Jagger gives a slight tip of his head in acknowledgement, not saying another word.
The air feels suffocatingly thick as Dad steps aside to let us up into the house. Stepping inside, I smell food cooking immediately. Lasagna, probably.He knows it’s my favorite.“Dinner smells amazing.”
Dad gestures toward the living room. “Why don’t you put your things down?” he says to Jagger. “Blake, you know where everything is.”
I give Jagger a quick look, raising a brow and softening my eyes to silently ask if he’s okay. I get a tiny smile before hedisappears down the hall with the suitcase. As soon as he’s out of sight, my dad faces me. His demeanor shifts from warm and inviting to protective and concerned.
“So,” he says, crossing his arms. “That’s him.”
“Yes,” I reply evenly. “That’s him.”
He sighs, running a hand through his graying hair. “Blake, you’ve barely been gone six months. And now you’re talking about moving again. Across the country. Into an apartment with a man you hardly know. Following a man… That’s not the daughter I raised.”
I open my mouth to respond, but Jagger’s voice cuts in from the doorway. “I agree,” he states calmly.
We both look at him. Dad’s eyebrows lift slightly as he studies him.He was clearly not expecting that.Jagger steps fully into the room, his gaze steady, his hands relaxed at his sides. Jagger turns his head toward me, looking at me with an expression so open and full of quiet admiration, it steals my breath.
“Blake is the most tenacious person I have ever met,” he confesses. “If she wanted to leave for some third-world country halfway around the world tomorrow, I’d arrange the jet for her. Because I know I couldn’t keep her here, and I sure as hell know she wouldn’t let me.”
My throat tightens, emotion swelling fast and unexpected. Dad’s posture softens, just a little; his arms drop from his chest.
“They do have medical facilities in Chicago, Dad,” I say gently, stepping closer to him. “Lots of them. I actually have a job interview late next week.”
His eyes flick to mine, then to Jagger, then back. “I worry about you,” he confesses quietly.
“I’m not giving up on what I wanted from life.” I take his hand, squeezing it. “I’m just adding to it.”
He exhales slowly, the fight draining out of him. “You always did get that from your mother.” He sighs. “Come on. Dinner’s almost ready.”
As we move deeper into the house, I glance back at Jagger. His eyes meet mine, and he gives me a small, reassuring smile, mouthing,See? Best behavior.
Even after a full night’s sleep, a 7:30 a.m. interview is far too early.
The waiting room I’m sitting in smells like antiseptic, barely masking the mildew. The paint is a tired beige, scuffed and chipped in places where furniture has been shoved against it. The floor matches, showing where chairs have been dragged and redragged across linoleum that has completely lost its shine. The ballasts of the fluorescent lights are only half working. Every seat is plastic, not one of them matches.
It reminds me a lot of Jadiriah.
I sit with my hands folded tightly in my lap, elbows tucked in, and shoulders drawn forward. The handwritten sign taped crookedly to the intake window reads:PLEASE HAVE PATIENCE. WE ARE DOING OUR BEST.The edges are curled, like it’s been there a long time.
My knees bounce despite my effort to still them. The room is already filling quickly, mothers with tired eyes andchildren clinging to their coats, an elderly woman coughing softly into a threadbare scarf, and a man with a swollen hand wrapped in a makeshift bandage. A baby’s cries fill the room as the door opens again, the sound of hunger or discomfort or both.
This place screamsneed.
I should feel comfortable here. This should feel familiar. It looks like almost all of the hospitals I’ve worked in: underfunded, understaffed, and overlooked by anyone with the power to change that. Yet, my stomach twists violently, nausea rolling through me in hot, sickening waves.
It’s been doing that all morning.
I swallow hard and glance out the narrow front window, sunlight slicing through grimy glass. Parked right out front, impossibly clean and painfully shiny, is Jagger’s bright red dad wagon. The thing looks like it wandered in from a different universe—polished, well-maintained, wildly out of place among dented sedans and rusted pickup trucks.
It might as well have a blinking sign that says,NOT FROM HERE.
My stomach lurches again.Get it together, Blake.I press my palm flat against my abdomen, hoping to subdue this feeling.You’ve done harder things than an interview.
The receptionist calls name after name. Chairs scrape against the floor as the room keeps growing louder and fuller. I can feel eyes flicking toward me with curiosity. I look like I don’t belong here, either—expensive coat, clean booties, and dress slacks.
The nausea spikes again, sharp and sudden. My mouth fills with saliva. I breathe slowly through my nose, counting. In. Out. In. Out.
It’s just nerves. Or maybe that deep dish from the place around the corner that Jagger has gotten me obsessed with. It’s practically the only thing I’ve eaten since he left for a mission yesterday.
