Gravel crunches in the parking lot outside. Dr. Martinez appears beside me, already gowned and gloved, her expression calm but alert.
“Blood products ready?” she asks.
“Ready. Instruments sterile and arranged. Pain management protocols prepared. X-ray machine warmed up.” My voice comes out steady, professional. “We’re good to go.”
She gives me that quick nod of approval. “Excellent work, Sophie.”
The back door crashes open. A man rushes in cradling a border collie against his chest. Blood saturates the dog’s left hindleg, which hangs at an unnatural angle. The dog whimpers softly, eyes glazed with pain and fear.
I step forward immediately, reaching for the injured animal. My book and its fictional drama fade completely from my mind. I’m in work mode now—the only mode where I feel truly competent. “I’ve got you, sweetheart,” I murmur to the dog as we ease him onto the exam table. “You’re going to be okay.”
And I mean it. I’m good at this. I know how to help animals, how to ease their pain, how to guide them through trauma and out the other side. It’s people I can’t figure out. People who make promises they don’t keep.
I like knowing what comes next. Stabilize the dog. Repair the fracture. Go home to my dog, Mia. Have dinner with Sara and Harper. Walk the cliff path tomorrow morning like always.
But sometimes, in the quiet spaces between heartbeats, I catch myself wondering: is this really all there is?
CHAPTER 2
Yesterday’s Ghost
My keys jingle as I unlock our apartment door. After a long day at the clinic, my shoulders ache from bending over surgery tables and holding scared animals still. I push the door open and the smell hits me immediately—garlic, ginger, soy sauce. Harper’s making stir-fry. My stomach twists with hunger—I skipped lunch again, too caught up helping Dr. Martinez with back-to-back emergencies. The lights glow warm, music drifts from the kitchen, and I pause in the doorway for a second, soaking in this slice of normal that keeps me going.
“I’m home,” I call out, dropping my bag and toeing off my shoes. They land in a heap beside Sara’s neat flats and Harper’s scuffed combat boots—our entire dynamic summed up in footwear.
“Perfect timing!” Sara’s voice floats from the kitchen. “Harper’s almost done.”
I make my way into the living room, taking in the chaotic mix of personalities that somehow fells like home now. We’ve lived together long enough that our vastly different aesthetics have learned to coexist. Harper’s contribution shows in the vibrant street art prints hanging slightly crooked on the walls, giving our basic apartment an edge it doesn’t deserve. Sara’s touch appearsin the carefully arranged throw pillows on our secondhand couch, the soft blankets I keep refolding, the string lights draped across the ceiling that make everything feel warmer, softer.
And mine? The bookshelves. Three of them, lined up against the far wall like soldiers, packed tight with romance novels organized by author and series. Spines cracked, pages dog-eared, covers worn soft from countless rereads. While other women collect shoes or makeup palettes or vinyl records, I hoard stories where love actually works out in the end.
Harper stands at the stove, her red hair piled messily on top of her head, wielding a wooden spoon like a weapon as she stirs something that smells incredible. She glances over her shoulder at me with a knowing smile. “Rough day?”
“Two emergency surgeries and an extremely pissed off tabby who drew blood,” I say, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge. The cold glass feels good against my palm. “Just another Tuesday.”
Sara’s already at our mismatched kitchen table, setting out plates with her usual precision. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a neat bun, and she’s changed out of her work scrubs into a soft pink sweater that makes her look like she walked out of a lifestyle magazine. Too polished for our hodgepodge apartment, but that’s Sara.
“Wine?” she asks, gesturing to the bottle already breathing on the counter.
I shake my head. “Just water. I’m exhausted.” The truth is, I don’t like how wine softens my edges, makes my thoughts fuzzy and my tongue loose. I need to stay in control. Wine makes me say things I try to keep hidden.
We all know what to do without talking. Harper dishes up the stir-fry, I fill glasses with ice water, Sara folds napkins into perfect triangles. We’ve done this a hundred times before.
“How was your day?” I ask Sara as I spoon jasmine rice onto my plate, the steam rising and warming my face.
She launches into a story about a shih tzu who wouldn’t stop trembling during its exam, and an owner who was somehow even more anxious than the dog. I nod and smile, but part of my brain is already drifting to my book waiting in my bedroom. I’m at the good part where the hero finally admits he’s been in love with the heroine all along.
Harper’s laugh pulls me back to the present.
“—so Dr. Martinez had to very gently explain that dogs don’t actually need gluten-free diets unless they have a legitimate medical condition.”
I snort and take a bite. The stir-fry is perfect—spicy and savory and exactly what I needed. Harper’s bedroom might look like a tornado hit it, but the woman can cook like a dream.
“Oh!” Harper points her fork at me suddenly. “I almost forgot. You’ll never guess what I heard at The Daily Grind this morning.”
I take another bite, chewing slowly. “Mrs. Tate finally admitted her cat is possessed?”
Sara laughs. Harper shakes her head, her expression shifting into something more careful.
