In my rush to get out of the house this morning, I barely grabbed my bag before slipping out the door. Mom was still curled up in the recliner, fast asleep, and Jasper was moving around in his room, probably already working on his next project.
Surprisingly, Brooks’ truck wasn’t in the driveway.
I guess that means his date went well last night.
A sliver of something sharp and unwelcome coils around my chest, wrapping tight. It’snotjealousy. I have no reason to care who Brooks spends his time with. His conquests—or whatever you’d call them—have nothing to do with me. If anything, I should feel relief that he wasn’t hovering around this morning, throwing out one of his stupid, Brooks-like lines.
He’s infuriating.
So, why can’t I stop thinking about him?
I exhale and glance at my phone. Two in the afternoon.
When did that happen?
I sigh, snapping my laptop shut and sliding it into my bag before standing and stretching. My limbs ache from spending too much time in this unforgiving hospital chair, my back stiff from sitting in the same position for hours.
I need food.
And maybe—no, not maybe—Idefinitelyneed to stop thinking about Brooks.
Distraction.I need a distraction.
Food. Cafeteria. Yes.
I bend and grab my bag, slinging it over my shoulder, and step toward Dad’s bedside. His breathing is steady, his face relaxed in sleep. Gently, I run my hand over his thinning hair and whisper, "I’ll be right back."
A nurse passes me in the sterile hallway, and I offer her a small smile. She returns it, but it barely reaches her eyes. Other than the occasional ringing of a phone and the distant beeping of machines, the place feels eerily lifeless.
My feet carry me toward the elevator, and I press the button, waiting as the doors slide open.
My eyes flick to the man standing inside, his navy scrubs crisp and familiar.
He looks at me like he knows me.
"Elowen?"
The recognition slams into me just as his name slips from my lips. "Holden?"
My ex-boyfriend. The guy who cheated on me with Jana Flenning.
For a second, I just stare. His sandy-blond hair is cropped shorter than I remember, his golden-green eyes still bright, like a meadow in early autumn. He’s always been annoyingly gorgeous, but standing there in scrubs, looking like a walking daydream, I almost forget to breathe.
Almost.
He smiles, easy and familiar, like we’re old friends catching up. "What are you doing here? I thought you were in LA."
Oh. So he’s been keeping up with my social media. Interesting.
"My dad had a stroke," I say, my voice neutral. "I came home to be with him."
His expression shifts, softening with something that looks dangerously close to sympathy. "I’m so sorry, Ellie."
I nod, not willing to linger on that. "What about you?" I ask, gesturing to his scrubs. "You work here?"
"First-year resident," he says, and for some reason, that catches me off guard.
"You’re going to be a doctor?" I blink, surprised at the words even as I say them.
