Page 58 of The Hometown Heartbreaker

I watched a nurse walk past, tugging an IV pole. I imagined myself at the next boardroom meeting in lower Manhattan, sitting across from Arthur Stein, president and CEO of Bishop & Black Creative, with the Manhattan skyline reflected in his glasses. My life there had been sharp-edged and blinding, this one was all soft light, damp air, and the ancient smell of salt from the ocean and geraniums.

“Tell him whatever you want. Tell him the truth or tell him I’m having a breakdown, or I caught a virus, or I decided to become a nun.” The words felt like little lead pellets dropping into water, simple and final.

There was a silence on the line, the kind that only exists between people who have carried each other’s secrets in the fireproof box of work wives and after-hours drinking buddies. Then I heard the rustle of a tissue and realized Janine was crying.

“You’re really not coming back, even for the Walters pitch?”

“Not unless the Walters family wants to schedule their meeting in Buddy’s hospital room,” I said, trying for humor that didn’t quite land.

She sniffed. “I’m not going to sugarcoat it—this is career suicide. You know that, right?”

I did know it. I’d made my peace with it, sitting in the hospital room with Buddy. “Yeah. I know. But, look at it this way. This is an opportunity for you to step up. It’s your time.”

She barked out a laugh, the kind that was more pressure release than amusement. “God, I don’t even know who I am without you here. Remember when you hired me? You said you liked my ‘murderous energy.’”

“I do remember.” I chuckled at the memory. “You were bloodthirsty.”

“Well, I’m not feeling very homicidal. I don’t want to take your clients, Sadie. That’s not what this is.”

I smiled, though it hurt. “You’re not taking them. I want you to have them. I wouldn’t trust anyone else with them.” I shifted the phone to my other ear, trying to ignore the pressure that was building behind my eyes. “Listen, Janine, I know you’re scared, but you’re ready for this. You know those accounts better than anyone. Every single one of my clients loves you. I’m recommending to Arthur that you be promoted and take over my portfolio. You deserve it.”

There was a ragged inhale, then a long pause.

Janine’s voice was so incredulous I almost laughed. “You’re recommending me to Arthur? Like, actually? You think I can do it?”

“I know you can. You’ve been doing the work for months,” I encouraged her. “The team loves you and will listen to you. You’re going to be amazing, Janine. Take care of them for me, okay?”

Janine was quiet for so long I thought the call had dropped. Then, in a voice that sounded suddenly older, she said, “When are you going to talk to Arthur? I need to brace myself for the fallout.”

I could picture her—forehead pinched, mouth a hard line—already calculating the chaos she was about to inherit.

“Soon,” I said, “I’m drafting an email and I’ll BCC you on it.”

“Okay, okay, but when you come back then⁠—”

“Then we’ll figure it out,” I assured her. “I have to go, we’ll talk soon.”

The moment I disconnected the call, I let my head fall back against the cool, institutional wall. For years, my phone had been an unstoppable metronome, every buzz a summons to action, every message a new fire to put out, a new negotiation to finesse, a new client to appease. I’d built a life around the urgency of it, my sense of purpose pinned to the constant whitewater rapids of deadlines and conference calls. That was all over now, and I didn’t feel liberated so much as emptied out. The part of me that had been sustained by adrenaline and deadlines was already starting to calcify. But at the same time, there was a slow, diffuse relief, like the hush just after a fire alarm is silenced, when your body remembers what it means to rest.

I stood in the hallway as my phone screen faded to black, feeling the shift in the air. The old rules of my life no longer applied out here. I was in the borderlands now, stuck in a space between the person I’d been and whoever I was supposed to become next. And the thought that Janine—my Janine—was going to be the one to inherit my legacy made me oddly proud. I knew my clients would be in good hands with that girl, and she would burn the whole place down if they underestimated her. She’d do great, and I would be…here. In Valentine Bay. Existing.

I was still running my thumb over the home button on my phone when I heard footsteps coming up the linoleum. I expected a nurse, or maybe one of the cleaning staff, but it was Gio—Dr. Russo—in his scrubs, holding a file in one hand and a half-eaten protein bar in the other. We’d fallen into an odd rhythm with my visiting Buddy in the hospital. He’d check in on Buddy’s progress, make small talk, and then pivot to whatever little drama was currently flaring up in the ER, third floor, or town in general. I’d listen, offer some snarky commentary, and we’d both pretend for five minutes that this was just a regular small-town day.

“Hey,” he said, glancing at my phone. “Everything okay?”

“I think I just fired myself.”

“Wow…that’s quite impressive.”

“Not really.” I managed a weak smile. “Turns out I’m replaceable after all.”

“Nah,” he said, shifting the file under his arm. “They’ll probably start a cult in your honor. Or at least a LinkedIn group.” He took a bite of the protein bar and chewed, studying me. “You gonna be okay?”

I wanted to say yes, but the word stuck in my throat. Instead, I shrugged and looked down at my sneakers, which suddenly looked too shiny and new for a hospital corridor.

He didn’t push, just nodded toward Buddy’s room. “He had a rough night. They upped his fluids and started him on a new round of antibiotics for the respiratory infection that developed. Vitals stabilized around four, but he’s still pretty out of it.”

I tucked my phone into my pocket and tried to assemble my face into something approximating composure. “How long will he have to stay?”