“And you need to get that checked. Soon.”
“It’s not that bad,” I said. “I’ll see how it feels.”
She set her phone down. Face up.
“Hernias don’t just go away,” she said. “They can get dangerous.”
I blinked. “Nicole, I just told you about it.”
She was already opening her laptop.
“There’s a surgeon,” she said. “Dr. Julian Mercer. Presbyterian St. Luke’s. Five-star reviews. Best in Denver.”
She turned the screen toward me.
His photo stared back. Mid-forties. Clean-cut. The kind of confidence that comes from being very good at what you do.
“You already looked him up,” I said.
“I’m being proactive,” she replied quickly. “You work too hard. Someone has to take care of you.”
It should have felt loving.
Instead, something cold settled in my gut.
I smiled anyway. Nodded. Agreed to call in the morning.
Nicole smiled back. Relief softening her face in a way I didn’t understand at the time.
“Good,” she said. “I just want you to be okay.”
That was the moment everything was set in motion.
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