Page 39 of Obeying

Priya drags me onto the dance floor for one song, which she documents on her phone and which I will be making her delete tomorrow. "You're a terrible dancer," she yells over the music, grinning. "I love it."

"All my skills go to my brain, unfortunately."

She laughs and tries to teach me a move, something with the hips that I cannot make my body do. I try anyway, and she cheers. Brennan joins in, and for a minute, I'm actually having fun. Real fun. The music is loud, my feet are moving, I'm laughing at how terrible I am, and it feels good.

Then someone bumps into me from behind, his hands on my shoulders as he squeezes past. "Careful, excuse me." His voice is deep and smooth, and for a split second, it sounds exactly like Miguel's. I spin around. It's a stranger. Some guy in a blue shirt heading toward the bar.

I exhale, turn back around, then from the corner of my eye, I catch someone standing near the entrance. Tall, slicked-back hair, watching the room. My heart stops. I turn fully, and it's just a guy scanning for friends. Nobody I know. Nobody dangerous.

But now I'm paranoid. Every man who slightly resembles him in this bar could be him. Every voice that's too smooth, every figure at the edge of my vision. The music is still playing, people are still dancing, but I can't be here anymore.

I feel ridiculous. I feel tired. There are too many things going on in my life right now to just let loose and party. I look around at the other residents laughing and doing shots, and I envy how simple it is for them to show up, have fun, and go home. I can't remember the last time anything was that simple for me.

Priya notices. She leans in. "You okay?"

"Fine. Just crowded."

She looks at me for a second too long. She knows. She doesn't say it.

I try to get back into it. I stay for another song. I clap when Brennan does his birthday toast, which is mostly just him thanking everyone for coming and then accidentally spilling his drink. But the fun is gone. Every time someone walks too close, I tense. Every time the door opens, my eyes go to it. I keep searching faces, wondering if he's here, if someone's watching.

So I leave early. I tell Brennan I'm leaving and wish him a happy birthday one last time. I tell Priya I have a headache. She doesn't believe me, I can see it in her face, but she lets me go. She squeezes my hand and says, "Text me when you're home." I appreciate her for that. For knowing when to hold on and when to let go.

The night air feels better than the bar. I walk for a few blocks until the music fades and the streets are just streets again, and I keep walking until I find the café.

It's four blocks from the hospital, and I found it by accident a few weeks ago. It's tucked between a laundromat and a bookstore, and you'd miss it if you weren't looking. The coffee is decent, but that's not why I come. The chairs are these massive armchairs that practically swallow you when you sit down, the lighting is low, and there's never more than a dozen people here at any given time. It feels hidden—safe. And right now, safe is the only thing I'm looking for.

I'm curled up in one of those armchairs with my hands around a warm mug, staring out the window, when the door opens, and Logan walks in.

He doesn't see me at first. He goes to the counter, orders, and while he's waiting, he pushes his glasses up and scans the room. His eyes land on me. They light up.

He gets his coffee and walks over. "Dr. Portland."

"Dr. Maxwell."

"Of all the cafés in this city."

"It's four blocks from the hospital, Logan. It's not exactly fate."

"I didn't say fate. But if you'd like to call it that, I won't argue."

I roll my eyes. It's late, and he's clearly had a long day, but he still manages to tease me.

He fights a smile. I look around the café. It's fuller than usual tonight, every table taken, and he's standing there with his coffee and nowhere to sit. I gesture to the empty armchair across from me.

"Sit down. Before you hover."

"I don't hover."

"You're hovering right now."

He sits. The armchair swallows him despite him being over six feet tall, and for a second, the head of trauma surgery looks vaguely ridiculous, sinking into an oversized cushion, his legs too long and his coffee cup too small in his hand. I press my lips together.

"Don't," he says.

"I'm not saying anything."

"You're thinking it."