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It had been one of those days.
The kind of day where everything went wrong. The kind of day that made Ainsley Whitly wonder if someone had set up hidden cameras around her apartment and news station to capture her flaws and foibles on candid camera.
She felt cursed with clumsiness that day. She’d mistaken a navy blue business jacket for a black one in the darkness of the early morning, and it looked hideous on her with the red undershirt she’d picked to go beneath it. She’d left her apartment only to realize she’d forgotten her cell phone on her bedside table just as she was arriving to work. She’d tripped on a cable in the studio, which then caused a catastrophic technical issue while her fellow reporter (who already didn’t like her) was live on air.
And when she returned home, she proceeded to burn herself on the stove while cooking dinner, resulting in the frying pan being dropped with a loud clatter. The stir fry scattered across her counter top and tumbled comically far across her floor.
Yes, it was one of those days.
She held her hand against her stomach and screamed a cuss that was powered both by frustration and pain. Her arms shook as she glanced down at her hand, which ached from the sharp sting it’d just received. Frustration overpowered her pain as she roared, “Oh my God!”
Her lament was echoed by a man’s whine. “Ainsley, what are you doing?”
She looked up to see her father. Briefly closing his eyes, he sighed and then swooped in. “You obviously can’t be trusted to take care of yourself.” Ainsley was ushered to the sink. “So let me do it for you.”
She was hesitant to place her hand under the cold water that ran from the faucet, knowing it would sting her skin again. Despite her reluctance, Dr. Whitly took her wrist and guided her hand under the water. She hissed and tensed at the touch of the running water, but he firmly kept her hand in place while murmuring his comfort.
They stood at the sink together for quite some time. Ainsley tried to focus on the feeling of his gentle grip instead of the uncomfortable sensation of the changing temperatures that ebbed through her fingers and palm.
Her face scrunched up as a different kind of pain welled from within her. Using her free hand, she wiped her eyes and released a few sobbing breaths. Dr. Whitly did not react, focusing on rinsing her burn. But his thumb began to massage her wrist, rubbing affectionately over her veins.
Ainsley caught her breath and slowly calmed until she was stunned in a guilty, forlorn silence. “I miss you,” she whispered miserably.
Dr. Whitly smirked and hummed, “Well, I guarantee you,” he looked over at her and smiled a warm, playful smile, “I miss you more.” He said it with both lightheartedness and tenacity, as if it was a casual competition that he was certain he would always win.
Ainsley never visited her father. But sometimes, he visited Ainsley.
They gazed at each other until her burn no longer ached. Then with some encouraging instructions, he turned off the faucet and lightly dabbed her hand dry with a dish cloth. Ainsley feared the fragile illusion would break if she moved or tried to touch him, so she only stood there and listened to the memory of his voice.
All too soon, Dr. Whitly let her hand go and smiled at her one last time. “You’re going to be just fine, sweetheart.”
She returned a small smile of her own, knowing that he wasn’t talking about the burn.