Age Gap Romance by Penny Wylder

Epilogue

Copyright © 2019 by Penny Wylder

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1

“Maggie! You’re going to be late. You can’t afford to be late during your first few weeks. It will reflect badly on your father.”

I glare at my reflection in the bedroom mirror as I finish tugging my brown mess of waves into a high ponytail. It’s the best I’ll be able to muster at this hour of the morning. Over my shoulder, a shelf full of stuffed animals watches me balefully, as if judging.

I get it. I’d judge me too, if I were them. 23 years old and here I am, still living in my childhood bedroom—a bedroom that has not been updated since I left to live in the NYU dorms downtown, then a dingy shared apartment with ten other students. That was five years ago. Now, freshly finished with my nursing degree, I’m back in this trap. Back in a life I never wanted to live.

Worst of all, I’m supposed to be grateful for it all.

“Maggie!” My mother’s voice sharpens in warning. I recognize that tone. It’s the I’m not going to warn you again voice.

“I’m coming!” I cinch my scrubs tight and grab my purse, hurrying toward the stairs. We live in an honest to goodness Upper West Side brownstone, the kind of house that nobody who hasn’t lived here for generations could afford anymore. Luckily, thanks to my father’s job running one of the best hospitals in the city, we can afford to pay the crazy high property taxes.

But, according to him anyway, he can’t afford to pay that, my med school tuition bills, and rent for me somewhere on my own. So here I am, back at home, working my debt off to my parents in a different way. By taking a nursing gig at Dad’s hospital, right under his nose, where he can keep an eye on me.

I barely make it to the bottom of the staircase before he’s glaring at me, studying everything from my sneakers to the scrubs I chose, a cute pair with bright pink stripes.

“Those look frivolous,” he comments, before he sniffs and turns back to the kitchen. Apparently the rest of me passes inspection, at least for the moment. “How much of my money did you waste on those,” he adds over his shoulder, as my mother passes him a cup of his coffee. The same kind she prepares every morning, just the way he likes it: black, no milk or sugar.

Like his soul, I always joke. But only where he can’t hear me.

“I didn’t,” I respond, crossing my arms. “It was a present from Julia.” One of my nursing school friends, and a former roommate back when I still lived downtown, near school. Our apartment building was a rat hole, the bedroom I shared with her a constant mess, not to mention plagued by a never-ending stream of infestations—everything from bed bugs to cockroaches. Yet I still preferred it to my current room.

That should tell you something.

“Julia. The one with the hair?” Dad squints into his coffee suspiciously, the same way he does every morning. As if Mom might have somehow messed up the order.

Over his shoulder, Mom fires me a semi-apologetic glance. Not that she’d ever stand up to him on my behalf or anything. In this house, Dad makes the rules, and the rest of us leap to follow them.

“The redhead, you mean? Yes, that’s her,” I grumble, shouldering past him to pour my own cup. To be honest, it stings a little, the reminder of my friends. I haven’t seen any of them in months. Because they’re all off doing what I wish I could be doing. Julia took a position straight out of nursing school with Doctors Without Borders, and a handful of our other roommates followed her shortly thereafter. They sent me some photos from their placements the other night. I sent back a sad selfie in my childhood bedroom.

Then I stayed up halfway through the night, scrolling through their social media feeds. Drinking in every detail I could.

It’s not the travel I envy, though that would be fun too, of course. It’s the fact that they’re doing something. They’re helping the people who really need it most. Not like me, stuck here serving all the same rich old clientele I’ve watched my dad kowtow to for his entire adult life.

“Are you coming?” Dad barks, before I’ve even had a chance to finish downing my coffee. I grab a to-go mug before I grab my jacket from the kitchen counter. It’s getting colder outside, finally, though even the fall bite in the air—normally my favorite season of the year—hasn’t improved my gloomy mood.

Just appease him for now, I can practically hear my mother saying, despite the fact that she says nothing for now. She just leans in to kiss my father’s cheek and then mine as we parade past. But she’s given me the talk enough times by now that I have it memorized. After your school tuition debt is paid back, then you can decide what you want to do. Where you want to live and work.

She acts like that will be easy. Like the years upon years of work I’ll need to put in here will pass before I even know it.

Frankly, if Dad had explained before I went to nursing school how this whole “you need to pay me back” thing was going to work, I would have taken out my own student loans instead. Sure, I’d be broke as hell right now, but I’d be broke and happy.

It would’ve been worth it, I think.

Maybe.

I sling on my coat and trudge out after Dad into the predawn light. This time of year, it’s still dark by the time we need to be up and about. There’s a faint sheen of ice on the windshield. Without a word, Dad passes me the scraper, and gets into the car himself to warm it up. I sigh, my breath fogging, and start to scrape the frost from the windows.

By the time I’ve finished, I’ve worked up a sweat, and I’m not even at work yet. I slide into the car and shove my hands right up against the heating vent, which has started to feebly spit out faintly warmer air than the rest of the car. I’m shivering myself back to life when Dad clears his throat in a way that makes my stomach sink. I recognize that sound. Not to mention the expression he shoots me from the corner of his eye.

“We have some things we need to discuss,” he says as he puts the car into gear.

I slip my hands under my thighs and clench them into fists out of sight, since he’d tell me off for looking visibly annoyed otherwise. Dad’s big on “accepting constructive criticism with poise and grace.” AKA, he hates when I talk back to him or in any way question his directives.

“I went through your patient roster,” he says, and I blow out an exasperated breath.

“Dad, I went to school for this, you know. I understand how to do my job.”

“That’s funny, because last I checked, I’m the one who paid for that school, and I’m your boss’s boss’s boss, and I’ve been working in hospitals since I was younger than you. So I’m pretty sure that between the two of us, I’m the one who knows how you need to do your job.” He jerks his head toward the backseat, and I notice with a suppressed grimace that he’s got a stack of folders spread across the seats. As usual.

I spot a file folder with my name on it, right on top of the files with a few other employee names. I spot Russ’s folder lingering near the seat behind me, and feel a brief pang of sympathy for him. Russ is my father’s oldest friend, all the way back from when they were in medical school together. He’s a surgeon and doesn’t usually have to deal with Dad’s daily BS meetings, where Dad delivers his marching orders to everyone in the hospital, all the way down to the newbie little nurses like me.

Some rich woman must be coming in for an elective plastic surgery, if Dad has a file with Russ’s name on it. Normally, Russ is just about the only person in the hospital who Dad trusts. He has fairly free reign over the surgery wing, in comparison to the heads of all the other departments. It never ceases to amaze me that Russ hasn’t applied to another hospital and escaped to freedom somewhere else. After all, unlike me, he isn’t beholden to my father.

Yet despite the fact that Russ is warm and friendly—not to mention kind of hot, I can’t lie, I had such a crush on him back in undergrad—for some reason he likes my dad. The two of them hang out outside of work, something none of Dad’s other “friends” do. Well, except for the mutual friends he and Mom have, who come over for barbecues. But even they’re all mostly Mom’s friends, really, who put up with Dad glowering in the corner and announcing his displeasure over everything, from the food down to the music.

When I hesitate for too long, Dad clears his throat. “Inside your folder,” he starts, subtly emphasizing the words until I finally sigh and reach back to take the thing, “you’ll find a list of the patients you’ll be attending to over the next couple of days. I’ve highlighted three of them in particular. Two are children of members of our board, so they’re going to need extra close attention. The third is the son of a man I went to Yale with, so I’d also like you to give him more time than you normally would.”

“Dad, I have…” I flip through the book, my eyes widening. “Twenty five patients in here. That’s a ton. I’m going to have to make sure they all get taken care of—”

“And you will make sure that those three, in particular, are your priority. Yes.” He sets his jaw, his eyes narrowed, tone firm. It’s a face that brooks no room for disagreement.

I sink back against my seat, my stomach churning. It has nothing to do with the coffee I hastily chugged earlier, and everything to do with how badly these orders sit with me. “Dad…” There’s no way that I can agree to this. Not in good conscience.

When I went to nursing school, it was because I wanted to make a difference. I wanted to help people. Not just the people who have a ton of money or who have power and influence. Everyone. Including the ones who need it most.

Before I can protest further, though, Dad makes a left turn, drawing us close enough to pull within sight of the hospital. It towers over the apartment buildings to either side of it, a massive, hulking structure. I spot a cluster of doctors and nurses near the front entrance, on their way in to begin their day. Closer to hand, positioned right beside the street and lit up with at least as many spotlights as the OR itself, stands an enormous billboard with our last name emblazoned on it.

Thomas Cuthbert Owens General Hospital.

The hospital is family-owned, after all, passed down through generations from my great-great grandfather, who named the building after his father (or so he claimed, anyway—they had the same name, so I like to tell myself it was his excuse for being able to name a huge city hospital after himself). Now Dad, better known as Dr. John Owens, owns the place. Though, to judge by how it’s still run, like an antiquated old guard monolith, you’d think nothing much had improved except for surgical techniques since his great-grandpa’s day.

We pull past the drive, and we’ve barely made it to the front doors before Dad’s assistant leaps forward, the same way he does every morning.

“Dr. Owens.” He actually bows when Dad opens his door. You can’t make this shit up. “Today’s briefing,” he announces, withdrawing a tablet from his inside coat pocket while Dad passes over his keys.

I undo my seatbelt and slip out of the car, my folder full of marching orders tucked under my arm, while Dad’s assistant reads him the business of the day. A lot of meetings, from the sound of it, and some complaints from the board of directors that Dad will need to address.

I’m turning away already, heading for the large double doors, when Dad calls after me.

“One moment. We weren’t finished with our conversation, Maggie.”

I grit my teeth and stop, right beside the sliding glass doors. They whir open to admit a pair of surgeons and a nurse, all chatting happily, one laughing. I envy them. They don’t have the hospital owner breathing down their necks, demanding impossible, unethical tasks from them.

“Yes?” I ask, plastering on my best faux polite smile. Over Dad’s shoulder, I watch his assistant pull away from the curb in the car, off to go park it in Dad’s place of honor right next to the main entrance. Because Dad was too lazy to even pull the car ten more feet over to his own parking spot and then walk back to the doors.

And he calls me spoiled.

“I want to hear you say it,” Dad says, stopping beside the sliding doors, close enough that they whir open and shut in a stuttering rhythm, every time Dad shifts on his feet. Which he does, staring me down, willing me to relent.

“I’ll give those patients the attention they need,” I reply cagily.

“Maggie.”

“Dad. I know you want to keep the board happy, and I understand that you don’t want your son’s friend to be neglected. But I’m a nurse. I took this job to help people. I’m going to take care of all of my patients. Equally.”

“Do you like your position?” Dad tilts his head to one side, his eyes flashing. “Do you want to stay in this hospital? Because this is the kind of work it takes.”

“No!” I blurt out. “I don’t want to be here, I want to be halfway around the world where all my friends are, doing some actual good.”

“Margaret Owens,” he says, my full name. That means trouble.

But I’m already storming away, too furious to play pretend right now. Maybe once I calm down, take a few deep breaths, I can go back and simper and pretend to agree to his rules. But right now, I need to clear my head.

“You look after those patients,” he calls after me. “You’ll do as I say or missing out on your friends’ vacation will be the least of your worries.”

Vacation. The word rankles, along with everything else about Dad’s attitude. Like my friends are just off galivanting around the world enjoying themselves, instead of risking their lives in dangerous situations, trying their best to do some good. I ball my fists so tightly that my nails dig into my palms. Screw Dad’s oblivious attitude. And screw his marching orders. I’m not putting up with it, not today.

I slam into the locker rooms and shove my bag into my cubbyhole. My phone dings, and I check it, still trembling from my anger, assuming it will be a message from Dad demanding that I get my ass to his office right now.

It’s not. It’s a photo message from Julia, one that makes me still in my tracks, my fists unclenching. She’s in Thailand right now, I think, helping with a yellow fever outbreak. She sent the text to our group chat, since some of our friends have different placements on the other side of the globe. We’re all over the place now, scattered to the four winds, but we still do our best to keep in touch with one another whenever we can.

I open the photo and have to suppress a smile at the sight. It’s Julia with her arms wrapped around a couple of her colleagues out there, all of them beaming. A few patients stand with them too, and one holds a sign. All Better. Julia added a caption beneath it.

Hope you’re all having as good a day as I am. Had a few tough cases here who pulled through this morning. She adds a series of kissy emojis.

I quickly type a few back, along with some hearts. A couple more messages ding in from other friends, congratulating and celebrating with her. I breathe in deep, smiling, even despite the pang in my heart. That should be me. I should be out there with her, doing real good. Helping. It’s what I was trained for, what I did all those extra late night hours of studying for. It’s what kept me going through all the years of school. The knowledge that one day, I’d do my part to make the world healthier.

Instead, I’m stuck here, catering to rich patients and their spoiled kids.

With a groan, I slam my locker shut, my folder tucked under one arm. At least Dad didn’t follow me here to continue our argument. I wouldn’t put that kind of behavior past him—he’s done the same and worse in the past. But the locker room is fairly quiet today, just me and Heather and Lionel over at their lockers on the far wall. I wave to them both and scurry from the room, not up for Heather’s bright and bubbly conversation or Lionel’s morose summary of every contagious disease within the hospital today. It’s forever shocking to me that a hypochondriac like him ever went into nursing as a career.

Luckily, he seems distracted, deep in a conversation with Heather. I catch the words cholera in the air and scurry out before I can be drawn in deeper. Out in the main hallways, the fluorescent lighting makes my eyes sting, and the rooms smell like disinfectant and antiseptics. I flip open my folder and spot the first name on the stack, the ones Dad highlighted as a child of the board members. I skim their case file. Nothing serious ailing them, just a flu most likely. Their IV drips will need changed, but not for another half an hour, which gives me time to check on another patient first.

I skim to the back of the file, to a man who was found on the street frozen near to death last night. He didn’t have any ID on him, and nobody could find an insurance card or anything. He’s warming up in one of the communal rooms in the back of the hospital, near the stairwell, where we stick the patients we aren’t sure have insurance or even Medicaid.

Squaring my shoulders, I snap the file shut and make my way there first. Screw Dad’s orders. I’ll do what I think is proper, as a nurse. It’s my job, after all.

If he wants to fight me, well, then I’ll put up a fight. I might not be able to help away from home, not yet anyway, not until I’ve paid off my school debt to my father. But in the meantime, I can sure as hell do what I can here.