Chapter One
Devin Martinez
“One gin and tonic,” Niall tells the bartender, then shifts his weight against the polished wood bar, studying me with that particular brand of concern I’ve gotten used to seeing in people’s eyes lately. “And one…” His gaze drops to my hands, wrapped around nothing but air, waiting. “Tonic?”
I laugh, the sound coming out lighter than I feel. The holiday lights strung across the pizzeria’s exposed beams catch in the glassware behind the bar, throwing little rainbows across the dark wood. “I’ll take a sparkling water with cranberry juice.”
The bartender nods and turns away, bottles clinking as he works.
“Sorry.” Niall grimaces, his fingers drumming an absent rhythm on the bar’s surface. “I should have remembered that.”
“No.” I roll my eyes and let my grin widen, hoping it reaches my eyes. “You don’t have to. It’s been, what, months since we last went out for drinks?”
“Feels like ages,” he says, then his attention shifts as a familiarlaugh ripples across the pizzeria, carrying over the din of conversation and Christmas music.
Maya’s in the corner of the restaurant, her head thrown back in genuine delight, laughing with some of the sports medicine doctors from the practice. Dr. Brennan’s making some elaborate gesture with his hands, probably telling one of his infamous emergency room stories, and the whole table’s leaning in, captivated. Seeing her having such a good time instantly fills me with warmth, loosening something tight in my chest. When I invited her to the holiday party I’m throwing for my physical therapy practice, I was a little worried that she wouldn’t have anyone to talk to. Luckily, it looks like I was wrong.
The bartender deposits Niall’s and my drinks on the bar with practiced efficiency, the ice in his gin and tonic catching the light. Condensation’s already beading on my glass, and I wrap my fingers around it, grateful for something solid to hold. Niall picks his up, raising it toward me with a crooked smile. “To another kickass year completed.”
I lift my mocktail, the cranberry juice swirling like liquid rubies in the sparkling water. “And to yet another one in the year to come.”
We clink glasses, the sound sharp and bright, and drink. The tart sweetness floods my mouth, and it feels like a punctuation mark on the last twelve months—ones as full of challenges as they were triumphs. My hand unconsciously drops to smooth my compression socks through my leggings, a new habit I’m still getting used to, and while it’s getting easier, I’m not sure I’ll ever become a master.
“How are you doing?” Niall studies me over the rim of his glass, and I know he’s thinking about what I am: the POTS—Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome—the curveball that hit me right in the face about six months ago.
“I’m okay.” I look into my drink, watching the bubbles rise and pop at the surface, wishing I could at least have one shot totake the edge off this conversation. With my latest health turns, though, it’s not a good idea. “I didn’t think I would be wearing compression socks before seventy—but hey, here we are.”
He hooks an elbow on the edge of the bar and turns to face me more fully, his body creating a little pocket of privacy in the crowded room. “But they help, right?”
I fiddle with the tiny black straw in my glass, pushing it through the ice. “I’ve only fainted a couple times in the last couple of months, so yeah.”
My chest constricts, but I hold back the sigh. Tonight is more than just a work party, and it doesn’t feel like I’m just celebrating a break for the holidays. Anything having to do with work is a big deal.
This is the practice that I started all by myself when I came to Pine Island with nothing but a dream and a U-Haul full of IKEA furniture. I don’t want to think about the things that slow me down—Chronic Fatigue Syndrome and POTS, which can make me pass out if I get up too suddenly or stand in one spot for too long. I want to focus on everything I’ve achieved, and that list is substantial.
With government help, my practice provides low-cost care to people who might not otherwise get it. I’m teaching tailored yoga classes just like I always wanted to. I have a kickass group of friends. I live on a cute island that’s probably the east coast’s best-kept secret.
I kind of have it all.
Except for a partner to share it with, but that’s become less important over the years. With the limited energy that comes with a chronic health condition, I don’t have the strength to maintain a relationship anyway.
“What about you?” I jut my chin at Niall, eager to shift the focus. “Your friend should be here soon, right? The new high school teacher?”
“He’s going to be a coach, actually. Oliver.” Niall checks hisphone, the screen illuminating his face in the dim bar lighting. “He’s on his way here now. He said he’d drop his moving trailer off at the house then head over.”
The name hits like ice water in my veins, my fingers going numb around the glass.Oliver.I knew an Oliver once, five years ago that simultaneously feels like just yesterday but also another lifetime. It’s becomethatname for me. The one that tugs at my heart while also making my stomach churn in disgust. I could never date an Oliver again, couldn’t even be friends with one. The mail man who comes to the practice is named Oliver—nicest guy I know, yet I have to actively remind myself that his name doesn’t define him.
“Cool.” I adjust on my stool, the vinyl creaking slightly. “How does your wife feel about him crashing on your couch?”
Niall chuckles. “We fixed up the apartment over the garage, so there won’t be any problems there. She likes him, anyway. They’ve always gotten along.”
Over Niall’s shoulder, the pizzeria’s door opens and a man steps in. He’s not much more than a silhouette in the porch light, but there’s something about his build that catches my attention. It’s so familiar, tugging at the corner of a forgotten memory.
The door closes behind him, and he steps fully into the restaurant, the light around the hostess stand illuminating his face. I blink, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing. He looks so much like?—
No. It couldn’t be.
Oliver.
