Max and Jax are eating lunch at a corner table. I am sitting with them, looking miserable. Luke is walking past with a tray of lukewarm lasagna when the atmosphere in the room drops twenty degrees.
The double doors swing open.
Catherine York glides in. She is wearing a pastel yellow suitthat looks like an Easter egg designed by a dictator. She spots us instantly.
“Mother,” Max sighs, dropping his fork. “She found us. Quick, Jax, look busy. Intubate your apple.”
“Too late,” Jax grins, crunching into it. “Target lock engaged.”
Catherine arrives at the table. She ignores the cafeteria surroundings as if they are a hallucination she is choosing not to acknowledge.
“Maxwell. Preston,” she says. “And… Dr. O’Connell.”
She gives Jax a polite, tight smile. The kind you give a large dog that has stopped biting but still sheds on the velvet.
“Mrs. York,” Jax says cheerfully. “Nice shade of yellow. Very… optimistic.”
“It is ‘Buttercream,’” she corrects icily. “Preston, darling. We need to discuss Saturday.”
I shrink in my seat. “I thought we were skipping it? Dad said something about fleeing to the Caymans to avoid the pollen.”
“Change of plans. The weather is holding. We are hosting the Annual York Invitational.”
I choke on my water. “The golf outing? Mother, no. You know I don’t golf. I don’t like walking on grass. It’s uneven.”
“You are playing,” Catherine insists. “We need a fourth. And I have a surprise for you. I’ve invited Harrison Vane.”
I stare at her. “Harrison Vane? The guy who wears boat shoes to funerals? Mother, no.”
“He is a lovely young man,” Catherine insists. “His father sits on the Hospital Board. He is finishing his Art History degree. I thought he would be a… suitable partner for you. Since you seem determined to waste your youth in this… basement.”
I look frantic. I look at Max. Max looks away, studying the ceiling tiles with intense fascination. I look at Jax.
Jax leans over to Max and whispers, loud enough for everyone to hear, “Man, it is so nice not to be the cannon fodder this time. I feel lighter. Do I look lighter?”
“You look smug,” Max mutters. "Now eat your apple."
My eyes dart around the room. They land on Luke.
He tries to blend into a pillar. It doesn't work.
“I have a partner already!” I blurt out. “I’m bringing someone else to the club.”
Catherine freezes. “Excuse me?”
“I’m bringing Luke. Dr. Silva.” I point a shaking finger at him.
Catherine turns slowly. She looks at Luke. She looks at his ID badge. She looks at the lasagna.
“Dr. Silva,” she says. “The… scheduler.”
“Chief Resident,” Luke corrects automatically.
“He’s very busy,” I lie, standing up. “But he cleared his schedule for Saturday. Didn't you, Luke?”
Luke looks at me. He looks like a man about to be fed to a shark wearing boat shoes.
“I… yes,” he says, because he is apparently a saint. “I love… golf.”
