He Came Back for Both of Us novel · Chapter 1 of 32
Chapter 1: Bay Four
At 2:47 a.m. Felicity runs into MUSC Children's with her son's appendix about to burst and slams into the surgeon on call, her ex-husband, who works out the boy's age, sees his own face, and says her name; she tells him in front of the nurse that he can't cut his own son, and in the waiting room she finds the whole scene posted on her own account, with her manager lowering her phone.
At 2:47 on a Tuesday morning, I ran through the doors of MUSC Children's with my son burning up against my chest.
Benji had stopped crying an hour ago.
That scared me more than the screaming had.
His lips were pale. His hand was knotted in the strap of my bag.
The triage nurse pressed two fingers to his belly and he made a sound.
"Surgical wing," she said. "Down the hall, bay four. The on-call surgeon's already there."
I didn't ask who.
I ran.
I came around the corner in three-inch heels and hit a man's chest so hard my teeth clicked.
A white coat. A badge clipped to the pocket.
Jameson Legare, MD. Chief of Pediatric Surgery.
For one second my whole body forgot how to work.
Four years ago, that man had stood on the courthouse steps on Broad Street and handed me a settlement.
"You're a gold-digging schemer," he'd said, in that quiet voice. "And that baby isn't mine."
I'd signed everything with tears dripping on the paper.
Then I'd taken my two suitcases and my keyboard and driven to Nashville.
Now he looked down at me and didn't blink.
He didn't know me.
Why would he?
The girl he'd married wore flats and old cardigans and never said what she thought.
I had a blowout and full makeup, because a brand shoot started at seven.
Two point four million strangers knew my face.
He didn't.
He looked at me for half a second.
Then he looked at Benji, and his hand went straight to my son's forehead.
"How long has he had the pain?"
"Since dinner," I said. "He started screaming around midnight. Then he stopped."
"Bring him."
He turned and walked, and I followed him.
I hated that I followed him.
But my son was hot as a stove against my neck, and this man was the best pediatric surgeon in the state.
I wasn't going to gamble Benji to save my pride.
In bay four, a night nurse slid a clipboard at me.
Consent for surgery. Insurance. Patient history.
Father's name.
The pen jumped out of my fingers and rolled under the bed.
Jameson was pressing on Benji's belly. Benji whimpered.
"Name and age?" Jameson said without looking up.
"Benji Dunagan. Three years and five months."
His hand stopped moving.
I watched him do it.
I watched the dates click into place behind his eyes.
Three years and five months. Plus seven months before that.
Four years.
I'd been eight weeks pregnant on those steps.
He raised his eyes and really looked at my son for the first time.
Benji had his dark hair. His straight nose. His mouth.
He had the exact shape of his eyebrows, the ones I used to trace with my thumb while Jameson slept.
He had his cold gray-blue eyes, which looked ridiculous on a toddler.
Jameson's fingers were on Benji's wrist, taking his pulse.
They went stiff.
Benji cracked one eye open. He looked up at the man holding his wrist.
"Mommy," he croaked. "That man looks just like me. Is he a clone?"
The nurse laughed, then stopped.
Jameson wasn't laughing.
He was staring at me.
His mouth moved once before anything came out.
"Felicity."
Nobody had said my name in that voice for four years.
My knees nearly went.
I could have lied. I'd practiced the lie in the mirror a hundred times.
He's not yours. You were right. Do your job.
Instead I picked the pen up off the floor.
I wrote nothing on the father's line.
Then I handed the clipboard back to the nurse and looked straight at him.
"He's yours," I said. "So you can't operate on him. Get someone else."
The nurse's eyebrows climbed into her hairline.
Jameson didn't move.
"Felicity, the appendix is about to perforate. I'm the only surgeon in the building."
"Then call someone out of bed," I said. "You don't get to cut my son open while you're finding out he exists."
"Our son."
"No. You signed a paper. You don't get to say that."
A muscle jumped in his jaw.
For a second I thought he'd fight me.
Then he pulled out his phone and dialed.
"It's Legare. I need you at Children's now. Perforating appendix, three-year-old." He paused. "I can't take it. He's my son."
He said it in front of the nurse.
He said it like it was a lab value.
He hung up.
"Twenty minutes," he said. "He's the man who trained me. He's better than I am."
Benji's hand found my sleeve.
"Mommy, is the clone mad?"
"No, baby," I said. "He's just surprised."
Jameson turned around and faced the wall.
I saw his shoulders move once, hard.
At 3:31, his old chief came through the doors in a golf shirt, and they wheeled my son away from me.
I kissed Benji's hot forehead at the red line on the floor.
Then I sat down in the waiting room under the buzzing lights.
I'd texted my manager from the car. Lisette always answered.
I'd texted Ollie too, but Ollie was asleep four hundred miles away in Nashville.
My hands wouldn't stop shaking.
At 4:16, my phone buzzed in my lap.
A notification from my own account.
Crumb met his twin tonight.
I opened it.
It was a video. Bay four, shot through the gap in the curtain.
Benji's fevered little face. Jameson's hand on his wrist. My son's croaky voice asking if he was a clone.
Jameson's face, clear as day, saying my name.
Posted four minutes ago.
Already ninety thousand likes.
I hadn't posted it.
I looked up.
Across the waiting room, by the vending machine, Lisette slowly lowered her phone.
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