She wasn’t smiling. She wasn’t standing tall. She wouldn’t even raise her eyes to meet mine. She looked pale, exhausted, and—if I was reading her body language correctly—absolutely terrified.
Finally, I turned my gaze back to Connor.
He leaned forward slightly, his eyes gleaming, waiting for the crack in my armor. He wanted tears. He wanted me to rush off to the staff bathroom so he could tell his friends how I broke down at the sight of his child.
Instead, I looked him dead in the eye, tilted my head slightly, and smiled.
“Really?” I said softly.
His cocky expression faltered for a second.
As a physician, you learn to spot microscopic physical changes: a tightening of the masseter muscle in the jaw, an involuntary skip in breathing, a subtle dilation of the pupils. Connor’s smug confidence flickered into sudden irritation.
“What does that mean?” he demanded, taking half a step toward me. “‘Really?’ What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” I said calmly.
