Molly - Sarah Monzon Page 0,4

end. I played for Chloe. My sweet little girl who I’d do anything for.

Including beg.

“Miss Osbourne. Please. Hear me out.”

Her slender fingers wrapped around the doorknob, strain in the outline of her shoulders.

I blamed sleep deprivation for not realizing it sooner. She had all the symptoms. Tense muscles, averted gaze, flushed skin. Not to mention the whole firing thing in front of an unwanted witness. Miss Osbourne suffered from a bad case of embarrassment and disappointment. Problem diagnosed, now treatment.

This required my best bedside manner. I threaded my fingers together and squeezed to warm my palms as quickly as possible. Some people associated warm hands with warm hearts, but I chalked it up to no one liking to be touched by someone with ice cubes for limbs.

I moved toward her and offered her a disarming smile. The one I used when I knew a patient had just received bad news. Equal parts sympathetic and bolstering. The curved lips said, “I know this is rough, but we’re going to get through it together.” At least, that’s what I hoped my expression conveyed. If, in reality, my turned lips resembled Dr. Frasier’s barely-contained glee—an I’m-so-excited-to-come-across-a-very-rare-but-very-deadly-disease-and-I-don’t-mind-using-your-pain-to-get-published smile—then I should kiss the last nine years of working toward becoming a doctor goodbye.

“Maybe we can go somewhere else to talk. You’ve had a rough day, and I know a place that will make you feel a bit better. A prescription of sorts.”

Her eyes stayed fixed on the doorknob. “Dr. Reed—”

“Ben.” I placed my now-warm hand on her shoulder so she’d look up at me. “I promise my medicine will help. Please. I’ll only take a few minutes of your time, I promise.”

The hint of a smile graced her pink lips. “You make a lot of promises.”

“All of which I intend to keep.”

She pulled her brows low, her gaze straying to the colorful displays of students’ work over my shoulder. Her expression grew wistful, though mixed with pain.

Mrs. Bardowski was an idiot. Truly caring and dedicated teachers were worth their weight in gold, and anyone with eyes could see Miss Osbourne was one hundred percent invested in her students.

“I’m Chloe’s dad, by the way.” Not sure why I hadn’t thought to mention that little piece of information before. Although, who else would I be, hanging around a preschool and having meetings with the principal, if not a parent?

Her aquamarine eyes widened. “You’re Chloe’s dad?”

I moved my hand from her shoulder to rub against my cheek. I’d shaved before my shift but needed to have run a razor along my jaw again at least ten hours ago. Now the stubble created a rough burn across my palm. The physical discomfort mirrored the one scratching at me from the inside. Six months into the school year and one of my daughter’s teachers didn’t even know that I was Chloe’s father.

Mrs. Bardowski would like that, wouldn’t she? Just go to prove her point that, when it came to Chloe and being there the way she needed me (which, as Mrs. Bardowski stressed, included being “on time” to pick Chloe up from school), I was failing. And that killed me.

“Chloe is the reason I wanted to talk to you, actually.”

Miss Osbourne shook her head a bit. “As you overheard, Dr. Reed, I just got fired. If you have any concerns about Chloe, you should bring them to Mrs. Turner. I’m sure she can help you out.”

Mrs. Turner had been helping, staying with Chloe when I couldn’t get away from the hospital to pick her up on time. She’d even taken Chloe back to her house once. But I couldn’t keep relying on Mrs. Turner. “As I said before, I need you, Miss Osbourne. Please let me explain my proposal.”

A door shut down the hall, dragging our attention that way. Mrs. Bardowski stepped out of her office.

Miss Osbourne flinched. “At this point I’d rather be anywhere than here.”

I gaped at her a moment before a laugh worked its way through my chest and out my mouth to echo around the cinderblock walls. For most people, there were things one thought and things one said. I was beginning to realize Molly Osbourne didn’t have inside thoughts and outside thoughts. If she thought it, she said it.

“Then let’s go.”

Two minutes later, she slipped behind the wheel of her yellow Volkswagen Beetle and followed me the four miles to my impromptu pharmacy. When she stepped out of her car, a grin spread across her face. “The ice cream parlor? That’s your prescription?”

I shrugged. “Always