brain. But that didn't stop her chest from physically aching when she thought too long about Mr. O'Malley or the look of utter shock and agony on the faces of his family members when she told them that "We did everything we could."

Like a robot, she undressed, showered and brushed her teeth. Then she braided her long, black hair down her back and climbed into bed. Light shone through the thin linen drapes and the noises outside were impossible to tune out.

But she curled up into a ball anyway, shut her eyes, and willed sleep to come.

It wouldn't.

She hadn't slept more than a couple of hours since the surgery. Just enough that she wasn't a hazard on the road. But nothing restorative or therapeutic.

Her brain wouldn't shut off. So, rather than grow frustrated with the noises around her, she went back to the surgery. Back to her screw up. And just like on the beach, she went through it start to finish, over, and over again, until Mr. O'Malley woke up after surgery and smiled at his wife and children.

But it would never come.

Mr. O'Malley was dead.

And it was because of Justine.

And that was something she was going to have to live with for the rest of her life.