Chapter 17

Amelia

The chill of the early Vancouver morning bites at my cheeks as I lean in, pressing my lips to Kent's in a goodbye kiss that carries the warmth of Hawaiian sunsets within it.

"I'll call you," he murmurs against my mouth, his voice a promise that stirs a flutter in my chest.

"Looking forward to it," I whisper back, trying to keep my tone light, breezy. I'm not going to get my hopes up.

With one last lingering look, I turn and hustle into my apartment building, the click of the lock behind me as final as the end of our island interlude. The scent of sea salt and sunscreen still clings to my skin, but I'm quick to shed my travel clothes, exchanging them for the armor of a work outfit, a crisp blouse and skirt that feel foreign after days in nothing but sundresses and swimsuits.

The light on my landline phone blinks an accusatory red, displaying a string of missed calls that knots my stomach tight. Six messages wait, each one a siren's call I can't ignore. I hit play, bracing myself for the familiar cadence of my mother's voice.

"Amelia, darling! Call me!" Her first message is giddy, bubbling with excitement that feels out of place so early in the morning. She rattles off a phone number, and I scrawl it down on a scrap of paper, the digits unfamiliar.

But with each subsequent message, her cheer fades. The second is less exuberant, tinged with a note of impatience. A different number again—why?

By the time I reach the sixth, her words are steeped in sheer panic. "I need your help, Amelia. I need money or…or I don't know what's going to happen." Her voice cracks, breaking over the word money like a ship splintering against rocks. She leaves yet another number, the sixth stranger in a lineup of digits that makes no sense.

Confusion swirls through me, mixing with the dregs of jetlag and the fading adrenaline of adventure. Why is she calling from so many different numbers? I press my fingertips to my temples, willing the pounding in my head to cease.

I have no money to give her. Every penny is accounted for, tied up in bills and the debts of living a life that always seems to be playing catch-up. My account balance flashes in my mind's eye, a pitifully small number that offers no salvation.

"Mom," I whisper to the empty room, to the machine that has captured her voice. "What have you gotten yourself into?"

Guilt gnaws at me, a relentless pest. It would be easy to drown in the worry, to let it pull me under until I'm gasping for air. But I can't—not now. I need to get to the office. Rose and Adam are waiting, and there's work to be done, a life to be lived, even if my mind insists on returning to the desperation in my mother's pleas.

I tuck the paper with its jumble of numbers into my purse, the edges already crumpled from my grip. They're a problem for another time—for a moment when I can afford to let my world stop spinning. For now, I steady my breath, square my shoulders, and step back out of the sanctuary of my apartment, preparing myself for what I know is going to be a long day.

The city blurs past the window of the bus, a smear of grays and blues, my thoughts as disjointed as the morning commuters' conversations around me. Deciding against procrastination, I pull out the crumpled paper and press my phone to my ear. The first number rings into oblivion before the heartless beep of disconnection slices through. I frown and punch in the second, but an elderly man's voice greets me, confusion lacing his tone when I ask for my mother.

"Sorry, dear, you must have the wrong number," he says, gentle but firm.

By the third attempt, my patience wears thin, and the fourth and fifth are no better, just more strangers or machines telling me I've reached a dead end. The sixth call ends with a vague promise from a woman who insists she doesn't know a soul by my mother's name but will "keep an ear out." The hollow assurance leaves me cold.

Great. Unanswered questions churn in my stomach like a storm I can't quell. What did she get into now?

My spirits are low as I step off the bus and into the brisk air of Vancouver's morning. I shove the useless numbers back into my purse, forcing my feet forward, toward the glass doors of my office building where reality waits to drag me back into its relentless tide.

"Amelia, there you are!" Adam's voice cuts through the lobby's hum, too sharp, too urgent. He stands beside Rose, their expressions twin masks of irritation. "We expected at least one update from you while you were relaxing and we were here hard at work."

"Or even just a check-in email," Rose adds, arms crossed over her chest, eyes narrowing on my face. "You have a nice tan, though. Must have been quite the holiday while the rest of us were here."

"Sorry, it wasn't exactly a vacation," I tell them, but my defense catches in my throat, guilt weaving through me like threads through fabric. A lot of it was a vacation. A vacation I desperately needed and deserved, I remind myself. "I spoke with the chief of medicine at Mercy, and I think I might have a new perspective we could—"

"Regardless, we're behind because of your absence," Adam says, tapping his watch, a silent reprimand for wasted time. He turns, expecting me to follow, and I fall into step behind him.

I resist rolling my eyes because I can feel Rose's eyes boring into me, hot and accusing. This stings more than I care to admit. Rose and I used to be friends, once upon a time, before deadlines and deliverables built walls between us. Now, it seems, even a trace of sunlight on my skin is enough to widen the gap.

"Look, I gathered some information I think will be useful," I say, glancing back at Rose, hoping for some understanding.

But she says nothing.

We reach our floor, and I step off the elevator, the weight of the day already pressing down on me. I drop into my chair and flick on my computer, the screen lighting up as I brace myself for the backlog of emails, for the long hours ahead, and for the gnawing worry about my mother that refuses to be ignored.

"Conference room," Rose announces. "Now."

I grab the notes I scribbled while I was gone and join the team in the conference room. I haven't even had a cup of coffee yet.

The steady hum of the office air conditioner fills the tense silence as I face Rose and Adam. The overhead lights cast a harsh glow on their expectant faces, and I feel the weight of their scrutiny like a physical force.

"As I mentioned, I was able to speak with Dr. Johns," I begin, my voice catching slightly as I recall the awkwardness of approaching the man during his daughter's wedding festivities. "He was there as a father of the bride, not the chief medical officer."

Rose raises an eyebrow, her lips pressing into a thin line.

"Anyway, he articulated his main concerns with the hospital as the poor design of systems and processes," I explain, my fingers tapping on the stack of notes I made after our brief exchange. "There's also an inability to adapt to changing patient demographics and their needs."

"Go on," Adam urges, leaning forward, his hands clasped together on the conference table.

"Moreover," I say, shifting in my seat, "he pointed out the challenges of adapting to all the complex new systems and advances in medicine and technology." My gaze flashes to Rose, whose expression remains unreadable. "And lastly, the slow adoption of IT innovations."

"Amelia…" Rose sighs, her tone laced with impatience. "These are issues we've known about. We've discussed them repeatedly. What new insights did you bring back?"

I swallow hard, the pit in my stomach growing. They may have known about these things, but it's not what we're addressing with our marketing proposal. "He mentioned that he's most proud when all the pieces of the hospital's complex system come together and produce good results. I think we should focus on highlighting that kind of synergy in a complicated place…" I trail off, as I can see Rose isn't buying it.

She cuts me off with a curt wave of her hand. "We needed specifics, Amelia. Insight into what they want to advertise—strategies, numbers, something tangible. Not just speculation and a rehash of known problems."

The silence that follows is stifling. It has never been clearer that we don't see this account—or even our role as account managers—the same way. Informed inference about how to best market the hospital is our job. We can't just react to whatever the last person there told us. I can feel the unspoken accusation hovering between us; they believe my trip was a waste. Maybe I'm a waste.

It doesn't feel worth arguing right now. "Sorry, Rose. I'll do what I can to dig deeper into these topics," I tell her, my eyes fixed on the grain of the table, unable to meet hers.

She doesn't reply, instead turning her attention to her tablet screen, effectively dismissing me. As I retreat to my desk, the clack of keys from her direction feels like a barrier going up, one I'm not sure how to break down again. It feels ridiculous to admit defeat here, but I'm not sure what else to do. I wish there were viable options elsewhere so I could convince myself leaving is the right thing for me.

The rest of the day drags, each hour marked by the relentless ticking of the clock and Rose's cold shoulder. I dive into the backlog of emails, my fingers flying across the keyboard, trying to lose myself in the catch-up work. We present next week and still don't seem to have a clear line on what we should be prepared for. And over all of this, my gnawing anxiety about my mother's cryptic messages lingers, coloring my thoughts with worry.

I glance over at Rose every so often, hoping for a thaw in her icy demeanor, but she remains distant. It's clear she expected more from me, but I can't help feeling she won't allow me to offer the insight and expertise I have. It makes me feel like I'm going crazy. Is my judgment slipping? Am I letting people down?

"Focus, Amelia," I whisper, shaking off the doubts. The project needs my undivided attention if I'm going to salvage anything from the wreckage.

Monday evening after work I slide into the booth across from Stella and Isla. The long day's weight lifts incrementally with each familiar smile they offer, and I return them with a weary but genuine one of my own. "Hard to believe that twenty-four hours ago, I was still in paradise."

Isla shakes her head and smiles. "I bet it was glorious."

"It was. Guess what I brought you two?" I say, extracting small brown boxes from my bag—chocolate-covered macadamia nuts, a sweet taste of the tropics. Their eyes light up as I hand them over. "A little piece of Hawaii."

"Ooh, Amelia, you shouldn't have!" Stella exclaims, already prying open the package.

"Tell us everything," Isla urges. "The wedding, the sunset…Kent."

I sip my drink, the cool white wine soothing as it slides down my throat. "The wedding was stunning. Imagine the sun dipping into the ocean, painting the sky in shades of fire and rose." I lean back, closing my eyes for a moment. "And Kent…" I hesitate, unsure how to articulate my tangled emotions. "I can't quite figure him out. I really like him, though, more than I expected to. But I think it's probably run its course."

"What?" Stella screeches. "Why do you think it's over?"

I shrug. "He kissed me goodbye this morning when we got to my building, and it felt kind of final. It was not the kind of kiss we had in Hawaii."

"What do you mean?" Isla asks.

The air whooshes from my lungs. I'm not sure what I mean. My mind is a tangle, honestly. It felt okay at the time, but as the day has gone on, my doubts have crept in. "He talked while I was kissing him. He said, ‘I'll call you.'"

Recognition crosses their faces. It's the kiss-of-death comment.

Still Stella seems unconvinced. "I don't know," she says. "But either way, look at the bright side. You got a fantastic vacation, which you desperately needed." She pops a chocolate into her mouth.

"True," I admit. "But it's back to reality now. Work was a disaster today, and I don't know what's going on with my mom."

Stella pauses, another chocolate halfway to her mouth. "What happened?"

I stare down at my sweating glass. "I'm not sure. She left me a handful of messages, and now, I can't reach her. But honestly, I've got bigger fish to fry. Rose and Adam weren't impressed with the intel I brought back from Hawaii, and they don't seem interested in my perspective on the bid."

Isla shakes her head. "I'm sorry, Amelia. But maybe this is a reminder not to put all your eggs in one basket. You're brilliant, and if things don't work out with the hospital account, you should have options. You don't have to beat your head against the wall."

I nod. "I've been looking, but there isn't much work out there for someone at my level. Plus, I hate the idea of just walking away from this." More and more, I think my efforts are futile, though. "I know you're right," I concede, swirling the wine in my glass. It's unsettling, this idea of starting anew somewhere else. But growth often requires discomfort. Change is coming, whether I'm ready or not. I swirl the last of my wine in my glass. "Enough about me. What's happening with you two? Spill."

Stella bounces in her seat. "I'm really digging this lawyer guy I've been seeing. He's swamped, but it works out since I'm up to my neck with my own work." She shrugs. "Busy is good. It's like we're in sync."

"Sounds perfect for you," I say, happy she's found someone who matches her pace.

"Totally," Isla chimes in, picking at her napkin. "Just don't let him tell you he has court every Friday night like that loser I went out with a few times." When Stella and I moan in sympathy, she's quick to correct us. "But don't worry about me because I've got a potential new guy. We're meeting Saturday." Her voice drops a notch. "But he's vague about his job, so we're meeting at Java Jolt—crowded and public."

"Smart," I nod, feeling a protective surge. "Do you want us to be there, just in case?"

"Would you? Just to keep an eye out?" Isla asks, relief in her eyes.

"Count us in," Stella declares, and we concoct a plan. "If you tug on your earring, Amelia and I will swoop in and save you from the boredom—or worse."

"Let's hope it's just boredom," I add, raising my glass in toast.

The night stretches on, filled with laughter, but eventually, the comfort of friends can no longer stave off my exhaustion and jetlag. At least, I've made it to the end of the day. I say my goodbyes and make my way home through streets damp with mist, my thoughts a mix of my mom, work, and Kent—and now, a hint of concern for Isla's date.

Turning the corner, I spot a huddled figure on the sidewalk by my building. As I approach, the streetlight reveals my mother's familiar, weary face. "Mom?" My heart tightens in my chest.

"Amelia," she breathes, looking up at me with eyes that are lost and scared.

"Come on, let's get you inside." I help her to her feet, supporting her weight. Once upstairs, I guide her into the bathroom and start the shower, steam slowly filling the tiny space.

"Thank you, sweetheart," she murmurs as I leave her, her voice muffled behind the curtain as water cascades over her.

In the kitchen, I butter bread and heat soup on the stove, the comfort foods of our past. After a few minutes she emerges, cleaner and wrapped in one of my towels, her hair plastered to her head. Handing her the grilled cheese, I watch her take a bite, something akin to peace passing over her features.

"Mom, what's going on?" I ask, sitting across from her at my cramped dining table. "You called me from six different numbers over four days, and when I called back there was no answer, or when there was, they didn't know you."

She speaks between mouthfuls, spinning tales of being chased, debts, and danger, none of it quite adding up. I listen, trying to sift through the layers for truth, the pit in my stomach growing with every fantastical claim.

"Let's rest," I finally say, touching her hand. "We'll figure it out tomorrow, okay?"

"Tomorrow," she echoes, and I lead her to the couch, tucking her under a blanket.

I retreat to my room, my exhaustion returning twofold as the adrenaline wears off. In the dark, I stare at the ceiling, questions circling like vultures. The harder I try to chart a path forward, the more the ground beneath me seems to shift.