He picks up his water, swirling it.
“Spite got me into med school, yeah. I wanted to see the look on Alistair’s face when I passed the MCAT. And it was glorious. But staying here?”
He shakes his head.
“It’s not about spite anymore, Luke. It’s about the fact that for the first time in my life, when I walk into a room, people aren't looking at my last name. They’re looking at my hands. They’re waiting for me todosomething. To help.”
He looks at me. His blue eyes are unguarded, stripped of the "York" armor.
“I just want to be useful,” he whispers. “Is that stupid?”
I stop chewing. I feel a lump in my throat that has nothing to do with the sushi.
I thought he was playing a game. I thought he was a tourist. But a tourist doesn't care about being useful. A tourist just wants the photo op.
“No,” I say softly. “It’s not stupid.”
I rub the back of my neck, letting out a heavy sigh. The exhaustion pulls at me, loosening my own tongue.
“I get the pressure,” I admit. “Just… from the other side.”
Preston raises an eyebrow. “Do you? Mr. ‘My Mother Framed My Acceptance Letter’?”
“Hey, don’t knock the frame. It’s mahogany.” I chuckle, but it’s a dry sound. “But yeah. That’s the problem. The frame. The pride.”
I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees.
“My mom… she worked overtime in this hospital for ten years so I could go to med school. She worked double shifts. She skipped meals.”
I look at the door, imagining her out there, patrolling the halls.
“She carries a laminated copy of my diploma in her purse, Preston. She shows it to patients. It’s mortifying, but it’s also… terrifying. Because every time I walk into a trauma bay, I’m not just a doctor. I’m the Investment. I’m the Return.”
I look at Preston.
“You’re trying to prove you’re not a joke,” I say. “I’m trying to prove I’m not a bad investment. If I fail… I don't just fail myself. I fail the whole Ortiz timeline.”
Preston looks at me. The air in the room shifts. It stops feeling like a closet and starts to feel like a confessional.
“The Heir and the Golden Boy,” Preston muses. “We’re quite the pair, aren't we?”
“A pair of imposters,” I agree.
Preston reaches across the small desk. He picks up the bottle of sparkling water and holds it out to me. A toast.
“To the imposters,” he says. “May we fool them all.”
I tap my bottle against his.Clink.
“To the imposters.”
We drink. Preston watches me over the rim of his bottle. His gaze drops to my mouth, then snaps back up to my eyes.
“You’re doing fine, by the way,” Preston says. His voice is low. “Even Mama Ortiz thinks so. I heard her telling a terrified phlebotomist that you were ‘competent, for a man.’”
I snort. “That’s high praise coming from her. Usually, I’m just ‘The Boy.’”
“Take the win, Luke.”
