And I feel the clarity from finally choosing the right side of the line.
CHAPTER 22
The Faultline
Robyn
Seven Months Later – Late January
I usedto hate driving in winter, but Bend isn’t Chicago. The roads here feel wide open, even with the fresh three-inch snowfall piled along the curbs. The pacing is different here, and half the time, no one even bothers to claim their turn at a four-way stop. They just wave everyone else through, as if rushing places isn’t worth the headache.
Maybe I wasn’t worth the headache.
Nine months since I last saw Nate, and sometimes, I get this fizz of doubt that if I’d only been less ambitious or done better at my boards or just more of a natural at medicine, I wouldn’t have driven him away. I know it wasn’t on me, but the thought still comes, and I have to play Whac-A-Mole with my emotions. Even here, in this town that begs you to breathe deeper, and now, with so many miles and months in between, Ican’t slow down and sift through what’s left of what I felt for Nate.
I pull in behind a pickup, turn my hazards on, and shove the thought down. As I jog across the slush toward Loam & Latte, the cold snaps at my ankles. The tiny coffee shop is tucked between the gear store and the yoga studio downtown, and I run across the sidewalk and yank the glass door open, my breath wisping in front of me.
The warmth hits me in a soft whoosh. Milk frothers hiss, and I take a big whiff of the lemon zest, cinnamon, and the buttery croissants Iknowthey’re baking right about now.Worth the sprinting through frozen weather every single time.
“Hey, Robyn,” Lara calls before I even reach the counter. She’s smiling, wrinkles showing at the corners of her eyes, wiping her hands on a flour-dusted apron, then tucking her graying hair behind her ears. “I haven’t finished the poppyseed muffins you like yet.”
I never had this in Chicago, the barista who knows your order and tries to have it ready. “That’s okay,” I say, leaning with my elbows on the counter. “Just coffee today.”
“Hazelnut?”
“Always.”
“We’re out of oat milk. Almond okay?”
Not even a little.Almond milk tastes like water with an identity crisis. “Can you just do skim?” I ask.
“To go, of course?”
The question is silly. It’s not really a coffee shop to sit down, it’s a long narrow space with three tall tables and random stools cramped around them, but I nod anyway.
Before I pull out my wallet to tap the reader, Lara reaches over and covers it with her palm. She does that firm-but-gentle mom move that tells me resistance is pointless. “If it’s just coffee, it’s on the house.”
A laugh huffs behind her. “Damn right.”
The side door creaks open, letting in a slice of icy air. Zac steps in, brushing snow off his shoulders. His cropped blond hair is damp around the edges, and his cheeks are flushed a bright, windburned pink that climbs higher as the heat in the shop warms him. When he tilts his head, the stubble along his jaw shows off and his dimpled chin crinkles.
His smile widens. “Thought that was your car out there,” he says, staying behind the counter.
Lara puts a lid on my coffee, and Zac grabs it before I can. “Let me walk you out.”
We walk to my car in silence, Zac’s boots squelch as they sink in the snow, and his shoulder brushes mine when he opens the door to the driver’s seat. After handing me my cup, he winks then closes the door. He shoves his hands into his coat pockets, tracking me as I pull onto the road. When I check the right-side mirror before turning, he isn’t there anymore.
I’m walking through the hospital lot toward the staff entrance, and a car door slams somewhere behind me, then someone falls into step beside me. Bend smells like woodsmoke and clean snow. Chicago smelled like car exhaust and my own adrenaline—burnout and lakefront mornings woven into one impossible knot of anxiety.Whack that fucking mole, Robyn!The automatic doors whoosh open, a wave of warm air wrapping around my legs.
“Morning, Dr. Hollis, Miss Serena,” the security guard calls from his desk. His beard is a riot of silver curls.
Serena and I slip into the elevator together. She tugs off her hat, her shoulder-length dark hair frizzy with static. Her cheeks are pink from the cold. “I know you’re scheduled for consults and referrals today, but could you swing by the fifth floor? Mr. Matthews wouldn’t settle without you. Ever sinceyou caught that early-stage cerebellar infarct, he thinks you hung the moon.”
Her tone is teasing, but her eyes say she’s grateful. And okay—a quiet puff of pride settles in my chest, warm enough to fight the winter air still clinging to my coat. Because Mr. Matthews is exactly why I’m here. Symptoms that could easily be dismissed but still hide something that could kill you. Just like with Mom.
“Sure thing! I love Mr. Matthews.”
“He keeps trying to set you up with his nephew.”
