I shook my head, brushing off the unwanted thought with the last remnants of the night.
CHAPTER 9
YVAINE
Ashadow appeared behind the door, just under a sign bearing the cheery headlineWe don’t serve Dark Diamonds. The bell over the door jingled, and a little breeze swept into the shop—along with Tiziano.
“Did someone order a doctor in shining armor, or am I at the wrong coffee shop?” he announced under the oval lightbulb hanging from a rope, shaking two bags at us. Magnesium pills, aloe vera drinks, and seaweed snacks, judging by the smells.
“What sort of day have you had?”
“Terrible,” he huffed, sitting and handing the bags to us, his hair looking longer than usual. If he hadn’t had time for a haircut, then it must’ve beenbadbad. “Three consecutive heart attacks followed by a six-hour aortic valve replacement.”
He was on track to be a rockstar cardiologist, and somehow he managed to balance his medical grind with an impressively active social life. Last week, he’d gone on dates with two different guys and sat through a fourteen-hour surgery, yet he’d still managed to ace all his classes. He was the chief surgeon’s son, which explained how he’d gotten into the field in the first place, but unlike me, who was knee-deep—or morelike body-deep—in neurosurgery, Tiziano had always been more interested in hearts than brains.
He loved to remind me that the heart had its own little brain, complete with neurons, neurotransmitters, and supporting cells. It could act independently of the cranial brain and possessed extensive sensory capabilities—and he thought that made it way cooler than the actual brain.
Tiziano agreed with Plato that the heart, not the brain, was the true powerhouse.
Meh.
I wasn’t buying it.
Our never-ending debate about which one was more important would probably rage on until the end of time. Not a single day passed without us arguing over which deserved the anatomical crown.
“Missed you babies! Come here,” Tiziano cooed, swinging his arms around me and Makena, tugging us close. I got a face full of his shirt—Britney Spears was sticking out her tongue at me with her middle finger raised, andOops, I did it againwasembroidered on the collar line.
“Me too, Tizzy,” I lied.
“We saw you at breakfast.” Makena scowled. She’d been moody since the morning, and she’d said barely a word. Not that I could blame her.
“You both know howmissableI can be!”
“Survival rate?” asked Amaia, referring to his patients.
“One in four. Told you. Terrible day.” Tiziano yawned; I covered his mouth with my hand. He dropped onto the wooden chair facing the café, his people-watching urges needing to be satisfied. “So, what’s new?”
“A new blood test could help doctors detect pancreatic cancer earlier,” Amaia informed us, typing with one hand and holding her cup of ginger lemon tea with the other—because why not bea little bit healthy while enjoying cake? A half-eaten banh chung sat next to her elbow, not a single crumb on her keyboard.
“I can’t hear the C-word any more today,” I groaned, sipping my iced matcha latte.
Tiziano pulled on the end of my braid. “Bad day, babe?”
“I wish.Horribleday. One I want to erase from my long-term memory.”
Amaia, not happy with how her news had hit us, tried again. “A breakdancer developed a ‘headspin hole’—a bulge on his scalp—from doing head spins for years. The repeated pressure created a fluid-filled lump between the skin and skull that had to be surgically removed.”
“I meant inyourday! What’s new in your day?”
“Oh, I forgot your need to go through the chit-chat phase, Tizzy.” Amaia huffed. “It’s exhausting sometimes.”
I chuckled. Even if my mood was crummy, I wasn’t going to waste my cake study session at the Pumpkin Hide. The washed-out red brick house, with its wide, arched windows and a stream of visitors trickling in and out of the doors, was our personal study hall every Wednesday.
We had our usual rectangular table under a window covered in Halloween decorations, little hanging ghosts and black cats that the owner never took down. The reservation tag “Tiziano x4” was always present on Wednesdays.
The café buzzed with late-afternoon life—a symphony of hushed conversations, the clinking of cups, and the hiss of the espresso machine. This was the kind of place where the world made sense, a quotidian routine that gave us comfort. No matter how bad things got, we’d meet here at Pumpkin Hide.
Hours passed. I lifted my head when my stomach reminded me it needed fuel to keep up with my demands, aka, my study marathon.
