Chapter 2: Exes, Exam Rooms, and Escape Plans

“Number 52, Autumn Reed, please head to Exam Room 2.”

The mechanical voice crackled from the front desk speaker, jolting me out of my thoughts. As soon as it called my name, I glared at the six bold letters on the door—"Thoracic Surgery, Dr. Nolan Carter"—and almost ground my teeth to dust, wishing I could be anywhere else. The fluorescent lights above flickered, casting a weird yellow glow on the waxed hospital linoleum that felt cold under my sneakers. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his tall, slender figure behind the glass, a hospital lanyard with his badge swinging as he moved. The faint outline of his waist under that white coat brought back all sorts of memories I shouldn’t have been thinking about, my stomach flipping and my teeth worrying my lip.

Just a month ago, that same waist had been pinning me down, promising it was the last time. Now, he looked every bit the gentleman, but I knew there was a devil underneath. I bit my lip, trying not to remember how his arms felt around me.

“Why are you zoning out?” My mom smacked me on the back, making me jump. “Dr. Carter is a top expert—did his residency at Johns Hopkins! It’s almost impossible to get an appointment with him! I pulled some serious strings—his mom and I used to read Oprah’s picks together in book club.”

She said it like she’d just won the lottery, pride practically glowing from her face. I guess in suburban New Jersey, book club connections are better than gold.

Before I could ask how she knew his mom, a cool, clipped voice called out: “Autumn Reed? You’re up.”

The consultation room door swung open. The man I hadn’t seen for a month wore a blue mask, hospital lanyard and badge visible, white coat sleeves rolled up, eyes cool and distant, eyebrows arched just so.

“Want to get back together?” he asked, not even blinking. He just dropped the bomb like it was nothing, and for a split second my mind went blank, my heart racing, mouth going dry. I forced myself to keep it together, twisting my hands behind my back.

“I’m here for a checkup,” I replied stiffly, craning my neck as his Adam’s apple bobbed, avoiding his eyes as best I could.

“Where’s the problem?”

Before I could answer, my mom barreled in: “Nolan, I’m your Aunt Rachel. Take a look at my daughter—her chest is so small, is she underdeveloped?”

Her voice echoed through the room. My toes dug into the cold, shiny linoleum from sheer embarrassment, my shoulders slumping as I tried not to look at anyone.

I wanted the ground to swallow me whole. Why do moms always say the most mortifying things—like sharing baby photos at a PTA meeting—with zero shame?

“Aunt Rachel,” Nolan Carter adjusted his glasses, a hospital badge catching the light, “chest size is mostly genetic, and sometimes nutritional...”

He kept his tone gentle, all professional, but I caught the tiniest flicker of a smirk at the corner of his mouth, eyes crinkling. He was enjoying this way too much.

“Exactly!” My mom nodded like she’d just solved a crime. “Do you think it’s because she had the wrong baby formula? Maybe Similac wasn’t the right choice?”

When Nolan calmly typed, “Patient’s family suspects wrong formula (Similac) caused underdeveloped chest,” into the medical record, the sound of the keyboard clicking filled the silence, and I was already digging phase two of my escape tunnel with my toes.

If karma is real, this is payback for stealing my sister’s lip gloss in eighth grade. Don’t let my punishment be having a chest too small and my own mom dragging me to my ex for a checkup.

“A physical exam is necessary,” Nolan said, flashing a professional smile, straightening his coat as he addressed my mom. “Family members, please step out.”

He said it so smoothly, like he’d done this a thousand times. My mom, of course, hesitated just long enough to shoot me a worried glance, wringing her hands before finally shuffling out, clutching her Michael Kors purse like it was a lifeline.

I clutched the registration slip and forced a smile, shoving it in my pocket and tapping my foot. “Can I switch to another doctor?”

Without even looking up, he replied coolly, “You’ll have to get back in line and fill out the paperwork again.”

His tone was so matter-of-fact, I could practically hear the "take it or leave it" in his voice. The waiting room outside sounded like a DMV on a Monday, with someone arguing about their license renewal—no way I was going through that again.

“Oh, no way, it’ll take hours to get back in!” My mom immediately pressed me down onto the exam table. “Doctors are doctors, honey. Don’t be so dramatic.”

She was relentless. Her grip on my shoulder was ironclad, and I could see the receptionist chewing gum, eyeing the clock, probably placing bets on whether I’d make a break for it.

I was doomed. My shoulders slumped, and I let out a heavy sigh, wishing I could disappear.

Doctors might not care, but what about ex-boyfriends? And what does a thoracic surgeon have to do with development issues, anyway? What’s next, seeing a podiatrist for a headache?

I shot Nolan a desperate look, resentment and hope mixing in my chest, but he just kept typing, a quirked eyebrow betraying his amusement. I was pretty sure he was enjoying every second of my misery.