Oliver swallowed thickly, staring at his shoes before looking back up to me. “Thank you, Laidie. It…it means a lot to hear that from you.”
Despite my better judgment, I surged forward, wrapping my arms tightly around his waist and leaning my head against his chest. He just looked so much like a lost boy that I couldn’t stop myself.
A split second passed before Oliver’s strong arms wrapped around my shoulders, his hands coming to rest on my back. We stayed like that for a few moments as I listened to his heartbeat, feeling truly calm and relaxed for the first time that day. I finally—reluctantly—pulled away, giving his forearms a squeeze. “Goodnight, King Oliver.”
He chuckled warmly, then leaned forward and placed a kiss on my forehead. “Goodnight, Laidie,” he murmured as he stepped into the corridor and closed the door behind him.
SEPTEMBER
I sat cross-legged on the floor in my living room, seating charts and silent auction sheets scattered around me. Tomorrow evening was the school’s fall gala fundraiser, and I was determined to make sure every detail was perfect.
I had worked hard in university with the goal of having my pick of jobs at prestigious schools upon graduating. And I had made it happen; I could have landed a teaching job at just about any school I wanted based on my grades and glowing recommendations from the RCW faculty and administrators. But as I was filling out applications and writing cover letters for positions around Wexstone and even a few in the UK, I kept circling back to a job listing from a primary school in the Garland neighborhood back home in Altborn.
The Garland neighborhood was of Altborn’s lowest-income areas. I had grown up in an adjacentneighborhood and was familiar with how hard the families there worked while still struggling to make ends meet. I was also acquainted with the research indicating how much harder it was for low-income schools to attract the same teaching talent as their higher-income counterparts. Even though I was just a newly minted teacher, I knew deep down that I had what it took to be the kind of educator that the children in the Garland neighborhood deserved. It didn’t matter that the position paid less than some of the other jobs I was looking at—I was single and didn’t have a family to support, so I would make it work.
This was now my sixth year teaching kindergarten at the school and I had never once regretted my decision to apply there. I adored my students and their families, and I loved getting to shape the youngest minds, setting them up for success as they progressed through school.
Given the financial struggles of most of the families, the faculty and staff did what we could to support them. The school held a donation drive every November to collect and distribute clothing, food, and personal hygiene items. It was one of our biggest events every year; we even gave students the day off for it.
As I wrapped up my first year of teaching, I proposed holding a gala fundraiser the following September to draw in some of the aristocrats and bring their attention to the needs within the neighborhood. I offered to plan it and spend the summer holiday securing the necessary sponsorships to fund the event, so long as we could host it in the school’s courtyard.
I wheedled Dash into helping me, and the two of us went back to our roots of making something out of nothing, crafting decorations out of things we found at thrift stores and flea markets. In the end, that first gala was enoughof a success that it had become an annual function, bringing in more and more funds each year.
Tomorrow night was set to be our biggest event yet with the royal family attending. My dad had apparently made a phone call and extended an invitation to the king and queen.
I sighed deeply as I put the final touches on the seating chart, scowling at Oliver’s name. I hadn’t seen him since the night before his commencement. I had fallen asleep feeling safe and happy beside him and had woken to find him gone. No note, no text, no carrier pigeon, nothing. He had simply vanished from my life.
I’d spent the nearly eight ensuing years studiously avoiding events where he might be present, which had been pretty easy up until now. One time I spotted his friends Tej and Vince at a restaurant but had ducked behind a server and slipped out before they could spot me.
But Dad, in his excitement to support me, had unknowingly brought that streak to an end. Perhaps I would get lucky and Oliver wouldn’t be able to attend after all.
My phone rang. I grabbed it and answered without paying attention to the caller ID.
“Dash, I’m very busy being annoyed over this seating chart. Can I call you back in a bit?”
There was a pause from the other end. My stomach fell into my ass as embarrassment heated my cheeks. This was most certainly not Dash.
I was about to hang up and go dig my own grave when a woman cleared her voice. “Adelaide? This is Dr. Bonafonte. I have the results from your bloodwork and ultrasound and would like to discuss them with you briefly if you have a few moments?”
I stood up, stretching my legs as I moved to perch on the edge of the couch. Dr. Bonafonte was my new gynecologist, aspecialist I had fought for years to see. From the time I had started my period at the age of twelve, my cycle had been wildly irregular, with heavy bleeding that lasted days when it did finally start. It was Dash’s mum, who worked as a nurse in the emergency department, who first told me this wasn’t normal.
“It’s common, but that doesn’t mean it’s normal or okay, Aderedo-chan,” she had told me when I was sixteen, using her favorite term of endearment for me with the Japanese translation of my name.
From that point, I brought it up to every doctor I saw. They all brushed me off until last spring when I had an ovarian cyst burst and was, begrudgingly, given a referral to a fertility specialist. Dr. Bonafonte was the first doctor to take my concerns seriously and had immediately proven to be worth the several-months wait for my initial appointment with her.
“Yes, hi, so sorry about that,” I said, hastily, trying to brush off my humiliation at answering my very smart doctor’s call like a jackass. “Yes, I have time to talk now.”
“Wonderful. I know you’ve been anxious for some answers. I’m going to be on holiday for the next week and didn’t want you to have to wait until I got back to know what’s going on.
“After reviewing the results of the pelvic exam we performed at our last appointment, along with your recent bloodwork and ultrasound, which indicated hormone irregularities and cysts present on your ovaries, I am confident that my initial suspicions were correct and you do have polycystic ovary syndrome.”
She paused, giving me a moment to process her words. I swallowed past the lump forming in my throat. “Okay,” I croaked, not sure what else to say in the moment.
“Now, as we discussed previously, PCOS can have some long-term complications that I’d like to try to get ahead of. I’m going to have one of our schedulers give you a call so we can set up some follow-up appointments and talk further when I return. If you’d like, I can also send you a message in the patient portal detailing the bloodwork findings and what they mean if that is something you’d to read through in the meantime. Do you have any questions for me now, though?”
I shook my head, then remembered she couldn’t see me. “That would be great, thank you. And my questions can wait until I see you,” I said, choking back tears.
“All right, Adelaide. I’ll have the team call you tomorrow. Try to have a good evening, okay?”
