It's You - Softcover

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Jane Porter is the USA Today bestselling author of The Good Wife, The Good Daughter, The Good Woman, She’s Gone Country, Mrs. Perfect, Flirting with Forty (basis for the Lifetime movie), and several other novels. There are more than twelve million copies of her books in print. Jane lives in Southern California.

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ONE

Ali

For over a year following Andrew’s death I showed up and performed and executed perfectly.

I handled that horrible year and the next few months so well that I’d begun to think the worst was behind me.

And then I got the note.

I’d left the office on my lunch, dashing to the Nordstrom at the Scottsdale Fashion Square for a pair of shoes for Dad. He has a birthday coming up in late June and I’m hoping to see him Memorial Day weekend. I’d meant to go north for Easter but Dr. Morris took time off and I was needed. Dad was fine with it but I think he’d appreciate a new pair of Clarks, even if he doesn’t do as much walking in his retirement home.

I’d zipped into the shopping mall, made the purchase, and was hurrying back to my car, pleased that I’d still have time for a quick bite of lunch at the office before my first afternoon appointment, when I noticed the scrap of paper on my windshield, pinned to the glass by the windshield wiper. I tugged on the paper, sliding it free and reading the blue scrawl.

Dumbfounded, I set the paper shopping bag at my feet and flipped the note over. The back was blank and I read the scribble of blue ink again.

“Asshole” had been underlined.

The A was huge. The two s’s looked almost like z’s.

For a moment I thought it was a joke, or a mistake. And then I was hit by a wave of nausea.

It wasn’t a joke.

It was just a mean note.

Sickened, I crumpled it up and shoved it into my purse. I don’t know why I put it in my purse but I was suddenly and deeply ashamed.

My car was on the white line, on the passenger side. Normally I park exactly between the painted lines, but when I pulled in the car on my left was a little bit over, and so I parked and dashed into the store.

Driving back to the office, I mentally reviewed my parking job. I was on the line. I probably was parked too close to the car on my right. But I wasn’t over the line. And the car on my left was crowding me. My car isn’t a big car. It’s not as if I drive a big SUV. I slid out of my driver side without dinging the car next to me.

Maybe I shouldn’t have parked there.

Maybe I should have kept looking for a spot.

I’m still obsessing—rationalizing—my choices as I reach the office. I can’t let it go. I don’t know why I have to defend myself. The person who wrote the note was rude. It was a rude note by a rude person. Let it go.

I try.

I try as I park—carefully.

I try as I enter the modern marble and glass building with the tinted windows and open the door to Morris Dental & Associates, catching a whiff of the distinctive smell unique to dentist offices. The odor wafts from the back. It’s a mix of chemicals. Formo-creasol. Cresatin. Eugenol. Acrylic Monomer.

Oh, and teeth.

The office is cold, chilled to sixty-seven degrees, the temperature Dr. Morris prefers for his own comfort. He doesn’t like being warm when he works. His hands are steadier, his concentration better, when it’s cool, and it is his office.

Normally I don’t smell the chemicals but I do now. Maybe it’s the shock of the note, a shock I can’t shake.

I’m still unsettled as I open my yogurt in the staff room. But I can’t take a bite. Instead I hold my yogurt and spoon and stand at the window staring out at the taupe and gold Camelback Mountain.

Learn to park. Asshole.

“Dr. McAdams, you’ve a patient in exam room three,” Natalie, one of the practice’s two dental assistants, announces from the staff room door.

I thank her and put the yogurt back into the refrigerator. My legs feel funny as I walk. Like I’m walking in wet cement. If Andrew were here right now he’d make a joke and tease me about being an asshole and my horrible driving skills, and I’d laugh and it’d be okay. But he’s not here because he’d rather be dead. He’s not here—

I enter the sunlit exam room holding my breath, keeping the pain bottled inside as I glance at the chart on the counter. Leah Saunders. I quickly wash my hands, and face her, forcing a smile. “I’m Dr. McAdams. How are you today, Leah?”

“Not good.”

“No?”

“I was just telling your dental hygienist that I hate the smell of dentist offices.” Leah is immaculately dressed and groomed, the blue paper bib covering an ivory silk top that only accents her fit frame. Her dark blonde hair, carefully highlighted and blown out, frames a face that is smooth for her age. I know by her chart that she’s early forties but she appears years younger. “The smell makes me sick,” she adds.

I give her a quick, reassuring nod. “I hear that a lot.” The smell doesn’t bother me. It never has. Andrew never liked it, but for him, it was the smell of his childhood. He grew up visiting his dad at the office, working here in the summers.

“I’ve never understood my fear. It seems so irrational. It’s not like I’m going to die here—” She breaks off, laughs nervously, her fingers twisting in her necklace. “Right?”

“Nope. No dying. No suffering. It’s going to be okay.” I roll closer to her side on my stool.

“That’s what my husband says. He doesn’t understand my fear. He doesn’t know why I make such a big deal out of it. I tried to explain that it’s the smell that makes me nervous. The moment I open the door to the office it hits me—and I want to run.”

“But you’re here.”

“Only because my tooth hurts so much. The pain just keeps getting worse, and it’s not going away anymore, not even with Advil.”

“Which side?”

“Here.” She touches her upper right jaw. “It aches all the time now.”

“Let me take a look.”

Her eyes meet mine, the hazel irises bright. She’s terrified.

I touch her arm. “It’s going to be all right.”

“I don’t know why I’m so scared.”

“There is nothing to be afraid of. I’m not going to hurt you. I promise.”

“But what if the tooth has to come out? What if I need a root canal—”

“Root canals get a bad rap. They don’t usually hurt any more than when you have a filling replaced.”

“I don’t like those, either.”

“The good news is that we can fix this. Whatever the issue, we’ll get it sorted out, and you won’t have to live with more pain. The worst pain is always before you come in.” I hold her gaze, firm, confident. Dentistry isn’t torture. We help people. We don’t make it worse.

Fortunately, it doesn’t look as if Leah needs a root canal yet. She’s come in time. Natalie returns to assist with the procedure.

I’m just wrapping up with Leah when Helene from the front desk appears in the doorway, letting me know I have someone on the phone holding.

“Can you take a message?” I ask, checking my annoyance at the interruption. Leah is the last person I want to feel rushed.

Helene grimaces. “Apparently it’s an emergency.” She drops her voice. “Your dad.”

He’s all I have left. Mom’s gone. Andrew’s gone. He’s it. I apologize and excuse myself, taking the call in the staff room. “Dad?”

“I’m fine,” he answers...