She gives me an enigmatic smile. “I ran into him at The Daily Grind yesterday. Might have mentioned what was happening tonight.”
Before I can respond, she ascends the gazebo steps and approaches the microphone. The crowd falls silent. The setting sun bathes everything in amber light, stretching long shadows across the grass like reaching fingers.
“Thank you all for coming tonight,” Dr. Martinez says, her voice clear and resonant. “Some of you know why we’re gathered, but let me provide context for everyone. First, I want to acknowledge everyone who attended our fundraiser two weeks ago. Your generosity was extraordinary—we raised sixty-three thousand dollars.”
She pauses as people nod and smile with pride.
“Unfortunately, that’s not quite sufficient for a down payment on the property. The building is valued at over four hundred thousand, and we’d need at least eighty thousand to qualify for financing.”
A ripple of concerned murmurs runs through the crowd. Mrs. Taylor raises her hand. “So what happens now?”
Dr. Martinez takes a steadying breath. “That’s why I’ve called this meeting. The building’s new owner intends to demolish it for apartments. We’re attempting to purchase it ourselves, but we’re running out of time. Our current strategy is pursuing historic landmark designation to prevent demolition.” She keeps her explanation simple, but her passion radiates through every word, and it makes everyone listen.
“This isn’t just some old structure,” she continues, her voice catching slightly. “This is where Mrs. Donovan brought six abandoned kittens she found in her shed. Where Max the golden retriever receives life-saving kidney treatments twice weekly. Where you can call at two in the morning when your companion animal is in crisis, and someone always answers.”
When she finishes, she gestures for Zayn to join her. My stomach does that infuriating flip as he steps forward. He looks so… right up there. Like he belongs. Not showing off, but sure of himself. Like the hometown boy he is, not the big-city lawyer he became.
“We have several legal avenues to pursue,” he says, explaining complex regulations like he’s discussing the weather with neighbors. “Historic designation is our strongest option, but we need to demonstrate the building’s cultural significance to Bellrose’s development.”
He keeps talking, laying out all our choices and when we’d need to do each one. His voice is steady and sure, like he’s done this a hundred times. I can’t help feeling impressed watching him work the crowd. This is the Zayn I remember—the one who fights passionately for what matters.
After he concludes, residents begin sharing their stories. Mr. Jenkins stands and describes how the clinic diagnosed his daughter’s severe rabbit allergy that was causing respiratory distress. The school counselor discusses our therapy dog program helping sad and scared children. One by one, people explain why our clinic is irreplaceable.
I’m listening so intently I almost miss the elderly woman with the cane making her way toward the front. It’s Mrs. Patterson—ninety-two years old with a memory like steel for Bellrose history. Her voice quavers slightly but carries clearly.
“That building sheltered freedom seekers on the Underground Railroad,” she announces, and the crowd goesabsolutely silent. “My great-grandfather documented everything in his journals. People hid in the clinic basement during their journey north.”
The crowd erupts in whispers as Mrs. Patterson retrieves a bundle from her oversized purse—yellowed papers bound with string, clearly ancient. “My family has preserved these for five generations,” she says, holding them aloft. “Journals, maps, correspondence. They document the concealed spaces and which families provided aid.”
My heart pounds so violently I can feel it pulsing in my throat. This changes everything. Our small-town veterinary clinic isn’t just locally significant—it’s part of American history. Part of the fight for freedom itself.
Zayn accepts the fragile documents from Mrs. Patterson’s trembling hands with reverent care. He scans them rapidly, eyes widening with each page. Then he looks directly at me across the gazebo.
“This is a game-changer,” he calls out, and I don’t look away this time. Something locks into place between us—like we both temporarily forgot our personal drama because this matters infinitely more.
After the meeting dissolves into excited conversations, I hang back and watch Reed approach Zayn at the gazebo’s edge. Reed gestures at the historical documents while Zayn nods seriously. They don’t look uncomfortable anymore—they look like allies working together.
“Your brother offered to help,” Dr. Martinez says, appearing beside me. “He knows someone at the county historical society who can authenticate those documents.”
“Reed and Zayn collaborating,” I murmur. “I didn’t see that coming.”
“People can surprise you,” she says with a knowing look. “Especially when something genuinely important is at stake.”
I continue watching them. Reed claps Zayn’s shoulder—that casual masculine gesture of approval and solidarity. My heart does a complicated skip. The last time I witnessed them standing like that was before everything imploded five years ago, back when Reed considered Zayn family.
As people begin departing, I stack the chairs, my mind churning with possibilities. About saving the clinic, yes, but also about that dangerous flutter of hope I’ve been desperately suppressing. Because if Reed can start trusting Zayn again, what does that mean for everything else? What does it mean for us?
The research room at the Bellrose Historical Society is claustrophobic. Metal shelves units crammed everywhere with archive boxes on all sides and a single oak table in the center. One ancient desk lamp with a yellowed bulb provides the only light, making dust motes dance in the air whenever we shift position. It’s nearly nine at night, and we’ve been here for hours looking through old papers that might save the clinic—if I can survive being trapped in this shoebox-sized room with Zayn much longer. When his sleeve brushes mine as he reaches for another leather-bound ledger, I scoot my chair away yet again, leaving fresh scrape marks on the worn linoleum to join all the others.
“Found something,” he says quietly, like we’re in a library even though we’re completely alone. “This 1857 map shows a network of tunnels connecting our building directly to the harbor.”
I can’t help leaning closer, careful not to let the yellowed paper touch my skin. “So freedom seekers could reach waiting boats?”
He nods, eyes bright with discovery. “Exactly. And look—” he indicates faded ink in the margin, “—it shows twenty-seven people went through in just one month.”
My breath catches. “Twenty-seven people who found freedom through our basement.”
“Our basement,” he echoes softly, and something in his emphasis makes me glance up. He’s watching me instead of the map, wearing an expression I can’t quite decipher. I quickly redirect my attention to the document.
