Heart of the Matter - Emily Giffin [56]
“The graft went well,” he says, our conversation falling into autopilot.
Four words for a four-hour surgery.
“Yeah?” I ask, craving more details, not so much because I want the medical report, but because I want him to want to share with me.
“Yeah. Textbook graft,” he says, slicing his hand through the air.
I wait several seconds until it’s clear he has nothing more to offer. “So,” I say. “April said she saw you at the hospital.”
His expression becomes animated, nearly fierce, as he says, “Yeah. What the hell was up with that?”
“They didn’t know the surgery was today,” I say, wondering why I’m offering April and Romy an excuse—when I basically agree with Nick.
He snorts. “Even so.”
I nod, my way of taking his side, hoping that the alignment will fix whatever is brewing between us, “I heard they brought wine,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“Who brings wine to a waiting room?”
“In the morning, no less.”
He unbuttons his coat, shaking his arms free. “You should cut her out of your life,” he says adamantly.
“Cut April out?” I ask.
“Yeah. You have better things to do with your time.”
Like, being with my husband, I want to say, but restrain myself. “She has her good points,” I say. “I really think she was trying to help.”
“Help who? Her negligent friend?”
I shrug lamely as he continues, now on a roll. “They deserve to get their asses sued.”
“Do you think that’s a possibility?” I ask.
“No way,” he says.
“Did the kid’s mother discuss it with you?” I ask, intrigued more by the interpersonal side of his work than the medicine.
“No,” he says curtly.
“Would we?” I ask. “Would you?”
“I might,” he says, showing his vindictive side. A part of him that I don’t particularly like, but still admire, right along with his bad temper, blind stubbornness, and unabashed competitiveness. All the hallmarks of an acclaimed surgeon—the very traits that make him who he is. “I might sue for no other reason than that offensive bottle of wine . . . And that look on her face . . . What’s her name? Remy?”
“Romy,” I say, marveling that the man managed to learn the name of every muscle and bone in the body, endless Latin medical terms, and yet he can’t commit a few names to memory.
He continues, as if talking to himself. “That fake smile she has . . . I’ve just finished a grueling surgical procedure and there she is grinning, wanting to chat me up about private schools.”
“Yeah. April said she’s going to write us a letter,” I say.
“The hell she is,” he says. “No way. I don’t want a letter from her. I don’t even want Ruby around those kind of people.”
“I think that’s a bit of a generalization,” I say, my own frustration and anger starting to displace the forlorn feeling in my chest.
“Maybe,” he says. “Maybe not. We’ll see.”
“We’ll see?” I say. “So that means you’ll look into it? Consider it?”
“Sure. Whatever,” he says. “I told you I would.”
“Did you look at the application today?” I ask, knowing that I am not really talking about an application—I’m talking about his connection to our family.
He looks at me and then says my name the way he says Ruby’s name when he’s asked her to brush her teeth for the tenth time. Or more often, when he’s heard me ask her to brush her teeth for the tenth time.
“What?” I say.
“Do you know what my day was like?”
He doesn’t wait for me to answer.
“I glued a kid’s face back together,” he says. “I didn’t have time for kindergarten applications.”
“But you had time for dinner at Antonio’s?” I say, skipping the intermediate stages of anger and feeling rage rise in my chest.
He stands abruptly and says, “I’m going to take a shower.”
“Of course you are,” I say to his back.
He turns and gives me a cold, hard look. “Why do you do this, Tess? Why do you manufacture problems?”
“Why don’t you want to come home?” I blurt out, expecting him to soften. Tell me that I’m being ridiculous.
Instead, he shrugs and says, “Gee. I don’t know. ‘Cause you make it so pleasant around here.”