Before tonight, the last time I held her, we were sitting outside her hospital under a crabapple tree. The breakup had been unreal to me until that moment, something she’d decided but I was not yet living. I lost her then because I wanted to feel needed.
Now—Now I’d give anything not to be holding her like this. I’d trade every selfish want I’ve ever had just to erase the reason she’s in my arms. Even if it meant she’d never need me again.
Three and a half weeks pass.Long enough for the shock to settle and for Robyn to look…normal. We’re something akin to friends now, walking each other to our buildings, stopping to chat downtown. And we’re back at our reading club for two. Only now, we don’t text, wecalland listen to each other breathing as we read. It gives us less time to dwell on the subtext of everything we say. It’s more honest, even if it’s harder to hide in.
Tonight, we’re on the last chapter ofHow Buildings Learn. She’s on her armchair, blinds drawn up; I’m on my couch, curtains open. I don’t think she can hear my heartbeat constantly above its baseline, but I bet she can guess.
“And that’s the point, right?” She hums. Thoughtful. “The concept building doesn’t fail because it gets remodeled. It fails when it can’t.”
I smile to myself. Of course that’s the line she latches onto. We talk through the chapter—layers, adaptation, the arrogance of thinking permanence is a virtue. It’s easy. Easier than it has any right to be.
Until it isn’t.
“Can I ask you something?” I say, casual on the surface. I meant to ask her last week and chickened out, worried about disturbing this quiet peace we’re finding.
“Mm. Depends.”
“Why did you change your allocations?”
The morning after her patient died, I expected Robyn to struggle—and she didn’t. She went to work, ready to face the day, and she did the same the day after that. Julian even said she sounded better than he does when he loses a patient. So, I figured it was par for the course, and the show must go on, as they say.
Then, one morning while waiting for her latte, she mentioned it in passing. ToZacof all people. A change in her role: seventy percent research and thirty percent clinic hours. So now I have to wonder if she’s really okay.
“I adjusted them two weeks ago,” she states. Neutral. Measured. Doctor voice.
“Why?”
Robyn has always wanted to be in a clinic. Direct care. Faces, stories, and hands she can hold. And now… not so much.
“I’m still seeing patients,” she says after a pause. “I didn’t stop.”
“I know,” I murmur. “That’s not what I’m asking.”
Glancing at the window, I see her chair more than I see her, but I can still fill in what my eyes can’t catch—knees drawn up, thumb worrying the edge of the cushion. Composed but not untouched.
She sighs. “I’m okay, Nate.”
I believe her,andsometimes, you’re okay and not okay at the same time.
“I know you are, but that doesn’t always mean?—”
“I love patient care,” she mutters. “I still do. Every doctor does, but… someone needs to do the research. Revise the protocols. Improve them so clinicians can save more people.”
She’s right, and the hollow in my chest that I still hope she’ll reclaim one day knows sometimes you must step back so you can step forward. But I also worry it’s not the whole story and a choice born out of a misguided impulse.
“Hey,” I say. “Can I pitch you something?”
“I’m not becoming an architect”
I huff a laugh. “Of course not. We’d need a few more books for that.”
I glance at the folded flyer on my coffee table, edges worn from being picked up and put down toomany times.
“There’s a conference next weekend in Seattle. Open to the public. It’s… not my field and not yours either.”
“Oh?”
“Resilience. Burnout.” I hesitate, then add, “It’s about practitioners and professionals in high stress roles. About staying balanced and grounded in the work.” My heart thunders in my chest. “I thought, maybe it’d be something you’d want to sit in on. No pressure. Just—listen.”
