Николас Спаркс - The Choice

“Mondays are always busy. Hopefully we won’t have to work through lunch.”

“Hopefully,” she’d echoed.

Dr. Melton had reached for the file on the door of the exam room across the hall. He’d scanned it quickly, and just as Gabby was about to leave, she’d heard his voice again. “Speaking of lunch, have you ever had a fish taco?”

Gabby blinked. “Huh?’

“I know this great place in Morehead near the beach. Maybe we could swing by. We could bring some back for the staff, too.”

Though he had maintained a pretense of professionalism—he would have sounded the same way had he been speaking to Dr. Furman—Gabby had felt herself recoil.

“I can’t,” she’d said. “I’m supposed to bring Molly to the vet. I made an appointment this morning.”

“And they can get you in and out of there in time?”

“They said they would.”

He had hesitated. “Okay then,” he’d said. “Maybe another time.”

As Gabby reached for a file, she’d winced. “You okay?” Dr. Melton had asked.

“I’m just a little sore from working out,” she’d said before disappearing into the room.

Actually, she was really sore. Ridiculously sore. Everything from her neck to her ankles throbbed, and it seemed to be getting worse. Had she simply jogged on Sunday, she figured she probably would have been okay. But that hadn’t been enough. Not for the new, improved Gabby. After jogging—and proud of the fact that even though her pace had been slow, she hadn’t had to stop once to walk—she’d headed to Gold’s Gym in Morehead City to sign up for a membership. She’d signed the paperwork while the trainer explained the various classes with complicated names that were scheduled almost every hour. As she got up to leave, he’d mentioned that a new class called Body Pump was about to start in a few minutes.

“It’s a fantastic class,” he’d said. “It works the whole body. You get strength and cardio in a single workout. You should try it.”

So she had. And may God forgive him for how it made her feel.

Not immediately, of course. No, during the class, she’d been fine. Though deep down she knew she should pace herself, she found herself trying to keep up with the scantily clad, surgically enhanced, mascara-wearing woman next to her. She’d lifted and pushed weights, jogged in place to the beat, then lifted some more and jogged in place, over and over. By the time she left, with muscles quivering, she’d felt as if she’d taken the next step in her evolution. She’d ordered herself a protein shake on the way out the door, just to complete the transformation.

On the way home, she’d swung by the bookstore to buy a book on astronomy, and later, as she was about to fall asleep, she’d realized she felt better about the future than she had in a long time, except for the fact that her muscles seemed to be stiffening by the minute.

Unfortunately, the new, improved Gabby had found it exceptionally painful to rise from bed the following morning. Everything hurt. No, scratch that. It was beyond hurt. Way beyond. It was excruciating. Every muscle in her body felt as if it had been run through a juice blender. Her back, her chest, her stomach, her legs, her butt, her arms, her neck . . . even her fingers ached. It took three attempts to sit up in bed, and after staggering to the bathroom, she’d found that brushing her teeth without screaming took a herculean amount of self-control. In the medicine cabinet, she’d found herself reaching for pretty much everything—Tylenol, Bayer aspirin, Aleve—and in the end, she’d decided to take them all. She’d washed down the pills with a glass of water and watched herself wince while swallowing.

Okay, she admitted, maybe she’d overdone it.

But it was too late now, and even worse, the painkillers hadn’t worked. Or maybe they had. She was, after all, able to function in the office, as long as she moved slowly. But the pain was still there, and Dr. Furman was gone, and the last thing she wanted was to deal with Dr. Melton.

Without another option, she asked one of the nurses which room he was in and, after knocking on the door, poked her head in. Dr. Melton looked up from his patient, his expression becoming animated as soon as he saw her.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she said. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

“Sure,” he said. He rose from his stool, set aside the file on his way out, and closed the door behind him. “Did you change your mind about lunch?”

She shook her head and told him about Eva Bronson and George; he promised he’d talk to them as quickly as he could. As she left, she could feel his eyes lingering on her as she limped down the hall.

It was half-past noon when Gabby finished with her last patient of the morning. Clutching her purse, she hobbled toward her car, knowing she didn’t have much time. Her next appointment was in forty-five minutes, but assuming she wasn’t held up at the vet, she would be okay. It was one of the nice things about living in a small town of fewer than four thousand people. Everything was only minutes away. While Morehead City—five times the size of Beaufort—was just across the bridge that spanned the Intracoastal Waterway and the place where most people did their weekend shopping, the short distance was enough to make this town feel distinct and isolated, like most of the towns down east, which was what the locals called this part of the state.

It was a pretty place, especially the historic district. On a day like today, with temperatures perfect for strolling, Beaufort resembled what she imagined Savannah to be in the first century of its existence.

Wide streets, shade trees, and a little more than a hundred restored homes occupied several blocks, eventually giving way to Front Street and a short boardwalk that overlooked the marina. Slips were occupied by leisure and working boats of every shape and size; a magnificent yacht worth millions might be docked next to a small crab boat on one side, with a lovingly maintained sailboat on the other. There were a couple of restaurants with gorgeous views: old, homegrown places with local character, complete with covered patios and picnic tables that made customers feel as if they were on vacation in a place where time stood still. On occasional weekend evenings, bands would perform at the restaurants, and last summer on the Fourth of July, when she was visiting Kevin, so many people came to hear the music and see the fireworks that the marina literally filled with boats. Without enough slips to accommodate them, the boats were simply tied up to one another, and their owners would walk from boat to boat until they reached the dock, accepting or offering beers to strangers as they went.

On the opposite side of the street, there were real estate offices mingled with art shops and tourist traps. In the evenings, Gabby liked to stroll through the art shops to examine the work. When she was young, she’d dreamed of painting or drawing for a living; it took a few years before she realized that her ambition far exceeded her talent. That didn’t mean she couldn’t appreciate quality work, and every now and then she found a photograph or painting that made her pause. Twice, she’d actually made purchases, and both paintings now hung in her house. She’d considered buying a few more to complement them, but her monthly budget prevented it, at least for the time being.

A few minutes later, Gabby pulled into her driveway and yelped as she got out of the car before gamely making her way to the front door. Molly met her on the porch, took her sweet time smelling the flower bed until she took care of business, then hopped into the passenger seat. Gabby yelped again as she got back in, then rolled down the window so Molly could hang her head out, something she loved to do.