Scandalous Scotsman - M.J. Fields Page 0,8

to him and Mom throughout the year.

Friday

Waking up to the sun warming my face, my ass no longer hurts, and my ankle no longer throbs, only slightly aches. I smile as I inwardly thank Dad for three magical acts on a day I dread.

Reaching over, I grab my phone, prop myself up onto my elbows, and open my Notes app to finish my letter.

Daddy,

Today marks three years since you’ve been gone. Google tells me that’s thirty-six months, one thousand ninety-five days, twenty-six thousand two hundred and eighty hours, and over one million five hundred and seventy-six thousand seconds. When I allow my heart to soften, it tells me you’re still here. My head tells me that’s not possible. Logically, I know my head is right, but I choose to believe in magic, because of you.

As per my norm, I get caught up in my feelings as I tap out my annual letter. I know they are the same every year, yet each word evokes emotions and feelings so raw it’s like they’re being knifed into my soul. It takes me right back.

Knowing how hard I’ve worked to heal that part of me, I turn my focus to the good that has happened over the past year, and then I force myself to end the message.

If only you could see me now, you’d be so proud of me.

I love you, Daddy.

I’ll see you soon.

Love,

Your Elizabeth

Wiping the fallen tears off my cheek, I copy the note and open my list of favorites in my contacts— Dad’s has always been first. Then I paste the note, kiss the phone, and hit “send.”

I hold my phone to my chest and roll onto my back, giving me a sharp kick to my sore ass, and silently tell myself to get up, take a shower, take a walk … Well, apparently, not a nice, long one, but at least get out of the house and function.

When I finally hold the phone out and look at the time, I’m proud of myself for only taking twenty minutes to grieve, before I’m ready to function. Last year, it was nearly three hours.

Stepping carefully out of the shower, I hear my phone chime. Drying my hands, I look down at it to see Calliope (yoga).

I pick up the phone and read the message.

I’d love to have you join Bridget and me for an hour between my ten o’clock and twelve o’clock class at the studio. ~ Calliope

I look in the mirror and see the five extra pounds and obvious jiggle that wasn’t there six months ago when I was going to Calliope’s class three days a week, then send her a quick message.

See you then. ~ Lizzie

I then shoot Tonya a quick text.

Going to meet Calliope and Bridget for yoga, then hitting the coffee shop after. ~ Lizzie

Her response is immediate. A heart appears next to my sent message.

Thatta girl! I’m proud of you for pulling yourself up by Dr. Nail-It-or-Screw-It’s boot strap and letting off some of that pent-up frustration on something other than your magic wand. I’ll meet you for coffee. ;) ~Tonya

Oh, no, she didn’t! I laugh to myself as I send her the middle finger emoji.

“You did amazing,” Bridget says as she sets her bag on the floor beside the table for four at the coffee shop.

Calliope, sitting beside me, says, “This is going to be incredible for those with injuries who don’t think they can still enjoy the benefits of yoga.”

Tonya, who joined us for Calliope’s last class of the day, smiles. “Not only the physical but the mental health benefits that come from exercise, as well.”

From behind me, I hear, “Four women walk into a coffee house. One nurse, one fitness instructor, one teacher, and one …?”

I don’t even have to look back to know who the voice belongs to, and if the accent didn’t give it away, the smile brightening Bridget’s face would have.

Tonya raises her hand. “Psychiatrist.”

“Well, that changes everything entirely.” Dr. Hogue laughs.

I take a sip of my water while turning around to get a look at that smile and nearly choke when I see Dr. Stewart standing behind Dr. Hogue.

His green eyes narrow when they connect with mine.

“Ethan, you’ve met Calliope, my Bridget, and Elizabeth. This is …?”

My eyes sweep to Tonya, who looks shocked, mouth gaping and the whole nine. I kick her under the table and, simultaneously, we both yelp.

Dr. Nail-It-or-Screw-It looks down. “The boot giving ye a bit of a problem, Ms. Bloom?”

I quickly look away