I applied for that program years ago, back when I was finishing my postgraduate diploma in nursing and still weighing how far I wanted to push the academic side of it. I was already on Dr. Cameron’s radar then—she’s the clinical lead who oversees selection and progression for the program.
At the time, I was deep into a research paper on clinical leadership models in acute care settings. I never actually finished the academic pathway. I stepped away from further study to focus on full-time clinical work and building experience on the floor instead.
“I am aware of what they’re building,” Marcus presses further, “and I know why your name came up in the first place. It wasn’t because of Mom, and it wasn’t because of me. You were already on their shortlist based on your clinical work and that research direction.”
He doesn’t overstate it. He never does.
“The thing you wrote during your postgraduate work wasn’t just coursework,” he says. “It explores how decision-making shifts when nurses are granted operational input. Staff retention,patient flow, all of it. That wasn’t academic padding. That was your serious attempt to understand how the system actually functions. It’s unfortunate you stepped away from it before completing the academic track.”
He pauses, prompting me to reflect on that.
“Dr. Cameron didn’t put your name forward because of connections,” he adds. “She held your file because the substantive work was already there. The rest simply ensured it was properly reviewed instead of being overlooked.”
I know the distinction he’s drawing, and I know he means it. It doesn’t make it easier for me.
“The training cohort starts in December,” he says, both forearms on the table. “If you don’t confirm by the end of the month, the slot goes to the next candidate. She said she’d hold it as long as she could, and she has. Now she needs an answer.”
“I hear you, Marcus,” I sigh, the physical and mental pressure beginning to build in my head. My thumb finds the edge of the linen napkin in my lap and starts working a fold into it, over and over, the way it's been done since I was a kid getting lectured at this exact kind of table.
“Do you?” His voice is calm, not harsh, yet taut beneath the surface. “Because I’ve been hearing you say you’ll think about it and I don’t know what you’re thinking about anymore.”
“It’s a big decision.” I press my thumb and forefinger to my nose, closing my eyes.
“Lance, it’s one of the best healthcare leadership programs on the West Coast,” he continues. “You’re brilliant. Do people here even know that? You walked away from a career in law and proved you could be exceptional at something else entirely, which is harder than people give you credit for. You found your path in the years you’ve been away from home. You’re really good at it. And you’re staying in San Diego for a man you’re just friends with.”
“Jesus Christ, Marcus,” I almost snap, sounding a bit defensive, now just proving his entire point. “I have a life here, people I care about. A job I’m good at.”
“I’m not making a judgment about George. He seems like a decent man, and from what I saw in that apartment, he clearly means something to you.” Marcus’s voice doesn’t waver. “I’m just asking what you’re building here. Because from where I’m sitting, he’s got a shop he might lose, you have no idea what you actually are to each other, and you’re about to turn down the best opportunity of your career. I just want you to be able to tell me what the plan is.”
I can’t deny that George and I aren’t nothing. Of course, Marcus knows. He’s not dumb. There’s no point in convincing him otherwise. “There’s no plan yet,” I say. “Which, okay, sounds bad when you parrot it back like that.”
“Okay.” He nods slowly. “You’re happy living in a city that has nothing to do with where you came from.” He says it without cruelty. “Ten years, Lance. You built a whole life down here and we hear about it through your texts and some calls. Do you really hate our life that much?”
I search his face across the table and come up empty, which is its own kind of answer. Marcus is too smart not to see it.
“Are you sure about this?” he asks after a moment.
“I’m sure I want to be where I am right now,” I answer, sounding more certain than I feel. “I’m not sure about everything else. I’ll work on it, I promise.”
He holds my gaze for a long second.
The precision drops away, and what’s left is just my brother, the version of Marcus that only comes out after the first Scotch and the argument has run its course.
“Noted,” he says. “Then work on it. Faster than you have been.”
He signals the waiter over and orders us another round.
After that, the night settles into something easier. That’s usually how it goes with Marcus. We push at the hard stuff, then both agree not to make it worse.
But in the cab home at ten, with the city dragging past outside the window in streaks of light, his question still lodged in my head right beside Seattle. The two keep knocking into each other until I can’t tell where one ends and the other starts.
My phone buzzes in my hand.
George: Shop was quiet today.
I stare at it for a second before answering. I decide to go for Lance The Menace instead of having a normal, well-adjusted emotional response to anything happening in my life right now.
Lance: Thinking of me? *wink emoji
