“My interview went well.”
The words hit like a punch to the stomach.
“That’s good,” I manage.
My voice stays neutral.
Apparently years of delivering terrible medical news finally paid off.
“They offered me the position. I could start in two weeks.”
I stare at my hands like they’ve suddenly developed some fascinating rare disease.
My jaw tightens so hard I can feel my teeth grinding.
She’s leaving.
She’s really leaving.
“Congratulations,” I finally say. “That’s what you wanted.”
“It’s not…”
I cut her off.
“You’re right to leave. There’s nothing for you here.”
Except me.
And apparently I don’t count.
She rises abruptly.
“Finn…”
“I’m serious. You deserve better than a village that watches your every move and a failed doctor who…”
I stop.
Unable to finish the sentence.
A failed doctor who fell in love with you when he was only supposed to pretend.
Mary stares at me with an expression I can’t decipher.
“A failed doctor?” she repeats softly. “That’s really how you see yourself?”
I stand too.
Now we’re facing each other with too many unspoken things hanging between us.
The air feels so charged I could slice through it with a scalpel.
“That’s what I am.”
“Finn, you’re not?—”
But she never finishes.
