“What is this?” I ask, staring at it.
“Yellowtail jalapeño,” Preston says, walking over and popping a pair of chopsticks apart. “Spicy tuna on crispy rice. Black cod with miso. And rock shrimp tempura, though I apologize, it might have lost some crunch in transit.”
“Transit?” I look at him. “Nobu doesn’t deliver to the St. Jude’s basement at three in the morning.”
Preston shrugs, sitting in the creaky chair and gesturing to the edge of the bed. “They do if you tip the driver a hundred bucks and promise to name your firstborn after the maitre d'.”
He points the chopsticks at me.
“Sit. Eat. You’re hangry. And when you’re hangry, you get mean. And when you get mean, you scare the interns. Jenkins is already crying in the supply closet.”
I hesitate. My pride saysdon’t eat the rich kid’s bribe food. My stomach, however, screamsshut up and eat the fish.
I sit on the edge of the bed. It groans under my weight.
Preston pushes a container toward me. It’s filled with tuna that looks like ruby gemstones.
“Eat,” he commands softly.
I take a bite. It melts on my tongue. The spice hits the backof my throat, waking up my deadened senses. It is infinitely better than the trapped pretzels.
For a few minutes, we eat in silence. The radiator clanks. The ventilation hums. It’s the first time I’ve stopped moving in twelve hours. I watch Preston eat. He eats with the same precision he uses to navigate his mother—careful, deliberate, but with a hidden appetite.
He catches me staring. He holds out a piece of crispy rice.
“Try this,” he says. “It’s life-changing.”
I lean forward and take it from his chopsticks. It’s intimate. Too intimate for a supply closet.
I chew. I swallow. I drink some sparkling water.
“Is it worth it?” I ask suddenly. The question slips out before I can stop it.
Preston pauses, a piece of ginger halfway to his mouth. He lowers his hand. The playful glint in his eyes dims a little.
“Is what worth it? The delivery fee? Yes. It was criminal, but?—”
“No,” I interrupt. “This. The grunt work. The hazing. The sleepless nights.”
I gesture around the grim little room.
“I get whyI’mhere, Preston. I have to be. This is the only path I have. But you? You have a golden parachute. You could be on a yacht in the Mediterranean right now. Instead, you’re eating takeout in a basement with a guy who yelled at you this morning.”
I look at him, really look at him.
“Is spite really enough fuel to get you through a shift like this?”
Preston sets his chopsticks down. He leans back in the chair, crossing his arms. He looks at the ceiling, where a water stain is shaped vaguely like a lung.
“You saw him today,” Preston says quietly. “When hewalked into the ER and smelled my mother’s perfume? He didn't ask if I was okay. He didn't ask what she wanted.”
He lets out a short, dry laugh.
“He thanked God he missed her, and then he ran back to the elevators. He literally fled the scene. Max is the Golden Child, the genius surgeon, the guy who runs the department… but the moment Catherine York enters the zip code, he turns into a ghost.”
He looks down at his hands—manicured, un-scarred hands that are starting to look a little rougher around the edges.
“He saves lives. He builds the legacy,” Preston continues. “Which makes me the Spare. The designated blast shield. The one who was supposed to go to business school, sit on the Board, and manage Mother’s moods so Max could do the ‘important work.’”
