Furious Jeffrey Higgins (english love story books TXT) 📖

used to see that expression as a window into the mind of a brilliant doctor, but no longer. That was probably unfair too. Maybe I wanted someone to blame, and Brad’s proximity made him a convenient target. Maybe not.

He held the envelope out for me, but I did not take it.

“What’s that?”

“Plane tickets. Tickets to Bali. I leased a sailboat . . . a yacht, actually. We will sail from Indonesia to the Maldives, off the coast of India. Just the two of us.”

I gawked at him and blinked. “You think I want a vacation?”

“It’s not a vacation. It’s one month at sea, away from Boston, away from our lives . . . away from all of it.”

“You know I’m afraid of the water.”

“You don’t have to swim. We’ll be on a sixty-two-foot yacht.”

“I haven’t sailed since I was a child.”

“I’ve been sailing my family’s yacht since I was twelve years old. I can do the heavy lifting, and if you’re interested, I’ll give you a refresher.”

“They’re expecting me back at Boston Pediatric,” I said.

“They’ve been expecting you back for months, and I don’t see you returning anytime soon. You need to get your head together before you can finish your fellowship and pass your boards.”

Brad’s answers came fast, as if he had given his plan great thought, prepared for my objections. I wobbled on my feet like a punch-drunk boxer, unable to respond to his counter-punches.

“I don’t know.”

“Trust me, the change of scenery will be therapeutic. I need this. We need this. You have to come.”

I looked out the window at the fallen leaves swirling on the lawn. Swirling and swirling. Going nowhere. Decomposing.

“When?”

“We’re leaving next week.”

He stood, set his jaw, and stormed out of the room. Conversation over.

I opened my mouth to yell, to tell him not to leave, but instead, I leaned back on the couch and gazed out the window. How could Brad plan a month-long voyage without my consent? I felt like I had no say in the matter, no right to object. Adversity seemed to have brought out the worst parts of his character. He had grown more pedantic in recent months, assuming an unearned authority in our relationship. It seemed as if by succumbing to depression, I had abdicated my standing in our partnership. He had grown more domineering, consulted me less, treated me like a child, as if he knew best. I had serious doubts about that—serious doubts about him.

Outside, the car door slammed. The engine started and Brad drove past the windows and down the long driveway. The iron gates creaked open, and I watched him turn left, driving past brick mansions, stone walls, and velvet lawns. Leaves fluttered in his wake.

I did not care where he went.

I had done nothing but mourn for six months, the longest period of inactivity in my thirty-two years. I did not recognize the weeping woman I had become—unable to work, unable to socialize, unable to cope. I had always used my mind to overcome obstacles, but I could not think my way out of this depression. I could not move on after Emma’s death.

Maybe Brad’s sailing trip would give me distance from the psychological trauma, the space to get my emotions under control. If I did not recover soon, I would lose my pediatric surgical fellowship, lose everything I had worked my entire life to achieve. Forcing myself onto a sailboat would also make me confront my biggest fear, and if I could do that, I would become a stronger person. My trepidation entailed more than an irrational phobia—sailing across the Indian Ocean carried genuine risks. Ships sank, accidents happened, people died.

But I was desperate. Maybe this time, Brad knew best. He loved me and sailing across an ocean could be the change I required to recover. Maybe I needed this voyage.

I sat on the couch and pictured my father, the sun reflecting off the water, moments before it happened—twenty-one years ago. The day that defined my life.

I blinked the thought away and focused on the front yard. Leaves blew in circles across the driveway. The sun sank lower in the sky and shadows crept across the floor. The umbra climbed my legs, covering me, plunging the room into darkness. I watched myself sitting there, like I was that bystander on the beach.

I waited to see what I would do.

CHAPTER TWO

“Your husband is an asshole,” Jessica Golde said.

I slid into the passenger seat of her Toyota Corolla, which she had double-parked in front of Boston Pediatric Surgical Center, waiting for me under a no-parking sign. Jessica had never cared about rules.

“Good morning to you, too,” I said.

“How can Brad ask you to go sailing for a month? You know I’ve never liked him, but dragging you into the middle of the ocean, it’s really too much.”

“I don’t know if that’s fair. Brad’s suffering too. Maybe this is how he’s dealing with it. I haven’t been fun to live with, since . . . it happened.”

“He knows you’ve been terrified of the water since you were a little girl and he still asked you to sail across the Indian Ocean. What a prick.”

I had feared the water since that day in July—a memory forever imprinted on my mind. The scent of sunscreen and chlorine hung on the warm summer breeze. Women wore bikinis and enormous hats, and men sported colorful swimsuits and flip flops. Children screamed and laughed. Then the crowd quieted and gathered around something on the ground. Ice cream melted down the side of my cone, slid between my fingers, dripped on the concrete. I felt it in my stomach, knew what I would see laying there.

“Dagny?” Jessica asked. “Did you hear what I said? Are you still with me?”

I turned to her in the car. Goosebumps had risen on my arms. “Sorry, I was thinking. What did you say?”

“I said Brad knows about your phobia, but he still asked you on a sailing trip. Why did he do it?”

“I