Thursday afternoon, I was with a patient who was suffering from a bout of plantar fasciitis, when the receptionist stuck in her head to tell me that someone was waiting to see me.
“He doesn’t have an appointment, but he says he’ll wait until you’re free because he needs to speak with you.”
“What’s his name?”
“Donovan Clark.”
I told the receptionist I’d see him after I finished with my patient and she left to relay the news.
I hadn’t heard from Donovan or Ryan since their blow up more than a week ago. I’d resisted the temptation to call or text either of them to find out what, if anything, was going on because my anger over the whole fiasco outweighed my desire to know if they’d gone through with the paternity test. Of course, I was angry with Ryan for using me to get to Donovan, but I
