Chapter 19

Amelia

A vacuum cleaner hums from somewhere far away is the only sound in the empty office. My fingers dance a tired waltz across the keyboard, finalizing the last slide of the presentation. I spent every day last week catching up and preparing for this, and then all day again today. It's been a week since Hawaii's warmth kissed my skin, and all I've known since are these cold walls and colder expectations. Rose and Adam's faces are a constant presence in my mind, expectant, but never quite satisfied. Yet also unwilling to truly listen to anything I have to say.

Almost done, I assure myself, pausing to stretch, though the sentiment feels hollow. It feels like this preparation may never be done. I drag the cursor over the bullet points about Mercy Hospital's achievements, the accolades we're parading like shiny trinkets to distract from the real issues. My gut twists. This could have gone so differently if they were willing to rethink our approach.

My phone pings, and I nearly ignore it, but then Kent's name catches my eyes.

Kent: Are you still burning the midnight oil at your office?

My heart flutters. I didn't think I'd ever hear from Kent again. After he dropped me off, it was crickets all last week. Our schedules don't match up sometimes, but I just haven't been sure what to think. And I've had plenty else to occupy my mind. Mom spent the night last Monday, but she was gone when I woke up. I don't know where she is, but every night when I come home, I look for her.

Me: Like a candle at both ends.

It's an attempt at lightness, but it sums up pretty clearly how I feel.

Kent: Sit tight. I'm on my way.

That brings a smile to my face, a curve of hope in the long tunnel of my evening.

Me: Coming to rescue me?

A rescue… That's what it feels like, anyway. The knight and his steed, or perhaps just Kent in a reliable sedan.

The screen displays Read but no reply comes. I imagine him already on his way, anticipation rippling through my weary bones. He's seen me at my best, under Hawaiian sunsets, and at my worst, after a bike wreck covered in blood. Tonight, he'll find me somewhere in the middle, at my most bedraggled. But that's okay. At this point, everything is bonus anyway, so I have nothing to lose.

My hands hover over the laptop, poised to shut it down. I'm just rereading at this point, not making any real progress. I'm not sure there's any to be made. Mercy Hospital's logo stares back at me, a beacon of hope for so many, yet here it feels like a weight. They won't buy this. It's the same old song and dance, with no new steps to captivate or convince. They need more. They deserve more.

Frustration gnaws at me. There's a sound reason Mercy's new advertising manager put their account out for bid. They're looking for a new approach, someone who can offer them insights they can't see from the inside. But Rose and Adam… They prefer the safety of repetition over the risk of innovation. And it's going to bite us all in the ass.

"Take a chance," I whisper to the empty chairs where they sat earlier as if my words could travel back through time and change their minds.

A soft ding sounds.

Kent: Outside.

Already? I blink. The knight has indeed arrived. I click the laptop shut, its screen darkening, much like my feelings about the presentation. It's out of my hands now. Our appointment is on Thursday. We've wasted the time we had to devise something new.

Me: Coming.

I stand, my chair rolling back with a soft screech. The office feels larger now, emptier, as I switch off the lights, casting the room into shadows. There's a certain peace in knowing I'm leaving it behind, even if only for a bit.

"Thank you, Kent," I whisper to the darkness, imagining his patient smile, the warmth of his presence. Gratitude fills the hollow spaces, the ones carved by too many hours spent chasing approval. Tonight, I won't be alone.

Kent: I'm here. With dinner.

My heart does a little leap. The mere thought of food—real food, not the stale office coffee and half-eaten bagel from this morning—ignites my stomach into a chorus of rumbles.

Me: Give me a sec.

I can feel myself smiling. It's silly how a simple text can wash away the grime of the day, but Kent has that effect.

I take the elevator to the main floor, wave to the night security guard, and then there he is, a silhouette against the dimming city lights, holding what appears to be a treasure chest—a picnic basket. My heart swells. "You didn't have to," I say, though my voice betrays my delight.

"Of course I did," he replies, stepping into the lobby, and with him comes the smell of oregano and lemon, a scent that's very promising.

After signing him into the building, we take the elevator back upstairs. "How have you been since we've been back?" he asks. "I figured you might need a few days to reacclimate."

So, it's not that you'd gotten everything you wanted from me? The words form in my head, but I don't dare ask. "I have been busy. We're getting close to presenting for Mercy Hospital, so I'm trying to make up for my absence."

"You missed two days of work," he says skeptically. "Hopefully, you're not too far behind."

"I missed four. They counted the weekend."

He shakes his head. "That's like the hospital."

Back upstairs at the office, the conference room seems entirely unappealing, so instead, we settle on the floor in the waiting area, a blanket between us and the thin carpet, the spread of Greek food laid out like an offering. Souvlaki skewers glisten next to a golden slice of moussaka, dolmathes wrapped tight as secrets, and spanakopita triangles with flaky crust. There's a bowl of Greek salata, a jumble of colors as vibrant as the Hawaiian sunsets we admired together. Lemon roasted potatoes, rice pilaf, and sautéed vegetables complete the feast, along with pita and tzatziki.

"Where did you even find all this?" I marvel, picking up a skewer.

"Little place around the corner from my apartment," he says, watching me take a bite. "Good?"

"Fantastic," I mumble through a mouthful, the flavors bursting on my tongue.

As we eat, he confesses to a busy week as well, and we reminisce about Hawaii, the memories as fresh as the tang of lemon on my palate. "I loved the wedding," I tell him, a warmth blooming in my chest that isn't just from the food. "That sunset ceremony with your friends and family felt almost magical."

Kent smiles. "I understand now why she wanted the black sand beach."

"And the helicopter ride over the volcano? That was insane," I continue, talking with my hands as if they too remember the thrill of the wind, the heat from the Earth below us.

Kent laughs. "Yeah, but snorkeling? Come on, being surrounded by all that blue, the fish darting around us and the dolphins talking to us… It doesn't get better than that." His enthusiasm is infectious, and I can almost hear the whisper of waves, the lap of water against our boat.

"Wait, I've got something to show you," he says, pulling out his phone. He scrolls through his photos, stops, and holds it out. "Cordelia sent this."

It's us, beaming against a deep blue ocean backdrop—just pure, unfiltered joy. I feel a tug, a pull to keep this moment close, and I ask him to send it to me. Once he does, I set the photo as my wallpaper. "Perfect," I say, locking the image in place. "Thanks for bringing me dinner tonight," I tell him, our knees touching as we reach for more food. "You've saved me from another evening of cold coffee and regrets."

"Anytime," he says, and I find I believe him.

It seems so silly now to have thought I'd never hear from him again. Maybe I was overtired and overwhelmed, and I certainly don't want to leave myself open to getting hurt. But this time together is nice, as comforting as the blanket we're sitting on, as reliable as the ground beneath us. I could make room for this in my life if it's truly something he wants.

Our laughter dances, and Kent's hand brushes mine as we reach for the tzatziki. I'm wondering how to ask about his vision for us—whether he's interested in continuing to see each other—when the door creaks open.

"Amelia?" The voice is both familiar and foreign, slurred around the edges.

My heart clenches. "Mom?" I whisper, dread knotting my stomach. She staggers in, her eyes glazed, a shadow of the woman she was even a week ago. How did she get in here? What is she doing at my office? I haven't seen her or heard a word from her since she disappeared last week.

I stand, and Kent's beside me in an instant, his arm a steady presence around my shaking shoulders. "I've got this," he murmurs, moving toward my mother with swift confidence.

"Mom, sit down, please." I guide her to a chair, trying to mask the panic in my voice.

"Everything's spinning, darling," she mumbles, her body swaying dangerously.

"This is my mom, Sophia Wilson." I scan her eyes looking for recognition. "Mom, this is Kent. He's a doctor."

She stares back at us, her eyes glazed from her high.

"Stay with her. I'll be right back. My medical kit is in my car downstairs." Kent dashes out the door, returning moments later with a small vial and a syringe. Narcan.

"Is that…?" I can't finish the question, tears spilling over.

He nods, pushing it into her thigh through her clothes. "It's going to help her, Amelia." His voice is calm, a lifeline in the chaos.

I hold my breath. My mother's breathing steadies, and Kent's already on the phone, speaking to emergency services with the ease of someone who likely knows the people on the other end of the line. I watch him, grateful yet heartbroken.

"Help is on the way, Amelia." He squeezes my hand. "She'll be okay."

We follow the ambulance to the hospital in Kent's car, silent in the wake of adrenaline. The sterile smell of antiseptic fills my nostrils as we walk through the sliding doors, the bright lights overhead a stark contrast to the darkness inside me.

"Kent? What are you doing here?" Griffin looks between us, confusion on his face.

"Helping a friend," Kent says, his hand finding its way to the small of my back.

We sit in the waiting area, the plastic chairs cold and unforgiving beneath us. Griffin returns, papers in hand, and kindly helps me admit my mother into rehab. I know this routine all too well.

"Thank you," I murmur, and then I thank Kent again once Griffin has disappeared. I'm mortified that he's seen into the depths of my life's disarray.

"Amelia, it's no—"

"Please don't say it's nothing." I shake my head, the weight of past disappointments heavy on my tongue. "You didn't sign up for this. I need some time to manage this mess. I'll call you when I can breathe again."

"Hey, look at me." Kent tilts my chin up, his eyes on mine. "We all have our battles. Yours don't scare me."

It's not worth arguing right now. And I can't force him to leave, so I just turn back to the matter at hand. As we finalize the paperwork, a hopeless thought nags at me. No number of signatures will heal my mother until she decides to fight. And despite the ink drying on those forms, I know this isn't the battle where she'll claim victory. Not this time. But I don't know anything else to do but try.

The car engine hums a soft lullaby as Kent finally drives me home and pulls up in front of the modest brick fa?ade of my apartment. The streetlight casts an orange glow through the windshield.

"Thank you for everything tonight," I say, my voice threatening to break. I really just need to be alone. I can't keep it together anymore.

"Don't mention it." He turns off the ignition. "You're not alone in this, Amelia."

I nod, but it's mechanical, the gesture empty as I grapple with the turmoil inside me. I will myself not to bolt from the car. He gently kisses my forehead, a touch so tender it nearly undoes me.

"Get some rest," he whispers. "We'll see each other soon."

"Okay," I manage to reply. "But I need you to give me space. I can only handle so much at once. I'll reach out when I'm ready." I feel a little panicky, pleading with my eyes. I need him to understand. I don't know how to include someone else in this process. It's too vulnerable, too messy. I have to do this alone, like I always have.

He opens his mouth as if he really wants to say something else, but then he just nods, his shoulders slumping. I wave goodbye and exit the car.

Taking a deep breath, I watch his taillights disappear around the corner. There's momentary relief, but then anger surges within me. Anger at my mother for her untimely intrusion, for the addiction she can't seem to escape, and for the way she unwittingly sabotaged what should have been a simple, happy night, or maybe even more.

Unlocking my phone, I hit Stella's contact and listen as it rings. She picks up after the third, her voice sleepy and concerned. "Amelia? What's wrong?"

"Mom showed up at my office…high," I confess, the words like shards of glass on my tongue. "Kent was there. He had to help me deal with it."

"God, Amelia, that's a lot. I'm so sorry," Stella says with a sigh.

"Tonight was supposed to be about the project. He surprised me with dinner, and I was so excited to see him. But now…" My voice trails off as I sink onto the couch. "I told him not to contact me, that I'd reach out when I was ready. It just felt like too much."

"Hey, what happened tonight is not on you. And you can deal with it however you need to. Kent, well, he's seen everything now, hasn't he? I'm sure he'll be happy to hear from you whenever you're ready." She gives a little laugh.

Stella's attempt at lightening the mood is valiant, but the darkness isn't so easily dispelled. "Yeah, he knows all my secrets," I agree, tracing the pattern on the throw pillow beside me. "But I don't see why he'd wait for me."

"Amelia, you thought he'd be done after Hawaii, and evidently, you were wrong. Now he's experienced an episode with your mom, so if he sticks around, that's a good sign that he cares about you. A lot. This—if he's worth bothering with, none of this will change how he feels," Stella insists.

"Maybe." But doubt nibbles at the edges of my hope, sharp and relentless. "I just wish… I wish for once she wouldn't ruin things."

"How did you leave things with your mom?" she asks.

I fill her in on what happened at the office, how Kent was by my side through it all, and how Mom's evidently going to rehab again.

"Give Kent some credit, Amelia, and take him at his word," Stella says when I've finished. "And give yourself some credit too. You're stronger than you think. Don't wait too long to reach out to him again."

"Thanks, Stella. I needed to hear that." I let out a deep breath, trying to expel the tightness in my chest.

"Anytime, love. Is there anything you need right now? Are you going to be able to get some rest? Call me tomorrow, okay? We'll figure this out together," she promises.

"Will do. Goodnight, Stella. Thank you."

"You're welcome. Goodnight, Amelia."

The line goes dead, and I'm left with the echo of her words and the lingering pressure of Kent's kiss on my forehead—a promise or an endpoint, I can't decide which.