“Everything looks excellent,” Dr. Martinez tells Mrs. Parker warmly. “We’ll administer his rabies and combination vaccine today, and he’ll be good for another year.”
That’s my signal. I step forward to hand Dr. Martinez the first syringe. But as her fingers reach for it, mine release too early. The small glass vial slips from my grasp, hits the edge of the metal table, and shatters across the floor. The crash sounds deafening in the small room.
Everyone startles—me, Dr. Martinez, Mrs. Parker, even Baxter, who barks like someone stepped on his paw.
“I’m so sorry,” I breathe, staring at the mess spreading across the white tile like spilled water. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what?—”
But that’s another lie. I know exactly what happened. My hands are shaking because of Zayn Blackwell. I can’t focus on my job because I keep hearing his voice. Five years since he walked away, and I’m still falling apart over him. I hate myself for it.
Dr. Martinez’s hand settles warm and steady on my shoulder. “These things happen, mija. Go grab the cleanup kit. I’ll handle Baxter’s vaccines.”
I nod, grateful for the excuse to escape. My face burns with humiliation. I never make mistakes like this.
“And Sophie?” Dr. Martinez calls as I reach the door. “Take an early lunch today. Get some fresh air, clear your head.” Her tone is gentle but firm. She knows something’s seriously wrong.
I nod again and slip out, not trusting my voice to cooperate.
In the hallway, I lean against the wall and squeeze my eyes shut. The fluorescent lights bleed red through my eyelids. Years of learning to keep everything under control. Then he walks back into my orbit for thirty seconds and I’m falling apart all over again. And the most pathetic part? I don’t even know if it’s because I still love him or because I’m terrified of finding out I do.
The fresh air feels good after being inside the clinic all morning. It smells like salt and fish instead of antiseptic and pet shampoo. I zip my jacket up higher as the cold fog touches my face. My hands are still shaking, but out here, nobody can see me losing it. I can blame it on the cold.
I head toward the boats, watching them bump gently against the dock. Water splashes against their sides in a rhythm I know by heart. Seagulls squawk overhead. My sneakers make hollow sounds on the wet wooden boardwalk. Up ahead, an old fisherman mends his nets, his hands moving quickly like he’s done it a million times.
I look at my phone. Harper has texted me five times asking if I’m okay, if I need her to come, if I’ve seen him again. I should text back, but I can’t feel my fingers well enough. What would I even tell her? That seeing him broke the lie I’ve been telling myself—that I’m over him?
Fog wraps around me as I walk, muffling the harbor sounds. It feels good, like a soft barrier between me and everything else. I take deep breaths of the salty air. In, out. In, out. Just breathe. My racing heart should slow down if I keep breathing like this.
I find a bench by the main dock and sink onto it. I can see fishing boats returning with their morning catch, small vessels tied up and bobbing in place, and far off, the lighthouse keeper making his way home after his shift. Just normal life in my town. Normal people doing normal things.
A seabird suddenly dives into the water with a splash and surfaces with a fish thrashing in its beak. I flinch at the sudden movement, my nerves stretched too thin. I close my eyes, trying to settle down.
A door opens across the street. My eyes snap open, and the world seems to tilt.
Zayn walks out of the courthouse into the fog. He’s wearing a dark suit that fits him like it was made for him, polished black shoes catching what little light filters through the mist. I can only catch glimpses of his tattoos peeking out at his collar and wrapping around his fingers. His dark hair is styled, nothing like the messy hair I used to run my fingers through. He looks like he stepped out of a movie—the reformed bad boy in an expensive suit.
I stand up fast, turning away. I can’t face him right now. Not in my stained work clothes with messy hair and emotions I can barely control. If he says my name again, I might fall apart completely.
I move too quickly. My foot catches on a loose board and I stumble. My hands hit the wet wood first, then my knees. Sharp pain shoots up my arms as the rough surface scrapes my palms raw.
“Sophie!”
No. No, no, no. His voice is too close. He saw me fall. He’s coming over. I push myself up to sitting, staring at my hands. They’re scraped up, tiny pieces of wood stuck in them.
I hear footsteps, then they stop. I look up to see him there, standing close enough to talk but far enough that I can breathe. Even panicking, I notice he’s being careful, giving me the space I need.
“Are you okay?” His voice is deeper, rough with concern.
“I’m fine,” I say right away, wiping my hands on my scrubs even though it stings. A few drops of blood smear across the blue fabric. Great. Now I have coffee stains and blood. I look like a complete disaster.
“You’re bleeding.” He takes half a step forward, then catches himself and stops.
“It’s nothing.” I stand up, brushing wet splinters from my knees. My palms throb. My pride hurts worse. “What do you want, Zayn?”
His name feels foreign in my mouth. Like I shouldn’t be allowed to say it. Like saying it might resurrect all the feelings I’ve tried so hard to bury.
“I’ve been trying to call you,” he says quietly. The fog drifts between us, making him look almost unreal.
“Got a new number.” I cross my arms, trying to ignore the sting in my palms. “There’s nothing to talk about anyway.”
