“We can make it official, of course. But you’ll have taxes and insurance to cover, which are about the same as you’d pay monthly for an apartment. Unless you really would prefer to find something else.”
I looked up at her. As if.
“Are you sure?”
She dipped her chin. “I think it meant more to you than it ever did to me. I don’t need the rent money. To me, it’s always felt like my father’s attempt to absolve the guilt he felt for leaving us. But you… Maybe you could make your fresh start there?”
And just like that, my heart felt too full.
Because I could see it.
A new cooking show.
Filmed in the bright kitchen where Gran and I used to cook. With sunlight slanting through the windows and the ocean sparkling in the background.
For a moment, I saw Noah there too. But I shut the door on that real fast.
Nope. Nuh-uh. Don’t ruin this feeling, Luna.
“Will you come visit?” I asked.
She laughed softly. “Probably more than you’ll want.”
NOAH
“More ‘workflow optimization,’ Dr. Grady?”
Abby—one of the lifers, twenty-something years at Beacon Hill—caught my eye as I stepped off the elevator. She had that same look the nurses had been giving me all week.
Ever since the buyout, they knew.
We all did.
“Unfortunately.” I could only shake my head.
Today’s department meeting had been wall-to-wall corporate buzzwords: streamlining, optimizing, transitioning to a leaner model…
Translation: fewer people doing more work, with less support.
Apparently, patient care took a back seat the moment insurance conglomerates took the wheel.
And damned if it didn’t feel like the end of something that used to matter.
“Well,” Abby said with a shrug that didn’t quite reach her smile, “nothing to do but adjust.” She turned away, adding over her shoulder, “Have a good weekend, Dr. Grady.”
“You too, Abs.”
Adjust. Pivot. Bend.
However, it was becoming increasingly difficult to mold myself into the shape this job required. Harder to pretend I didn’t already have one foot out the door.
I drove home feeling almost robotic, walked into my apartment, and then stripped off my scrubs as I headed straight for the shower. Not sure how long I stood under the water, maybe thinking I could scrub the hospital off my skin, not just the germs, but the decisions being made in that place.
It didn’t work.
When the water finally ran cold, I shut it off, toweled dry, and pulled on a T-shirt and my favorite pair of sweats. My hand slid into one of the pockets, but when the memory teased me, I froze.
Durango. That hotel room. Me standing there, wondering whether to bring a condom next door.
