almost choreographed. Two minutes later, she was standing back in the ring of participants as someone else danced in to take her place. When it was once again her turn she slid forward, only to find herself on the wrong side of a foot for the third or fourth time. Mortified, she crashed to the mat, wondering if Marcos was going to take away her purple and green cordão and demote her to a lower level.
He knelt beside her once again. “I think that is enough for today, Tessita.”
She grimaced. Marcos only resorted to calling her “little Tessa” when he was upset with her. And he had every right to be. She’d trained with him for years and years. He knew exactly what she was capable of. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“I do not, either, but when you come back next week, try to make our capoeira look a little less… brutal.”
Everyone laughed, including Tessa, and the tension eased as he helped her to her feet. She sighed. “Point taken. I’ll work on it.”
“Good. The festival will be here before we know it.”
She grabbed her towel from on top of her bag and blotted the sweat from her face and neck. “Four weeks. I know. Maybe I’ll find a few extra hours this week and come in for a private session.”
“I think that would be good, Tessita.”
Ugh. Still upset. Well, Marcos wasn’t the only one. She was upset at herself. Ever since her encounter with Clay in the cafeteria she’d been on edge. Something about the way his ex had looked at her, the acid in her gaze making Tessa feel like a criminal of some sort, even though she’d done nothing wrong.
Well, it was time to put Clay and his ex—and most especially his cute little daughter—from her mind. Once and for all.
How she was going to do that, though, remained to be seen.
HE WAS WATCHING HER.
Tessa had caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of her eye as she continued to section the diseased skin tissue, teasing it away from healthy cells. The Mohs surgery had been put off for three days due to a cold her patient had developed.
How had Clay found out when she would be operating? Maybe Brian Perry, her attending cutaneous oncologist, had clued him in. But why would he have done that? Clay was an orthopedic surgeon, a whole different realm than cutaneous surgery.
She had already marked the surgical site before proceeding and when she lifted the thin layer of tissue and placed it onto a glass slide, she made sure to match the marks so they would know where to continue cutting if the margins weren’t completely clear. Brian glanced down at the site and nodded to the lab assistant. “Once you’re ready, let us know.”
They would section the tissue sample and stain it, looking for areas that still contained cancer cells. Either Tessa or Brian would then remove more tissue just at the specific location. That way they conserved as much healthy tissue as possible.
“How are you doing, Mandy?” Her patient was lying on her stomach with her head to one side, but was wide-awake. Mohs surgery was generally done under a local anesthetic. The only hard part was that there was quite a bit of waiting involved if the tumor had roots that went deeper than expected.
“I’m okay. How’s it coming?”
“We’ll know in a few minutes.”
The buzzer at her waistband went off, as did Brian’s. The lab was ready for them to view the slide.
Tessa was glad to get out from beneath Clay’s stare. She still had no idea why he was there.
The results under the microscope showed that there was still one area that contained tumor cells. Brian marked the graph they’d been charting to match what they saw on the slide.
After shaving off two more layers of skin in that area, they finally got the results they were looking for: clear margins. This wasn’t melanoma but a squamous cell tumor on the patient’s lower left back. While not as dangerous as the type of cancer that had killed Tessa’s mom, it could still grow out of control, dividing and penetrating to other organ systems if not caught in time. Fortunately this patient had a known history of skin cancer and had screened herself on a regular basis.
Sucking down a breath, she peered again at her patient as they got ready to close the surgical site. In a calm voice she explained what they’d done and what to expect, thankful they wouldn’t need to do a skin graft. Even as she hoped Clay had gotten bored and left, he probably hadn’t. She was still stumped as to his presence. Didn’t he have his own patients to attend to?
Maybe he wanted to discuss something with her. Lord, she hoped not. The last thing she needed after the day she’d had was to do a dissection of a different kind. Especially if it involved their shared past. It had been over four years. There was nothing left to dissect.
“Looks good, Tessa. I think you got everything. Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” The praise should have elated her but she was still on edge over Clay’s appearance.
As if hearing her thoughts, Brian glanced up at the window, evidently noticing what she had a half hour earlier. “Looks like you had an audience.”
What did she say to that? I know? Or act as if she had no idea who it was.
She chose a different route. “Wonder why.”
“Not sure. If you feel up to finishing on your own, I’ll go see if I can help him with something. Maybe he has a surgery in here afterward and is scoping out the room. He’s new.” He paused. “I think you’re well on your way to a fellowship in Mohs, if that’s what you’re looking for.”
Just beneath the hum of excitement that went through her at the other man’s words lurked a trill of annoyance. This should have been a moment of triumph for her. She was so close to finishing up her residency. And now a dark specter of the past had to sweep in and ruin it.
Forget it. You did the surgery. Without any assistance or input, for the very first time. That should be all she was thinking about right now.
But it wasn’t. And as Brian headed out the door she bit her lip.
She wasn’t thrilled about her attending going up to chitchat with her ex, but it wasn’t as if she could say anything in a roomful of other medical staff. So she just gritted her teeth and hoped she’d be able to get through the final part of the surgery.
And she should be proud. Clay had seen she could do this on her own. Just as she’d promised herself. She refrained from glancing up and making sure he actually had seen her finish. But just barely.
She asked for the suture material, and the surgical nurse handed her the pre-threaded needle. Closing the deeper layers first, she worked her way back up to the surface tissue, stopping from time to time to make sure her patient was doing okay. Fifteen minutes later she was done. Brian hadn’t come back, and she couldn’t bring herself to sneak a peek at the observation room. Instead, she settled for putting the final piece of tape on the gauze and talking to her
