“I’m admitting this publicly for two reasons. First, she deserves an apology. From the bottom of my heart, I am deeply regretful for my actions. While I can only pray she’ll someday forgive me, my goal is to remind her she is amazing, her ideas are valid, and her strength is real. It’s still there.” He pauses. “The second reason is to ask you to join us on November seventh at seven p.m. at the Village Art House and help us raise money to get the project back on track. Because I didn’t just take away her hope—I took away a project that could truly help people. I swore an oath to do no harm, to practice humility, recognize the limits of my knowledge, and collaborate with colleagues when necessary—she is a colleague and should be treated as such. The community needs her. We need her. Ticket sales…”
Easton lowers his phone. His hand comes out, a calloused thumb catching the tears on my cheek. “You’re gonna fuck up your mascara.”
“Easton, I—” I don’t know what to say. I look out into the crisp November night. At the crowd gathered ahead. “I can’t believe he put his reputation on the line. I can’t believe he just admitted all that, publicly.”
I just start spiraling, thinking about how that could affect his career, what people or the hospital might say about him, but Easton interrupts my thoughts.
“It’s the least he can do. But tonight isn’t about him. It’s about you. Now, come on.”
My legs are unsteady as I follow him out of the car. My palms are damp. I thread my arm through his and hold on as we climb the steps, and that’s when I see it: The Resilience Project. Big and bold across a banner strung above the entrance.
My stomach turns more violently. “Don’t let go,” I whisper.
He kisses my cheek. “Never.”
And I follow him in.
Inside, it’s overwhelming—bright and packed. People I know, many I don’t. Easton’s teammates, their partners, his coach. Strangers in expensive suits. My dad’s colleagues. Even Logan and Pearl’s friends, who all give me awkward hellos and apologies.
Easton dips his head toward me. “Logan kept your name out of the video to protect your privacy. You don’t have to do anything tonight, it’s all taken care of. Pearl actually organized it. She’s a pretty good party planner.”
“Pearl?” I say in shock.
He laughs. “She’s fuckin’ psycho. But the woman throws a good party. You should have seen her. Absolute nightmare to deal with, but for you, it was worth it.”
“I can’t believe this is happening.” I really can’t. I can’t feel my legs. “Easton—what if I don’t even want it anymore?”
He rolls his eyes. And he’s allowed to, as my best friend. “Please. You know you do. But if you don’t, you can organize a way to donate the money to the exact cause you were trying to create. But this… Logan and Pearl predict you’ll make three times as much as those investors initially pledged. And because these are all donations, you aren’t jumping through anyone else’s hoops.”
I press my fingers to my chest. My heart won’t slow down.
Easton, as promised, never lets go. He hands me a drink, and we drift between his teammates while I move through the room in a daze. Then a microphone tap pulls the room’s attention to the stage.
Though we’ve never met, I recognize Logan’s father on stage, and now I’m even more confused. He’s tall like Logan, but the resemblance is softer somehow, easier. Neat white hair, a broad smile, shoulders that fill out a suit the same way his son’s do. My father is up there too, off to one side. He finds me almost immediately, like he knew exactly where I’d be standing, and the look he gives me—warm, steady, proud—makes me want to turn away from him. But then I remember what I told him that day on the sidewalk. Show up. Do the work.
Logan’s father speaks first. He echoes much of what Logan said in the video, but adds something I didn’t know: he signed the letter too. He moves quickly past that, though, and into the business plan—my business plan—and the room responds with applause that feels surreal. I glance at Easton, who shrugs. He had access to my documents. He must have shared the folder.
Then Logan steps onto the stage beside his father, and everything else dims.
I can barely hear his words. It’s like a cicada is stuck in my ear. I catch fragments—a request for donations, laughter, applause—but mostly I just watch his mouth move.
The way he stands up there in his suit, clean-shaven, composed, even after admitting his wrongdoing. It aches to see him and not be able to touch him. Watching him up there, looking like the man I fell in love with, I feel my pulse move through me, down my arms, into my fingertips.
“It should hurt,” Logan says, waking me from the stupor. His voice is deep and captivating; the audience listens with everything they have.
“When was the last time you donated enough to make it hurt?” he continues. “I mean that literally. Not a tax write-off. Not rounding out your portfolio. Enough that you felt it—that you had to think twice. Because if you are someone who has never had to struggle for anything, that moment of discomfort is the closest you will come to understanding what the people this clinic will serve feel every single day. And if that small, temporary sting is all it costs you to change not just one life but dozens, maybe hundreds—then isn’t that worth it?”
I can’t help the proud smile pulling at my lips. I can’t believe he’s saying this to a room full of rich people.
“In addition to a private donation, I also pledge to match every donation made tonight.”
The room gasps. Easton grins down at me. I swallow hard. “Did he really just—”
“Yep.”
Logan continues from the stage, pledging his time, his father’s time, a rotating roster of volunteer nurses and doctors he’s personally coordinating. “We want this to be more than a wellness center,” he says. “As someone once told me—it’s going to be a place where people can feel human again.” He adds a small joke after that. The room laughs. I don’t hear it.
When the music starts back up and Logan steps off the stage, I realize I’ve been leaning forward. Reaching, almost. Wanting him back. Right here, right now.
