Desiring Dylan - Suzanne Jenkins Page 0,10

sorry for your loss. I’m sorry for the way I acted at the hospital. It’s no excuse that I didn’t recognize you. I shouldn’t have spoken that way to any family member. Please forgive me.

Then: Please call me. I can’t stop thinking about what happened. I tried to save your husband. The wound was catastrophic. Of all the cases I have had, I wish I could have saved him for you. I’m so sorry.

Imagining his anguish was easy. He’d lost patients as a resident, and his usual standoffish personality got worse so that he’d become uncommunicative for days at a time. Then, when he couldn’t justify his silence for one more day, he’d call her and apologize.

She read the rest of his texts and then listened to his voicemail messages, the same heartrending apologies, about how hard it was to lose a brilliant young artist like Kenny Rider.

The sermon made her lose her appetite, so she put the plate of food into the refrigerator. The wine in the fridge looked tempting; she quickly closed the door. There would be no drinking alone. Coffee would be better, safer, might even help her get through the afternoon without a nap. She made a cup and then decided, rain or not, she was going to bundle up in a winter coat and hat and sit on the balcony.

Grabbing an afghan off the couch, she went out with her phone in case Betty needed her, and sat down to contemplate life. There wouldn’t be rowers that afternoon. The usual Saturday runners ignoring the rain passed by, and there was a kayak on the canal. She took a sip of coffee, grateful for its heat. Then she was sure she heard the doorbell.

“What the hell?” Struggling to get out of the chair with the afghan tangled in her legs, she ran back into the house in case it was Betty and Kirk. She looked at the security camera and had a shock; it was Dylan.

Closing her eyes, she leaned against the wall, wanting to ignore him. What would compel him to come to her home? Pressing the intercom button, she tried to be neutral but failed.

“Dylan, what on earth do you want?”

“I have to talk to you, Landon. You can talk to me at the door. You don’t have to let me in.”

Not caring how she looked, she didn’t check in the mirror before going down the stairs to her front door. Taking a deep breath, she unlocked it and slowly opened it.

There he was. Gorgeous Dylan. Dressed inappropriately for the weather, as usual, with thin cotton scrub pants, his thighs straining against the fabric, socks with Crocs, a bomber jacket that had belonged to his grandfather, needing a shave and a haircut. He’d probably just come off call. Dark curls framed his face, and the bluest eyes she’d ever seen looked at her with compassion.

“Oh, Dylan. Really?” She pointed to his shoes, smiling for the first time that day.

“We wear them at work. I had to go in for a couple of hours so Arvin could take his mother-in-law to the airport.”

“Why are you here?”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Dylan, you already said that. About ten times, according to my phone. It’s okay. I was there, remember? I saw him. I saw the hole in the back of his head. I saw the blood. I might still have his blood on my body somewhere. It feels like it will take more than a few showers to wash away that tragedy. There was no saving him.”

“How awful for you. I saw the blood on your face, your clothes. They said you’d wrapped his head in your sweater.”

“I didn’t want anyone to photograph him like that. He was so proud. No one knows that about Kenny. He was obsessed with making his fans happy. Nothing but the best for them; it’s what drove him in everything. I knew he wouldn’t want his fans to see him messed up.”

“It was loving of you, protecting your husband’s dignity. I admire you so much for the way you handled yourself, all of it.”

“I was thinking that I know you felt the same way. Only it isn’t your fans, it’s your patients you want the best for. Your only problem is that was all you could do for him. You’re not a magician. If your patient’s brains get blown out, there’s not much you can do, so you being you, you have a little tantrum.”

“I’m trying to get better at that,” he said,