Say You'll Remember Me(43)

I debated mailing it to her, putting a letter in the package. But then I felt like a tiny shell wasn’t enough of a reason to reach out and bother her, even though I wanted to.

I picked up my phone and went to the Murkle’s Mustard Instagram.

I’d been really good about not looking. I knew continuing to engage with her, even if the engagement was one sided and only I knew about it, would only make this harder for me. But my willpower was slowly starting to deteriorate.

I was so miserable I was desperate for anything, even if it was mustard.

The last graphic she posted read:

You think mustard is gross? 1 billion people buy mustard every year, so maybe it’s you.



I snorted. But the mirth lasted only a second, then I slipped back into a funk.

I wondered what she was doing. Maybe I should text her and ask her about Pooter. That was a good enough reason.

Maybe I should just call her.

Maybe I should just go there…

Perfect. I could look like a stalker. I’m sure she’d love it.

I turned off my phone and dragged my fingers through my hair and squeezed. This was ridiculous. What the hell was wrong with me?

I should get on a dating app. Find someone else. Move on. The thought felt like an effort in futility. For what? To meet women I wouldn’t like as much as Samantha? That wasn’t fair to anyone.

Someone knocked on the door.

“Come in,” I said, gloomily.

Maggie poked her head into the room. “Hey.”

“What’s up,” I said flatly.

“Oh, nothing. Just wanted to check on you. Tina brought you some of her famous tater tot hotdish.”

She set the open Tupperware on the desk. It smelled good. It should have made me hungry. It didn’t.

“Thank you,” I mumbled.

She stood in the door, eyeing me. “You okay, Dr. Rush?”

“Yeah. Fine.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

She waited another moment, like the answer might change. Then she left and shut the door.

I stared at the framed photo over the desk, the one from the grand opening. I’d been so happy that day. This clinic was everything to me. The culmination of years of work, risk, and accomplishment.

And also the reason Samantha wouldn’t consider continuing to see me.

If I were working at somebody else’s practice, moving one day could be on the table. If this thing between us got serious enough, I could just quit and go. But she’d been right when she said the clinic would keep me here. I couldn’t sell it, even if I wanted to.

I was in an insurmountable amount of debt.

The cost of building the space: framing out the exam rooms, installing the kennels and the reception desk, painting, the signage outside, the tiling on the floors—I’d taken out loans to pay for all of it. Every piece of equipment I put into this building, the x-ray machine and operating room, the lab equipment—it all depreciated the second the doors opened, went from new to used the moment Rush Veterinary Hospital turned on the lights. I had $950,000 in loans on a business that would sell for $700,000 tops—and that’s assuming I managed to find another vet or corporation who wanted to buy it, which I probably couldn’t.

Opening a clinic wasn’t a short-term investment. It was a large initial monetary commitment that paid off over time. But now? So early in? I’d be hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt if I sold it. I couldn’t even hire someone to replace me unless they were fine making the peanuts that I was currently making.

I’d have to file bankruptcy to leave. I’d lose everything.

So Samantha was right. Trying to have any kind of relationship would only result in a dead end, heartbreak, or ruin.

So why was I still thinking about her?

Because the facts didn’t change the feelings.

I’d been taken by the riptide.

I thought by going to California I’d only put my feet in the water, but I’d gotten all the way in. I’d been sucked out into the open sea and I was fighting it and fighting it and I was getting tired and I didn’t know how much longer I could keep it up.

Maybe I could’ve been saved if she had told me I wasn’t her type, or that she wasn’t feeling it—but she had been feeling it. She liked me as much as I liked her. It wasn’t chemistry getting in the way, it was just logistics.

Really shitty, very legitimate logistics.

I put my palms to my eyes.

I needed to focus. Get back to work, find something else to do. Volunteer more. Make myself so busy, I didn’t have time to pine over this woman who probably hadn’t thought about me in weeks.

Maybe I should go out of town. A long backpacking trip where I wouldn’t have internet to look at the Murkle’s page. Or a conference. That would be good. Get my mind off this, update some of my certifications.

I opened the laptop and started googling.

I only googled conferences in Southern California.





20





SAMANTHA


I WAS SITTING with Mom in her bathroom, swiping on her blush.

I leaned back and looked at my work. I was getting really good at this.

She looked more like her old self again. Tristan had dyed and cut her hair. He still wasn’t really speaking to me, six weeks later. It didn’t matter how many times I apologized—he was still pissed.