"Then don't let anyone try." Her voice is matter-of-fact, the way it always is when she's saying something that sounds simple and isn't. "You know what my mother told me when I introduced her to Dave and Neil? She said,Kathy, the world is going to have opinions. But they don't have to live your life. You do."
"And you stopped listening."
"Thirty-two years ago. Still not listening." She pauses. "You're allowed to want things that don't fit what society expects of you, Hope. You just have to be honest with yourself about what you're choosing. The rest is other people's problem."
"What if there's more than one person?"
The silence on the line stretches.
"Then you stop pretending you have to choose," she says. "If they're all in, and you're all in, it works. It's everyone else who has trouble with it."
After we hang up, I sit at the kitchen table for a long time. The textbook is still open but I'm not looking at it anymore.
You just stop pretending you have to choose.
The next morning at Greenridge, Casey's in the Ward A corridor.
Standing between the checkpoint and the admin wing, hands in the pockets of his pants, facing the direction I come from.
"Hey, Hope"
"Hey, Casey." I slow down but don't stop. "How are you?"
"Good. Really good." He falls into step beside me. Walking with me, matching my pace, his shoulder close enough that I can smell him. "I wanted to talk to you about something."
"What's up?"
"I've been thinking a lot. About getting out." He says it easily, the way someone discusses weekend plans. "About what comes after."
"That's great, Casey. Have you talked to Dr. Kennedy about your treatment timeline?"
"Yeah, yeah. Kennedy." He waves that off. His eyes stay on me. "I mean after all of it. Where I'd go. What I'd do." A pause. "Who I'd be with."
I keep walking. Clipboard against my chest.
"I've been thinking about the mountains," he says. "You know that trail system up past Ridgeback? The one with the creek crossings?" He's close enough now that his arm brushes mine. "I think you'd love it up there. In the spring, when the wildflowers come in."
I stop walking.
He stops too. Turns to face me. His expression is open, earnest, and completely certain.
"Casey—"
"I know we can't talk about it in here." His hand comes up and wraps around my wrist—gentle, intimate. His thumb finds my pulse and strokes across it. "I get it. You have to be professional. But I want you to know I've thought about it. All of it. Where we'd go. How it would work."
I know what this is. Erotomanic delusion. Fixed, specific, grandiose. He's already decided this story is real, and every word out of his mouth has the weight of total conviction.
"Casey." I keep my voice even. "I need my hand back."
He blinks. Looks down at his grip on my wrist, and for half a second his fingers tighten before he lets go. Steps back. The pleasant expression returns, but his eyes don't change.
"Sorry," he says. Smiles. "Got ahead of myself."
"It's okay. I need to get to Ward B."
"Yeah, of course." He steps aside. "See you around, Hope."
I walk to the Ward B checkpoint without looking back. The guard buzzes me through and I go straight to the documentation room, pull a clinical concern form, and write it up before the encounter cools.
