My chest tightens.
“Sometimes, we love people we’re not ready for. That doesn’t make the love fake.”
We sit in his words for a few seconds. It’s at the tip of my tongue to ask what that means to him, but I stay in my lane. “You think he’s ready now?”
“I think the point is moot if you don’t love him anymore.” His voice firms. “And I think there was a version of him you couldn’t love. But there was also a version of him you loved so deeply… So the question is—do you actually know who he is now?”
I swallow.
“Or are you keeping him at arm’s length because you’ve got fears of your own?”
I slide down until I’m sitting on the chair then pull my knees to my chest.
“Love and fear go together, Robyn. You can’t love someone you’re not afraid to lose. I think he understands that now.”
“But what about the next time?” I mutter. “What happens then?”
“That is where the real work starts. The fumbling part. He learns your language. You learn his. Happiness isn’t automatic. Respect isn’t static. Choosing someone is an active thing.” His voice softens. “I’m saying this because I love you. And because I think, deep down, you still love Nate.”
I close my eyes again.
“And to be clear,” he adds, his voice shifting, deeper now, “his failures weren’t your fault. This is not a Julian’s switching sides situation.”
There’s a soft hiss through the phone—leather complaining as he shifts in his chair. I almost see hisNo bullshit, Robynexpression in front of me.
He exhales, long and measured. “Youalsolost the forest for the trees. Focused so hard on the future of your relationship that you stopped nurturing it in the present.”
I knew this already, but why does it feel like a world-shattering declaration when coming from Julian? Or maybe they only feel that way because the lab in the next room has gone silent—centrifuge paused, my breath suddenly too loud in my ears.
“And I feel okay telling you this: he’s been working on himself so he doesn’t fail you again.”
I drop my forehead to the cool plastic table in front of me.
“But the real question is—have you? Or have you just been hiding out and licking your wounds?”
We say goodbye as the centrifuge restarts, its hum lowering the thundering against my temple. Machines are steady. Unemotional. Reliable.
With people, there’s no control group. No clean variables. Just choices you make with incomplete data and the hope you didn’t miss something vital.
A knock yanks me out of my thoughts. When I turn myhead over my shoulder, Ellie’s leaning in the doorway with that apologetic tilt she gets when she knows what she’s about to say will derail my morning.
Honey-blonde hair, always in a braid, a loose end slipping free over her shoulder. She glances to the hall, then back to me. “Mr. Matthews is down in the ER.” She lowers her voice. “He’s been cleared, but he refuses to leave until you check him.”
I exhale through my nose, already standing. “Of course he does.”
“He keeps saying, ‘She caught it last time.’ Serena’s trying to turn the bed.”
“Which bay?”
“Three.”
I grab my coat and badge. “Let’s go.”
The ER smells sharper than the floors upstairs. Monitors beep out of sync. Everyone’s running around with a purpose. I think absentmindedly that it must be particularly stressful to see your doctors so frazzled. That’s the ER for you—controlled chaos. Serena spots me immediately, blonde hair pulled into a severe bun, clipboard tucked to her chest like a shield.
“Oh, thank God,” she mutters. “Please say the magic words so I can turn this bed.”
I step into the cubicle and draw the curtain behind me. Mr. Matthews is sitting upright on the gurney, feet dangling, jacket folded neatly beside him. He looks… fine. Color good. Eyes bright. Hands steady where they rest on his thighs.What’s he doing here?Contrary to what his wife says, he’s not dramatic, turning up every time he feels slightly off.
