Chapter Thirteen

Shawn

The next several days pass by, and I'm thinking of that sweet little girl every chance I get.

Right now, though, she's not at the forefront of my thoughts. She can't be.

I'm in the operating room. The sterile air is outright cold, but it doesn't bother me one bit, though some of the nurses hate it.

I think it's a nice break from the relentless Oklahoma summer.

The patient lying before me is a 47-year-old man who has some pretty rough arthritis in his right knee. I know this because, thanks to the arthroscopic camera I've inserted into a small incision I made, images from inside are displayed on a monitor directly in front of me. Working in a second incision, I'm using a small, motorized shaver to scrape off as much of the offending material as possible. I then tidy up a few things and get the knee as clean as possible. It takes deep concentration and precision work. But I've done this procedure a thousand times or more and it's not very invasive.

"Let's get him sowed up," I say, removing the long, thin camera.

It doesn't take long for us to close the incisions. I do a few more things and then the procedure is wrapped up in a matter of minutes.

I leave the post-op team to wheel him to the recovery room where he'll sleep for a while before his wife is able to join him. He'll be on his way home in about two hours. I've written him a script to help with the pain. He might not need it. There will be some discomfort, but some patients choose not to mess with painkillers. Still, he'll have them if he needs them. A few weeks from now, the pain will have completely subsided, and he'll feel a lot better having that arthritis scraped out.

I go into the scrub room—a small space just off the OR—and peel off my gloves. The red blood on them stands in stark contrast to the blue latex.

I then ditch my mask, cap, surgical gown, shoe covers, and protective eyewear. I toss the disposable stuff in the medical waste container, put the goggles where they go, and then scrub my hands at the sink.

The whole process takes about five minutes, and that entire time, I'm thinking about Willow.

Now that my patient is safe and sound in recovery, I have the luxury of letting my mind wander back to her. It's been doing that a lot over the past few weeks.

Perhaps I shouldn't call it a luxury. It's more like agony. I can't get that cutie off my brain! She's consuming me. I'm nearly obsessed.

A 50-year-old man obsessed with a girl who's barely 21.

What the hell?

I need to shift my focus to other things. Or try to, at least.

I check my phone to see if I missed any messages during the procedure. Sure enough, I have a text from Braydon. He and Chloe want to know if I'd meet them for dinner at a place up in Oklahoma City.

I text him back, letting him know I'd love to. I miss my boy. Don't get me wrong, I know it's normal for him to be busy. He's a newlywed, after all. But it'll be good to see him.

I just can't let him know that I'm obsessing over his sister-in-law. I can never let him know that. It's my little secret. My burden to bear.

And what a heavy burden it's become.