To my right, Nate is writing fast, the pen chasing the speaker’s words. He nods as he goes, marking the margins with arrows and looping circles, then flips back through earlier pages. Nothing in that notebook is random. I catch my name several times threaded between quotes, before he draws another arrow that leads back to today’s quote. There’s also a question mark—he isn’t closing the loop. He’s aware he’s still learning, unfinished. Maybe there’s more than surface here.
In my lap sits an A5 spiral notebook he brought for me. I don’t really need to write anything down, but I do, pressing the pen harder than necessary. I embrace the calm that runs through me with the small motion.
When I look up again, Nate is watching me. There’s a small smile on his mouth, unassuming, but his attention doesn’t drift. He keeps listening to the doctor, the way he does now. The way he’s learned to, every Wednesday, wait out the silence to ensure my thought’s complete before he speaks.
When the lecture ends, Nate closes his notebook and turns to me. His mouth tilts upward when he sees I’ve scribbled more in the notebook.
He tips his head toward the back of the room, where the reception lights are already glowing. “Drink before Pike Place?”
I nod, and we let ourselves be carried out with the crowd, the air loosening into clinking glasses and overlapping voices. I take a gin and tonic, and Nate orders his whiskey neat.
“What’d you think?” he asks.
“I think you really got into it.”
He takes a sip and winks.
“I never knew you to be this introspective.”
“You know I wasn’t.” His shoulder brushes mine, not accidentally.
For a beat, we observe each other. His brow is slightly furrowed, and he’s probably hoping I won’t notice. This is more like my Nate—understated, constant worry.
“You think I changed my allocations on a whim or as a trauma response.”
“And you didn’t?” His tone is careful, not accusatory.
“Research matters. Infarct subtyping. Risk stratification. Translational work that bridges imaging, clots, and outcomes.” My tone isn’t defensive or secretive—it’s the plain truth of my work. I lift my glass then lower it. “Patients matter too. But we don’t save them without the work that comes before.”
“That’s a hell of a shift from how you talked about medicine.” He steps closer, tilting his head down.
I stand on my toes and whisper, “My life doesn’t look like the one I planned.”
His cognac gaze flicks to mine, but he doesn’t flinch at the harsh comeback. I don’t think he could since it’s true for both of us. A woman bumps lightly into my elbow and apologizes. She’s mid-forties, dark hair pulled back, sharp eyes softened by attention rather than appraisal.
“I overheard you’re a neurologist?” she asks, offering her hand. “I’m Elena Harris. Head of neurology at Northmoor University Medical Center.”
She says it as if it isn’t a well-known program to anyone in the field. They’re a hub in a rural area in New Hampshire, but they own a well-funded hospital with state-of-the-art research while remaining patient-centered.
We discuss the talk and dance around the things no one formally trains you to carry but you must learn to hold.
“I shifted my hours recently,” I say. “More research. Less clinic.”
She nods, no surprise in it. “Were you aiming for fifty–fifty?”
Something in my chest settles—I was.
“That balance helps most people,” she continues. “Few places allow it in neurology. They specialize you until you burn out twice as fast. Integrated, holistic models keep people in the work longer.”
We exchange cards. “In case you ever want to see how we operate,” she says. “Or just need a change of pace.”
She steps away from us the same way she came, abruptly. When I look up from her card, Nate’s watching me with his chin slightly lifted, mouth softening at the corners in an unguarded quasi smile. He’sproud of me, as if he’s finally seeing the result and not the process of pouring hours and hours into it.
How’s this the same man who resented it?“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Because I don’t think you realize how unbelievably amazing you are. So much so that this woman overheard you and interrupted us to connect with you.” He pauses, eyes steady on mine. “I’m really proud of you, Robyn. I always knew you’d thrive.”
I draw my shoulders back and blink twice. His smile deepens into that same smile he had when I gave him that yogurt. And it tugs at something true and raw inside me telling me I don’t want to just thrive. I want to thrivetogether. I just don’t know how to get over the anger, and much less, the fear.
