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Somehow, during the night, we’d become tangled up in one another. I’d blame it all on him, given he was the big spoon to my little. But my hands were clamped down on his arms so hard that he probably couldn’t have pulled away, even if he tried.

This wasn’t the first time this has happened. Ever since Rosario made the comment about our first lover’s spat, finding Sam’s folded blankets and pillow on the couch, we’ve gone back to sleeping in the same bed. It’s been equally as torturous as when we were on our honeymoon.

Thankfully, he has a king-size bed. However, we might need a new mattress. Because for some reason, we manage to drift to the center of it each night. Last night was the closest we’ve been physically. But if this keeps up, I might have to start wearing a chastity belt to bed.

I attempt to shake that memory from my brain and pull up my next patient’s chart when a shadow falls over me. I glance up to find Dr. Brian Lewis leaning against the desk beside me, holding a mug of coffee and flashing his familiar, practiced smile. It has always felt more like a sneer to me.

“Morning, Alexis,” Brian says, taking a slow sip. “How’s married life treating you? Getting used to sharing a roof with someone yet?” Jeez. Had I been thinking those thoughts out loud?

I keep my face completely neutral, laying my pen flat on the desk. “It’s going well, Brian. Thank you.” It’s not lost on me that he thought I’d be marrying his son one day. I’m not sure if the senior Dr. Lewis is in a committed relationship with his wife, but it’s clear his son doesn’t understand the meaning of the word.

“Good, good,” he hums, swirling his coffee. “Just checking in. We were all a bit surprised by the sudden timing, you know? A whirlwind romance. Must be a whirlwind at home, too.” He pauses, his sharp eyes lingering on my face as if waiting for a crack in the armor. I stare back at him, my internal alarms blaring. He doesn’t actually care how I’m doing.

What is his angle here?

Is he just being his usual nosy self, or is he fishing for something specific? A terrifying thought strikes me, making my spine go rigid. I wouldn’t put it past Sam’s mother to approach physicians or staff at my practice, subtly digging for intel to test the validity of our marriage. Heck, I wouldn’t be shocked to discover she’s offering a sizeable payout for incriminating information. Jeez, how much money is enough? Is it really worth destroying your own children’s lives? If she’s making inquiries around town, Brian is exactly the kind of opportunist who would gladly play informant if it meant cashing out.

Him and his son both.

“It’s wonderful, Brian,” I say, my voice calm. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a full schedule of patients waiting.”

His smile tightens a fraction. “Of course. Don’t let me keep you.”

Having returned to the office still tense from the encounter with my nosy colleague, I step into exam room three and soften my posture as I greet Mrs. Granger. She’s a sweet seventy-two-year-old widow who’s been coming to our practice for years. However, today she looks exhausted. Her hands tremble as she clutches her purse in her lap.

“Oh, Dr. Patterson.” Mrs. Granger sighs, her eyes brimming with tears. “I’m sorry I’ve had to return to see you. I know you have so many other patients to take care of. But it’s back again.”

I review her chart, my heart aching for her. “Another urinary tract infection?”

“Yes.” She shakes her head in sheer frustration. “I don’t understand it. I’m doing everything you told me to do. I drink gallons of water, I take the cranberry supplements, I wipe properly, I wear cotton… I’m doing all the things. Then when I get one, I take the antibiotics you give me, and it’s barely cleared up before it is right back again. Why does this keep happening? When it hits, I have to go so often it makes me afraid to leave my house.”

“I know how miserable and frustrating this is, Mrs. Granger,” I reply, sitting down on the stool in front of her and taking her hand in mine. “You are doing everything right, and this is not your fault. Recurrent UTIs in postmenopausal women can be incredibly complex due to hormonal shifts and changes in the anatomy.”

She looks at me helplessly. “Is there anything else we can do? I can’t keep going through this month after month.” She lets out a frustrated snicker. “At least when it happened in my younger years, I could blame it on a night of passion. Lord rest Harold’s soul.” She covers her mouth, giggling.

My cheeks pinken. Oh, to have that type of marriage. “We’re going to dig deeper,” I reassure her. “I’m going to run a culture today, but I also want to consult with a specialist in urogynecology. They deal specifically with stubborn, recurrent cases like yours and might shine a light on underlying factors. If nothing else, we can start you on a preventative antibiotic if we can’t pinpoint anything else. We’re going to try to get you some long-term relief. Just be patient with me a little longer.”

A sigh of gratitude escapes her lips, and she nods, squeezing my fingers. “Thank you, Dr. Patterson. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Around mid-afternoon, I slip into the receptionist’s office to review the faxed documents for a new referral. I think I might need an afternoon tea. I’m dragging my body from room to room like dead weight. Bunny, the long-term, undisputed backbone of our clinic, is bent over the printer, making copies of handouts when I arrive.

“Hey, Lexi,” she greets, glancing over her shoulder. “You look like you’re carrying the weight of the world today. Everything okay?”

I lean against the counter, rubbing the back of my neck. “Hi, Bunny. I’ve been thinking a lot about my grandpa. I called him on my lunch break. He always tells me he’s just tired, but I’m worried he’s lonely.”

Bunny stops what she’s doing, her expression softening.

“When he was running Hanover Urology and taking care of me, he was so busy he never really had time to stop and enjoy life,” I continue, my voice dropping into a quiet ache. “He worked hard enough to avoid grieving the loss of my grandmother and my parents. But now he’s sitting in that big, empty house, surrounded by memories every day. I hate the thought of him constantly all alone.”

The memory of my grandpa sitting in an Adirondack chair alongside his best friend, Peter Burke, taste-testing his latest wine comes to mind. Losing Sam’s grandfather has been hard on everyone. Well, except his daughter. She’s probably salivating at the thought she could find a loophole to sell off the winery once and for all.

“Listen to me,” Bunny interrupts my thoughts, placing a warm hand on my forearm. “Your grandpa is a tough old nut, but nobody handles an empty house well. Tell you what. How about I swing by his place one evening and drop off some of my homemade chicken pot pie?”

I blink at her, touched. “Bunny, you don’t have to do that. You work as hard here as I do. I’m sure you’re exhausted when we close up and simply want to get home and prop your feet up.”

“I know I don’t have to.” She chuckles, tossing a piece of paper in the trash. “I want to. Truth is, I kind of miss hearing his old stories. And I eat most of my dinners alone. Would be nice to enjoy someone’s company over a meal once in a while.”

A wave of relief washes over me. “Thank you. You have no idea how much that means to me.”