Accepting a surgical position at Harvard Medical.
Untangling from my responsibilities at Stanford.
Handing off patients.
Packing up my place. Saying goodbye to routines that never meant much, and friends who raised eyebrows when I said I was doing it for a woman.
They don’t know Ember. They don’t understand that she’s not the reason I’mleaving; she’s the reason I’mliving.
By the time August hits, the heat in Boston is biblical.
I step out of the cab with my shirt clinging to my back, my hair damp.
Most of my stuff is in storage back in Palo Alto. Depending upon where Ember wants to live, we’ll decide what to bring here and what to get rid of.
I only have two suitcases with me.
Is it risky to knock on a woman’s door on Saturday afternoon and tell her you’re moving in with her?Hell, yeah.
But I have faith. I have trust. I know how this will turn out. But that doesn’t lessen the anxiety in my stomach.
I check her location. She’s in her apartment upstairs.
I text her:Where are you?
She replies instantly:Just got back from the gym. You?
I consider my options and then decide to surprise her.
Me:At home. Having a lazy day.
Ember:Nice!
I go into the building and nod at the concierge. He knows me. I’ve been here a few times in the past several months. I also have a key fob to her place.
I take the elevator, impatient as it slowly makes its way to the tenth floor.
I knock. And wait.
The door opens.
She’s in running shorts, her hair in a messy bun, and there’s sweat on her brow. She blinks, startled—and then confused.
“Ransom?”
“Hi.”
“Ransom?” she repeats it like she can’t believe what she’s seeing. She looks at the suitcases next to me, and then at me. “What…what?”
“I’m moving in.”
She stares. Her mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again.
“I thought you had a rotation this week.”
“I do. In Boston. At Harvard Medical.”
Her hand flies to her mouth.
