Part 9 (2/2)
”So I see.”
Tension thick enough to clog the already-humid air threaded around all three of them for a breath, then two, until finally, Emerson broke it.
”I didn't know you were coming to the festival today. I thought you'd be at the hospital, working on the gala with Mom,” she said, finding her feet to stand stiffly in front of her father. Funny, Hunter had never thought they looked very much alike, but h.e.l.l if they weren't nailing the exact same stance right now.
Her father raised a brow ever so slightly toward his impeccably neat hairline. ”With all your time away from Millhaven, you must not remember. The Watermelon Festival is an important town event. Of course I'm here. One of us needed to make an appearance.”
”Right. Appearances,” Emerson said, the front of her T-s.h.i.+rt lifting with a controlled inhale. ”How could I have forgotten?”
”Speaking of which, we haven't seen you at the house. I'd been under the impression you were still busy getting settled, but it seems you've got time on your hands after all.”
The pointed glance he split between the two of them tempted Hunter's pulse to pump faster in his veins, but Emerson's expression remained perfectly cool, so he kept his in check, too.
She nodded, just one quick lift and lowering of her chin. ”A little.”
”Perhaps you'd consider a visit then, if you're at loose ends,” her father said. ”There are a few things your mother and I think it's important to discuss with you now that you'll be in town permanently.”
Emerson began to fidget, just like she always used to when she was nervous or upset, and okay, this had officially gotten weird. True, she'd never been really affectionate or close with her parents in the past-at least not in the way he and his brothers were tight with their father-but the tension running between Emerson and her old man right now was seriously off the charts.
”Mom mentioned that the other day,” she said. ”I think she and I covered things pretty well.”
”I'm sure you do.”
Before Hunter could decipher whether his tone was meant to be cordial or condescending, Emerson's father took a step back, gesturing to the shaded picnic area around them. ”Well, I won't keep you any longer. I'm certain we'll see you at the house for that discussion soon, Emerson. Do enjoy your afternoon.”
He turned on the heel of one polished loafer, the gra.s.s swallowing the sounds of his brisk footsteps as he walked a straight line away from them, and Hunter could barely wait until Dr. Montgomery was out of earshot before his confusion got the best of his mouth.
”Is something wrong between you and your father?”
”Not at all. Everything's perfectly fine,” Emerson said, but her smile was tacked on and too tight for the words to be anything other than a lie. ”Thanks for lunch, but you know, I really should get back to helping Daisy out. She asked me for some research on the uses of aromatherapy in alternative healing practices, and-”
”Emerson, stop,” Hunter said, surprise pinging through his belly when she actually did. But that same vulnerability that had flashed in her eyes yesterday was back full throttle, and this time he'd be d.a.m.ned if he'd play it safe.
”Everything isn't fine, and as helpful as I'm sure Daisy will find that research, she can't do much with it in the middle of the Watermelon Festival. So do you want to do me a favor and tell me what the h.e.l.l just happened here?”
Emerson opened her mouth to dodge the topic by default. She shouldn't even be flirting with Hunter, let alone consider blabbing to him about the out-and-out panic attack she'd just dodged at being unexpectedly thrown back under the microscope of parental disdain. But even though she'd gone out of her way to hide the crus.h.i.+ng pressure her parents had put her under in high school, he was no stranger to Emerson's stilted and stuffy family dynamic. Plus, standing there in the face of his surprisingly bold, no-bulls.h.i.+t question, she couldn't deny the truth.
Her answer wasn't no.
”Do you remember yesterday during your PT session, when you said it looked like you weren't the only one hauling around mental stress?”
Hunter's chin lifted first in surprise, then in a nod. ”Yeah.”
”Well, you weren't wrong,” she said, and funny, the words didn't burn on exit like she'd expected them to. ”It's just that you called me Dr. Montgomery, and whenever I hear the formal address, I think of my father.”
A pause opened up between them, but only for a second. ”You say that like the comparison is a bad thing.”
”And you say that like there actually is a comparison.”
Hunter's brows lowered into a V over his steely blue gaze. ”Isn't there?”
”That's”-Emerson stopped, her stomach going low and tight with tangled energy as her eyes traveled over the moderately crowded picnic area-”where things get a little complicated.”
”Okay,” he said. But instead of elaborating or giving her the full-court press with a bunch of annoying questions, he simply rounded the picnic table to cup a hand beneath her elbow.
The move was so easy, so not what she expected, that her nerves smoothed right out in favor of her surprise. ”Where are we going?”
”It's no secret that I love this town.” Hunter squeezed her arm, just the slightest warm pressure of his callused fingers on her skin. ”But right now, I think we could stand to see a quieter part of it. Come on.”
Turning toward Town Street, Hunter guided her to the main drag. But instead of retracing their steps to go back in the heavily populated direction they'd come, he cut a path down one of the small side streets next to the firehouse, leading away from the crowd. The movement-coupled with the breathing room it created-knocked Emerson's unease down another notch, and she gave in to the steady thump-thump-thump of both her heartbeat and her footsteps.
”So where were we . . . ah right. Complicated,” Hunter said, as if the topic were anything but. ”I know you two haven't ever been particularly close, but you really don't think there's a comparison between you and your father?”
Although her veins pumped with enough irony to fill a cast-iron bathtub, she answered with a matter-of-fact, ”Not quite.”
”But you both went into medicine.” He lifted a hand, staving off the argument brewing on her lips. ”I know you've got different training, and you obviously have different specialties. Still, you both help people when they're hurt. How is there no correlation there?”
Her chest tightened and twisted, begging her to buckle down on the conversation. But then she caught Hunter's expression, so wide open and una.s.suming, and the words just slid out.
”Technically, we have the same t.i.tle. But when your father is the chief of surgery at the biggest hospital in four counties and you decide more than halfway through college that you want to get a PhD in physical therapy instead of following in his MD-shaped footsteps? Let's just say not all 'doctors' are created equal. Especially as far as my parents are concerned.”
”Okay,” Hunter said, his boots shus.h.i.+ng over the gra.s.s as they traded the sunny side street for one of the shaded footpaths winding around the perimeter of nearby Willow Park. ”So you didn't become a surgeon. You're still clearly a d.a.m.ned good physical therapist. No way your mom and dad aren't proud of the work you do.”
The look on his face was so genuine, Emerson felt a little guilty for the tart laugh that barged past her lips in response. G.o.d, she'd forgotten how much she'd kept hidden from him in high school, and how different their family dynamics really were. Hunter's father had always been equal-opportunity proud of him, from football to the farm. Her parents, on the other hand, had been a lot more choosy with their expectations, and they'd made them Waterford Crystal clear.
Nothing but the best, no exceptions.
Anything less was unacceptable.
And oh, how her chosen profession had fallen just as short as the rest of her.
”My parents started grooming me for medical school when I was still in middle school, remember? The possibility that I wouldn't want to become a surgeon like my father never even occurred to them. h.e.l.l, it didn't occur to me, either, until I was up to my waist in the pre-med program in college.” As stifled as she'd felt by her parents' constant pressure to succeed, Emerson had never hated the idea of making a career in medicine. Putting a pecking order on which fields were more worthy of respect? Now that, she'd hated in spades.
”I was a little surprised to hear you'd decided against being a surgeon,” Hunter admitted. ”What made you change your mind?”
Emerson smiled. Finally, an easy question. ”I took a sports medicine cla.s.s in my junior year at Swarington. It was part of the premed track, geared mostly toward students with an interest in orthopedic surgery. I signed up because the cla.s.s was mandatory, but after three weeks, I was hooked. I knew I didn't want to just do the surgery to repair a patient's injury. I wanted to be part of the process, from start to finish. I wanted to help people really heal.”
”And your father was less than thrilled with your choice to go into physical therapy instead of becoming a surgeon like him.” There was no question in Hunter's words, which worked out great since he was dead freaking accurate.
”That's one way of putting it,” Emerson said. Her father had been a lot of things when she'd told him she wanted to switch her major from premed to sports medicine. Proud hadn't even made the top one hundred.
Furious? Frustrated? Highly disappointed? Now those were headliners.
Taking a handful more steps down the semi-secluded footpath, Hunter gestured to a park bench, sliding in next to her as she nodded and sat down. ”I guess it was pretty obvious they wanted you to go to medical school. But being disappointed with your choice not to become a surgeon is still a far cry from being disappointed with you.”
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