Dr. Giles was silent, staring at the pair. “Really?” he said at last, steepling his fingers on the glossy wood table. “This is your plan, Jeffery? Providing a Medicaid patient Cadillac-level treatment? How do you propose they’d pay for it?”
“I was hoping to talk with financial services about discounting the patient’s fees,” Harper cut in. She’d anticipated this question. “They’ve come here for over ten years, and because some of their past treatment has led to the state they’re in now, we should rectify that. Plus, taking extra steps with this reconstruction would end up saving money on future treatments they may need if we went with lower-caliber options.”
Dr. Giles scoffed.
Jeff darted a look at Harper, his confidence gone, calculating how to win back Daddy’s approval.
“That makes no business sense, Miss Horowitz,” Dr. Giles said.
“But it makes clinical sense,” Harper countered.
Dr. Giles sighed. “No practice would be sustainable if they waived fees for top-of-the-line treatments left and right.”
“That may be true,” Harper interrupted, “but this is a teaching clinic funded on student’s tuition, grants, and insurance reimbursements. Our high-risk, low-income patient population needs this type of care.”
Dr. Giles scowled at her. “The practicality isn’t there, and I’m not going to argue the point. I’m shocked you put your name on this, Jeffery.”
Jeff stuttered. “I—she—”
Dr. Giles continued to stare at his son.
“I thought it could be a teachable moment,” Jeff said at last, his features snapping into a condescending smile at Harper. A few students in the seminar snickered. “Being book smart doesn’t always equate to clinical intelligence.”
“Yes, because back-alley dentistry for a patient with chronic issues epitomizes clinical intelligence. I really need to get my nose out of the books,” Harper snapped back.
Jeff rolled his eyes, opening his mouth to fight when Dr. Giles interrupted him.
“We’ll continue on with presentations next week,” he said, waving the small group away in dismissal.
“What the hell was that?” Harper hissed, turning on Jeff. “We could have cited some research and clinical cases instead of rolling over like that. The patient needs this type of treatment and you know it. Their past low-caliber care got them to this point.”
“There’s no need to get hysterical,” Jeffery said, packing up his laptop. “It was a bad idea, end of story. How predictable of a woman to let her emotions lead her into a poor business decision.”
Harper’s blood boiled. “Thank God you embrace toxic masculinity with such gusto. The world would be in pieces if it weren’t for your total lack of compassion,” Harper said, storming out of the room and into the hall.
She was annoyed and frustrated and couldn’t help but think that if she’d been more focused this week, not losing her damn mind over a boy, of all things, she could have been quicker to argue her case. She needed to focus the fuck up.
She avoided lunch with her friends, stationing herself in the rarely used school cafeteria to cram in some studying. The anxious voice banging against her skull drowned out the one preoccupied with her silly crush. It frantically reminded her of every single thing she needed to get done, and every single possible consequence if she didn’t, causing her nerves to swell with the familiar overflow of worry, that painful energy stampeding through her veins.
Sometimes she wondered what it would look like inside if she could open a little door to her chest. There’d be her heart, of course, thrumming like a hummingbird’s wings with the force of a hammer. But she also imagined sticky, tangled swirls of indefinable colors—some dark and frightening, others soft and welcoming, most fluorescent and sharp. There’d be barbs of chaos poking into peaceful corners, shards of memories sealed away in locked boxes. Small little worker bees zipping and humming through her chest, resting between her rib bones, trying to clean up the mess, but ultimately making it worse in their flurry of energy.
In short, pure mayhem.
Hunkering down to study, she buried her phone in the bottom of her backpack and pulled out her textbooks, starting to read. With each paragraph, her pulse slowed until she found her normal rhythm, scribbling notes as she read, and slipping into that secure realm of control and order she needed to survive.
“You didn’t call.”
Harper’s head snapped up so sharply, she winced at the pinched muscles. Dan stood across the table, fixing her with puppy-dog eyes while a smile tugged at his lips. She swallowed hard, trying to think of something to say.