“Do you believe him?” Sara asks gently.
I sink onto the couch, pulling my knees to my chest. “I don’t know,” I admit. “I want to.”
Mia jumps up beside me, resting her head on my leg. Her brown eyes gaze up with complete trust—the kind I wish I could feel right now.
“What if…” I swallow hard. “What if he actually means it this time?”
CHAPTER 19
His Letter to Me
The email from the historic preservation board arrives at 10:14 a.m this morning. I’m helping Mrs. Peterson’s chihuahua down from the exam table when Dr. Martinez screams from her office—a sound so piercing and unexpected I nearly drop the tiny dog, who gives me a look like I’ve personally insulted his ancestors. Heart hammering, I settle him back in Mrs. Peterson’s arms and sprint toward the sound, convinced someone’s been injured. Instead, I find Dr. Martinez frozen in front of her computer, hands covering her mouth, tears streaming down her face.
“What happened?” My voice comes out high and panicked.
She turns to me, eyes shining. “We won,” she whispers. Then louder, disbelieving: “Sophie, we won!”
“The building?” My pulse skyrockets as she nods frantically, spinning her monitor so I can see. The official city seal sits at the top of the email. My eyes catch phrases like “historic designation approved,” “protected from demolition,” “significant cultural landmark,” and “Underground Railroad heritage site.”
Dr. Martinez grabs my hands. Hers feel warm and trembling. “It’s official. They can’t touch it now. The clinic is safe.”
I read the email three times to make it real, my vision blurring with tears. After all those late nights. All the endlesspaperwork. All the digging through dusty archives. The crushing weight I’ve carried for weeks suddenly lifts, leaving me dizzy with relief.
“We need to tell everyone,” I manage, my voice cracking.
Within twenty minutes, the clinic transforms into an impromptu celebration. Sara raids the supply closet for birthday decorations we keep on hand—blue and yellow streamers that clash horrifically but nobody cares. Jen from reception sprints to the bakery across the street and returns bearing two dozen pastries on a plastic tray. Dr. Martinez produces a bottle of sparkling cider she’s been hoarding in the break room fridge “for emergencies.”
The waiting room smells like sugar and coffee instead of antiseptic. Someone cranks up a pop playlist—normally I’d hate it, but today it feels perfect.
I hang back, watching everyone. My cheeks ache from smiling so hard. I’m not accustomed to feeling this light after weeks of crushing anxiety. The mayor materializes—news travels at lightspeed in Bellrose. A photographer from the Bellrose Gazette arrives. Even old Mr. Jenkins brings his golden retriever in just to join the festivities, not even bothering to pretend they need a checkup.
“Is Zayn coming?” Sara appears beside me, pressing a cherry danish into my hand.
My stomach flips at his name. I study the pastry like it holds the secrets of the universe. “I don’t know.”
Sara gives me a look. “You haven’t told him?”
“Dr. Martinez sent the email to everyone like five minutes ago,” I say defensively.
It’s true, but my phone feels like lead in my pocket. I should text him. Call him. Something. But what would I say?Hey, we won, thanks for all your help before I slammed a door in your face?
Mrs. Peterson totters over, her chihuahua glaring at me from the depths of her designer purse like I’ve done something wrong. “Dear, where’s that handsome lawyer of yours? I wanted to thank him properly.”
Heat floods my face. “He’s not my?—”
“Such a lovely young man,” she continues, completely ignoring me. “My nephew practices law in Portland, but he doesn’t look half as good in a suit.”
“I’m sure Zayn is swamped with other cases,” I say, smile feeling plastered on. “He has numerous clients.”
Before Mrs. Peterson can wax poetic about Zayn’s appearance in formal wear, the mayor intercepts her with questions about her dog, and I escape. But I only make it a few steps before Dr. Franks from the dental office across the street catches my arm.
“Sophie! Congratulations! Elena mentioned you and your boyfriend worked so hard in saving the clinic. That’s wonderful!”
“He’s not my—” I attempt again, but he’s already launched into speculation about property values.
I nod and smile through a parade of people. Everyone asks about Zayn. My responses become increasingly hollow.
“He’s in court today.”
