Page 5 of Cava with My Colleague

That lands. Hard.

Because she’s right. And because this is, if I’m being honest, exactly why I went into drug development in the first place. Not the data. Not the papers. The idea that a sick kid somewhere—a kid like I was—might have one less thing taken from them. I didn’t choose biochemistry because I was good at it, though I am. I chose it because I knew what it felt like to be on the other side of the research.

I do understand the fear, the loss, the strange grief of losing your hair. The weirdness of it growing back but differently, and so even when your hair is socially acceptable, it still doesn’t feel like you.

That’s why it’s so hard to have this other, irrational fear. I know it’s irrational. If Rebecca and Carlos knew why I didn’t really want to do this, they’d look at me with confusion or pity. How can someone whose job is facts and numbers—even worse, someone who is usually confident and a fighter—be ruled by stage fright?

I feel Carlos’s attention shift to me. When I risk a glance, his expression has changed—curiosity, maybe? But before I can identify it, it’s gone, replaced by his usual careful blankness.

But standing in front of hundreds of people? With Carlos translating every word? With reporters watching?

“What if Carlos does the presentation?” I blurt out.

Rebecca raises an eyebrow. Carlos turns to stare at me.

“Someone has to translate,” he says, his tone flat. “Not everyone speaks English.”

The implied obviously stings. Like I’m naive for even suggesting it.

When I turn to glare at him, I catch him looking at me—really looking, his dark eyes tracking over my face like he’s searching for something. Then he blinks and looks away.

“I know that,” I snap back. “I meant you could present in English and someone else could translate.”

“There isn’t anyone else,” Rebecca says smoothly. “Carlos speaks five languages. He’s been doing this tour for years. He’s essential.”

Essential. The word hangs in the air between us.

“And so are you, Jade,” she adds.

Rebecca hands me the stack of papers. “Think about it. Check the schedule, make sure it works with your timeline. This would be one of the last major projects before you return to Austin.”

One of the last things I do in Madrid. One of the last chances to make a real difference.

I sit with that for a moment. In eight months I’ve learned where to get the best café con leche within walking distance of the office, which buho—Madrid’s late-night buses—will get me back home, that my corner tienda owner’s name is Fermín and he saves me the good tomatoes if I come before he closes for lunchtime, which here is 2 p.m. Small things. The kind that accumulate without your noticing until one day you realize that navigating a new city no longer requires effort—it just requires memory. That you live somewhere now rather than visiting it.

Austin is waiting for me. My apartment, my team, my gym with its aggressive air conditioning and its parking lot. I know all of that too.

I’m just not sure I miss it.

I take the papers, their weight heavier than they should be.

Carlos and I walk to the elevator in silence. When the doors open, he holds them and waits.

“Are you going to do it?” he asks.

I look down at the schedule in my hands. Marseille. Geneva. Valencia. Cities I’ve never seen. Patients I could actually help.

And two months with Carlos, watching me stand in front of hundreds of people, waiting for me to fail. Risking my professional reputation—maybe even my job.

“I don’t know,” I say honestly.

He looks at me doubtfully. “You should think carefully. These presentations . . . they’re important.”

Important. Like I’m not capable of understanding that.

I step into the elevator. “I know they’re important, Carlos.”

The doors start to close, and for just a second, his face shifts. But before I can read it, the doors shut, and I’m alone with the strangest feeling that Carlos didn’t want me to say no.