“You didn’t do art school, obviously,” I venture.
“Nope,” she answers.
“How did you end up veering toward nursing?”
Her eyes spark with mischief. “Well, I, too, got an early call to the NHL draft. And, as you know, when that call comes, you answer it.”
I snort, shaking my head. “Right. And how’d that work out for you?”
She grins, “But it turns out, I was not good on skates, and I did not get picked, but the window on my art education had closed, and I figured there’s always a need for nurses, so here I am.”
She beams at me, and I roll my eyes. “Wow. Deep career insight there.”
“No,” she says softly. “My mom got sick. You probably didn’t know that.”
I shake my head. “No. What happened?”
“She had all these weird symptoms for about a year, and nobody could figure it out. They ran every test imaginable, and all came back normal. Finally, one of her nurses suggested they test for a few rare disorders. Turns out she had one. They started her on experimental treatments, and she’s doing a lot better now.”
Her smile is small but proud. “I was really inspired by her nurse, actually. So I switched gears. Figured I could do more good helping people than painting them.”
“Well, you were a hell of an artist,” I say. “You sure about that trade?”
“Thanks,” she says. “But I love what I do. I’m okay with how it turned out.”
I feel myself frown. What does she mean by that? If she’d stayed in Minneapolis with me, she’d have been in art school while I was in college. Her trajectory would have been way different. We’d have been together.
Is she saying she’s okay with the path her life has taken overall? Or is she only referring to the switch from art to nursing?
“Do you still make art?” I ask, trying not to let my overthinking brain take over.
“No,” she says. “Nothing serious anyway.”
“That’s too bad,” I say. “Why not?”
“I just don’t have time,” she answers, her shoulders stiffening a little. She runs a fingertip around the rim of her coffee mug.
“Well, you told me you work three days a week. You really don’t have time for hobbies you once loved? What’s holding you back?”
She looks sharply at me, and I recoil a bit.
Here’s the part where she might tell meI know nothing about her, ornot to pry into her business
But no. She doesn’t say that.
“I don’t have time,” she says slowly, stopping to pause, clearly chewing on her answer, “because I am busy caring for my son.”
13
EMMA
Liam Callaghan has never beenthe emotional type.
He doesn’t rush into things, doesn’t react just because he feels something. He’s always been quiet and steady. The kind of man who locks his feelings down behind a wall no one gets through unless he lets them.
I used to pride myself on knowing how to read him anyway, catching the smallest tells when something was simmering under the surface.
But he never wore his heart on his sleeve. That poker face could win medals. Broody as hell, impossible to read. Half the time, I didn’t know if I was interpreting him right at all.
