Chapter 7: A Dozen Red Roses

Dane came on Friday at two in the afternoon, which is the worst time to walk into a small ER.

The waiting room was full.

A mother held a toddler with a bandaged thumb.

Two farmhands sat apart from each other, nursing a sprain and a sunburn.

An old woman with a cane had been waiting since noon for her blood pressure pills.

Pru was behind the front desk eating a granola bar.

I was restocking gauze at the triage counter when the doors slid open.

Dane walked in with a dozen red roses and a navy suit he had never worn to see me.

"Bethany," he said, in the voice he used to open a sales call.

"I'm working."

"I drove three hours."

"Then you can sit down for three more minutes."

He didn't sit.

He crossed the room, holding the roses out in front of him, and every head in the waiting room turned.

"I made a mistake," he said, loud enough to reach the back wall.

"I know that. I've been miserable. Sierra moved out on Tuesday."

Pru stopped chewing.

"I'm sorry to hear that," I said, and went on counting gauze.

"I want you back. I'll do it right this time."

He lowered his voice a little, but not much.

"You can move in. You always wanted that. The house is big enough for both of us."

The old woman with the cane turned to the mother with the toddler.

"That's the one?" she said, not quietly.

"I think so," the mother said.

"I wanted a straight answer for a year," I told Dane. "That's what I wanted. I'd have taken it any time."

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