Hoodies and Heartstrings

The Golden Retriever was ninety pounds of pure, unadulterated muscle, and he was absolutely convinced that the black plastic scale in the lobby of the Hometown Veterinary Clinic was a portal to another dimension. He had his front paws planted on the linoleum, his back legs locked like rusty pistons, and his tail was wagging so hard it was hitting my shins with the force of a wet baseball bat. I had my arms wrapped around his barrel chest, my face buried in his thick, yellow fur, and I was trying very hard not to inhale a mouthful of dander.

"Come on, Buster, just three seconds," I muttered, my voice muffled by his shoulder. "I will give you a whole liver treat. I will give you five. Just step on the shiny black square."

Buster let out a joyful bark and lunged forward, dragging me a good six inches across the floor. My beat-up sneakers squeaked loudly on the clean tiles. My scrub top was already covered in drool, and my hair, which had started the day in a neat bun, was now a wild, frizzy halo of honey-blonde curls around my face. I loved my job, I really did, but some days felt like a professional wrestling match where the opponent did not understand the rules and wanted to lick my nose.

"Need some backup, boss?" Jess, our receptionist, called out from behind the front desk. She was leaning over the counter, a half-eaten blueberry muffin in one hand and a phone headset resting on her collarbone. She had been working here for three years, and she had seen me wrestle everything from aggressive iguanas to a miniature pig that had somehow gotten stuck in a laundry basket.

"I have it under control," I gasped, digging my heels in as Buster made another play for the door. "It is a battle of wills, Jess. And I have a doctorate."

"Right, because the dog really respects your credentials," Jess said, her voice dripping with that dry, small-town sarcasm I had grown to love. "By the way, your phone has been buzzing on the desk for the last five minutes. It is a Seattle area code. You might want to grab that before Buster decides to eat it."

My heart did a sudden, violent flip-flop in my chest, hitting my ribs like a trapped bird. The frantic energy of the lobby seemed to fade into a dull hum. I let go of Buster, who immediately trotted over to Jess with an air of smug triumph, his tail still swinging. I wiped my palms on my thighs, my fingers suddenly cold and trembling, and walked over to the desk. My phone was indeed lit up, displaying a number I had saved three weeks ago after a grueling, three-hour video interview.

I did not answer it. I could not. Instead, I grabbed the phone, slid my thumb across the screen to unlock it, and saw the notification for a new email. The subject line was simple: Offer of Employment - Lead Trauma Surgeon.

I stared at the screen, my eyes scanning the words quickly. Lead trauma surgeon. That was not the job I had applied for. I had applied for a junior associate position, a foot in the door at one of the most prestigious, high-volume emergency clinics on the West Coast. They had looked at my resume, they had looked at my crazy, chaotic energy during the interview, and they had decided to offer me the top spot. It was everything I had ever worked for, the absolute pinnacle of what I wanted to achieve, and it was located exactly three thousand miles away from the only home I had ever known.

"Dany?" Jess asked, her voice dropping its playful edge. She was looking at me now, her muffin forgotten on the desk. "You look like you just saw a ghost. Or a really bad fecal float."

"They offered me the lead position," I whispered, my voice barely carrying over the hum of the air conditioner. "Not the associate one. The big one. The trauma surgeon lead."

Jess let out a low whistle, her eyes widening. "Holy crap, Danyelle. That is huge. That is like, television drama huge. You are going to be running the show." She paused, her smile softening into something a little sadder. "So, you are really leaving us, then? For real?"

"Yeah," I said, the word tasting like copper in my mouth. "It looks like I am really leaving."

I did not wait to discuss it further. I grabbed my car keys from the hook behind the desk, told Jess I was taking an early lunch, and practically bolted out the front door. The humid summer air of our small Virginia town hit me like a physical wall as I walked out to the parking lot. It was sticky, warm, and smelled of cut grass and old asphalt. It was a smell I had known my entire life, and suddenly, it felt like it was trying to choke me.

I climbed into my beat-up Jeep, slamming the door shut to lock out the rest of the world. The interior of the car smelled like peppermint tea and cedarwood, a combination of my favorite beverage and the air freshener I had bought six months ago. I sat there for a long moment, my hands gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white. My reflection in the rearview mirror showed a girl who looked terrified, her green eyes wide and her freckles stark against her pale skin. Why did the happiest moment of my professional life feel like a terrible diagnosis?

My thumb was already moving over the phone screen before I could think about it. I called him. I always called him.

He answered on the very first ring, just like he always did, no matter what he was doing.

"Hey," Adam said, his voice deep, calm, and grounded. I could hear the faint rustle of wind in the background, and the distant sound of a lawnmower. He was probably out on a site, looking at trees or sketching out some grand garden design. "You okay? You usually do not call during morning clinic."

"I got the email, Adam," I said, my voice shaking just a little bit. I hated that it was shaking. I was supposed to be the tough one, the one who wrestled big dogs and did not cry. "They offered me the job. But it is not the junior position. They want me to be the lead trauma surgeon."

There was a long, heavy silence on the other end of the line. It lasted for a beat too long, a tiny fraction of a second where the whole world seemed to hold its breath. I could hear his steady breathing, and for a moment, I wondered if he was going to tell me not to go. I wondered if he was going to say the thing he had been keeping behind his eyes for the last year. He had been acting strange lately, like he was carrying a secret he could not quite figure out how to put into words.

Then, he let out a loud cheer, and it sounded just a little bit too bright, just a little bit forced around the edges.

"Are you kidding me? The lead? Dany, that is incredible!" he yelled, and I could hear the genuine pride in his voice, even if it was wrapped in something heavier. "I knew they would be idiots not to hire you, but lead surgeon? You are going to be running that place in a week. I am so incredibly proud of you."

"Thanks," I said, leaning my head back against the headrest. I closed my eyes, listening to the sound of his voice. "It is a lot. It is a really big deal."

"We have to celebrate," he said quickly, his tone shifting into that familiar, organizing pace he used when I was stressed. "Tonight. The usual spot. I am buying the first round of those terrible, greasy mozzarella sticks you like, and we are going to celebrate your escape from this place."

"I would like that," I said. "I really would."

"Good. Go finish your shift, surgeon," he said, his voice dropping into that quiet, conspiratorial tone that always made my stomach do weird things. "I will see you at seven."

We hung up, and the silence in the Jeep returned, heavier than before. I started the engine, putting the car in gear, and drove out of the parking lot with the windows rolled down. The humid air clung to my skin like a memory I was not ready to lose yet, and as I turned onto the main road, I wondered how I was ever going to say goodbye to him.