Chapter 2

Kent

The fluorescent lights of Mercy Hospital buzz overhead, casting a sterile glow on the linoleum floors as my shift teeters toward its end. I stand at the edge of a curtain-drawn cubicle where agony has taken human form—a middle-aged woman with deep-set lines etching her face.

"Please," she gasps as I enter, clenching the edges of the hospital bed, "the pain, it's unbearable."

I nod, understanding the desperation in her eyes, but caution wraps around my thoughts like a stubborn vine. "We need to confirm it's kidney stones before we administer anything stronger than Tylenol." My voice is gentle yet firm. I've seen too many opioid chasers masquerading as patients in dire straits.

She relents with a weary sigh, and I step away, my mind already searching for the next task.

"Long day?" Griffin Martin's voice cuts through the hum of hospital activity as I lean against the nurses' station. I can see him working in the cubicle across the hall. Griffin is one of the doctors I work with, and he's become a close friend.

"Isn't it always?" I offer him a tired smile as his hands keep busy with thread and needle, closing up a wound on the arm of a young boy. His patient sits bravely, brow furrowed, a small soldier in the battle against tears.

"Come on, let's grab a drink after," Griffin suggests, tying off the last stitch with practiced ease. "Drown the day in something less antiseptic."

"Can't tonight," I tell him, glancing at the clock. "Family dinner. Wedding planning awaits."

"Ah, Cordelia's big day is approaching," he nods, swiping a bandage over the sealed wound. "You ready to play the doting brother?"

"More like the indifferent uncle," I quip, though part of me cringes at that truth. I'm happy for my sister, but the pomp and circumstance of weddings—not to mention the confines of marriage—has never been my scene. "William's family is about as warm as this hospital coffee," I add, lifting a half-empty Styrofoam cup in a mock toast.

Griffin chuckles as he comes out, slapping me on the shoulder with camaraderie that only years of shared trauma work can forge. "Well, if you survive, the offer stands. First round's on me."

"Deal," I grin, pushing away from the counter. The evening ahead looms with the weight of expectations, familial duty, and a dash of sibling rivalry, none of which can be numbed by analgesics or anesthetics.

"Dr. Johns?" Lisa Collins, my nurse this shift, snaps me back to the present. "Mrs. Harrow is ready for her ultrasound."

"Thanks, Lisa," I tell her. "But we're off for the night. Dr. Thompson has my patients."

"See you tomorrow then." She rushes to transition her work to Dr. Thompson's nurse.

I shrug off the last vestiges of my shift as I remove my white coat and toss my scrubs in the dirty laundry. I change into a suit before I make my way through the quieter, polished corridors of Mercy Hospital's administrative wing. The antiseptic tang of the emergency room gives way to a more subdued scent here, the air quieter and filled with the mix of leather-bound books and expensive cologne that always seems to linger outside my father's office. Some whisper behind closed doors that it's nepotism that has my office nameplate reading Dr. Kent Johns. But I've worked hard to be here and to be a great doctor. I'm not interested in following my father's footsteps to the chief medical officer's desk. Being just Kent, the ED doc with his own life beyond these walls, suits me fine.

The door to my father's private reception area stands ajar, and inside, William Long, lawyer extraordinaire and Cordelia's better half, is pacing, phone pressed to his ear. His tone is clipped and professional as he discusses what sounds like a malpractice case in obstetrics. In the hospital hierarchy, he's as essential as any of us with medical degrees.

"—absolutely critical that we review all the documentation again. Yes, I'll hold." William lowers the phone momentarily, catching sight of me. "Kent," he acknowledges with a nod, the formality in his greeting befitting a courtroom more than a family gathering. He puts the phone back to his ear, his brow furrowed.

"Hey, William," I respond, leaning against the doorframe. I watch him for a moment, this man who matches my sister in ambition and intensity, wondering if there's another side to him when they're not under the patriarchal gaze of the chief of medicine or discussing legal strategies.

"Are you excited about getting married?" I ask while he remains on hold.

He pauses, looking at me, and there's a softening around his eyes. "Yes, quite," he answers with a smile. The admission feels surprisingly personal coming from him.

"Good, good," I murmur, feeling a twinge of something akin to envy. Cordelia may be my sister, but she's also probably my best friend in the whole world. I adore her, and since she loves William, I will learn to do the same.

"Sorry, I have to take this," William says, gesturing to his phone. "We'll talk at dinner."

"Sure thing," I reply, stepping farther into the room and moving to the window. I let my thoughts wander, briefly touching on the oddity of our family dynamics, each of us so different yet permanently intertwined by blood and by the very walls of Mercy Hospital.

After a minute, Father emerges from his office, his forehead creased with frustration as he looks between William and me. No Cordelia in sight. He checks his wristwatch with an exaggerated motion, the silent language of his impatience loud.

"Traffic was horrendous," Cordelia announces as she breezes in, voice lilting with a nonchalance designed to prick at our father's composure. She presses a kiss to his cheek, a fleeting gesture of appeasement before sliding over to William, who has finished his call. Their fingers entwine as if magnetized, a display of unity that seems to calm William instantly.

"Are we all set? Our reservation is in ten minutes," she says. "Published On Main won't wait forever for us." Her eyes flick over me with a playful challenge, and I have to smile. Her punctuality—or lack thereof—has become a tactical game she plays quite skillfully. By being late she's avoided getting stuck answering Father's questions about her career.

"Let's not keep your future husband's stomach waiting." I gesture toward the elevator.

When we arrive outside, a black car idles at the curb, its windows reflecting the orange hues of streetlights in the evening sky. It's going to rain any minute. Once we're all nestled in the car's leather-scented interior, the conversation veers toward the wedding. Cordelia is animated, detailing floral arrangements and seating charts with a fervor that could rival her medical briefings.

"Is Mum coming over for the big day?" I ask, hearing the hope in my voice. It's been years since we were all together.

Cordelia's expression softens. "No, the House of Lords is in session, and you know how she is about her duties."

"Yeah." I exhale, disappointment settling like a weight on my chest. The picture of our family has become a puzzle, with pieces strewn across continents, never quite fitting together again.

My father's job brought us here years ago, and Mum promised to come but never has. They live two separate lives on two continents.

"Her work is important," Father replies, his voice low, colored by something I can't quite decipher. My parents never kept it secret that they're in sort of an arranged marriage. My mother has a title, but her father had run through their family money, and my father's family did exceedingly well in the shipping business. I suppose they like each other enough to have had two children, but I'm not sure even they know when they last spoke to one another. "And here we are," he adds, attempting a reassuring smile. "Together, despite it all."

"Indeed." Cordelia's voice cuts through the thickening silence. "Let's focus on the positive. We have a wedding to manage, after all. And there's just a little more than a month to go."

The traffic is slow, and even in the pouring rain, I bet I could walk to the restaurant faster than we're going. I press my forehead to the glass, watching as Vancouver's early February showers bathe the streets—constant, unyielding. Where does all the water go? It's dark now, but there will soon be comfort in longer days, hinting at spring's approach and, with it, sunlight stretching into the evenings. Soon, I'll be perfecting my swing on the back nine after a day's shift has ended.

"Here we are," Father announces as the driver pulls up to the curb outside Published on Main.

"Thanks, Father," Cordelia adds, checking her watch with the precision of someone who schedules every moment.

We file out of the car, and the host greets us with a practiced smile, guiding us through the warm ambiance to our regular table. It's a ritual by now, this dance of niceties and familiar routes through the restaurant's intimate spaces.

I trail behind, pausing to let the atmosphere seep in—the low murmur of conversation and the rich aroma of Michelin-starred food with aged wine. We're a world away from the antiseptic sterility of the hospital.

"Kent, are you coming?" William's voice is polite but distant, betraying nothing of his thoughts.

"Right behind you," I reply, pulling myself from my reverie.

Settling into my chair, I survey the dining room. Couples nestle in their private oases, eyes locked. They're entranced, oblivious to the rest of us mere mortals navigating solo through the waters of companionship. I wonder about the secret ingredient of their rapture, though I also strongly suspect most of the rapture is just temporary. Is it chemistry? Luck? Or something else entirely?

"Kent, what do you think?" Cordelia's voice cuts through my contemplation.

"About?" I ask, realizing I've missed part of the conversation.

"Never mind," she says, waving me off with a laugh. "You were miles away."

"Sorry," I apologize, though I'm not sure for what. Perhaps for the fact that I'm here but not really present, my thoughts drifting to the enigma of love.

"Your head's always in the clouds after a shift," Cordelia notes.

"Occupational hazard," I agree with a half-smile.

The server arrives and points out the additions to the tasting menu. Everything here tastes fantastic, but tonight, I go with the fish. When everyone has ordered, we make polite chit-chat. Cordelia urges William to talk about his current case, and I try to listen, but he likes to hear himself talk. It's all so boring to me.

I peer over at Cordelia and William, completely enamored with each other. They claim it's love, and maybe it is, but I can't comprehend why people willingly enter into the confines of marriage. Those initial sparks of passion fade so quickly, leaving you stuck with someone you may end up despising, all because of a piece of paper.

When dinner arrives, the server places my steelhead in front of me, but I'm not very hungry. I'm still in my head. Where some people see soulmates, I see potential complications. Compatibility isn't just a checklist; it's an elusive thing that I'm not convinced is achievable long term.

"Why don't you have a date tonight?" Cordelia asks, as if I always bring one. I never do.

"Guess I'm just picky," I mutter, almost hoping no one hears.

"Nothing wrong with having standards, Kent," William offers, ever the diplomat.

"Maybe," I concede, swirling the wine in my glass. "But sometimes, I wonder if I'm searching for a perfection that doesn't exist."

"Perfection's overrated anyway," Father chimes in.

Is that a dig at my mother? Maybe. Who knows? "Is it?" I ponder aloud.

"Absolutely," he continues. "It's the flaws that make things interesting, give them character."

"Flaws," I echo, allowing the word to roll off my tongue. Maybe it's time to reassess, to redefine my criteria. To find beauty in the imperfections, to embrace temporary joy without getting caught up in the long-term possibilities.

"Speaking of character," Cordelia says, bringing my attention back to our dinner. "Let's toast to William's latest victory on behalf of the hospital."

We all raise our glasses, and William beams at Cordelia. I think I'm going to be sick.

I'm still picking at my meal, mind wandering, when Cordelia dives into her oversized binder with an excitement that could power the city grid. She pulls out menu after menu, each one fluttering down like a culinary promise.

"Guess where we're having the wedding?" she beams, oblivious to the tightening around Dad's eyes.

"At the Four Seasons on the Big Island in Hawaii," I say. We've known that forever. Did it change?

"Yes, of course, but my wedding planner called today, and we were able to secure Punalu?u black sand beach for the ceremony."

"Ah…" I tilt my head, picturing the lush greenery and black sand created by centuries of waves crashing against lava rock formations. The contrast with her wedding dress and flowers will be gorgeous at sunset. "Sounds magical."

"Magical with a side of logistical nightmare," Father undercuts, his distaste for destination weddings thinly veiled.

Cordelia waves away his concerns as she brandishes a glossy brochure. "I've thought of everything. We have rooms booked at the Four Seasons. A luxury bus will take us back and forth to the wedding site. We'll serve drinks, and people won't even think twice about the drive. It's going to be a beautiful weekend—a luau rehearsal dinner on the beach at the Four Seasons, stunning weather, so many things to see and do…"

"Activities," Father echoes, warming up to the idea, though a shadow of annoyance still lingers. I make a mental note to check on him later; these moments of disapproval are telling.

Father's expression softens further as Cordelia describes her plans, a hint of pride lighting up his features. For all his grumbling about traveling for a wedding, he's a sucker for good food and family achievements. And Cordelia marrying a well-respected lawyer is an achievement in his book.

"Fresh, regional ingredients," Cordelia continues, and I have to admire her tenacity, her ability to sell ice to polar bears.

"Sounds lovely, Cordy," I say. "Really does."

As the evening continues, our conversation wades through a sea of wedding details, from the mother who won't make it across the pond, to the hue of the floral arrangements. Purple, the color of royalty, a fitting choice for Cordelia's ambitions.

"Kent, don't think you're getting off easy," she teases, pointing a manicured finger at me. "I expect you to bring a date. And not someone from the hospital or your friends in that alumni-group thing." She uses air quotes as she refers to my group of female friends who call themselves Kent's Alumni Association. They're exes, and we've all become or remained friends.

"Of course," I reply. "I'll find someone respectable and fun to hang out with."

"Bring someone who'll enjoy all that Hawaii has to offer, not just someone who looks good in a bikini and wants to linger at the bar. Someone special," Father advises, as if reading my thoughts.

"Special," I echo, rolling the word in my mouth as if tasting a fine wine. It's a concept appealing yet foreign. "Someone who appreciates the imperfections," I add, recalling our earlier musings.

"Exactly," Cordelia says. "Now, let's finish up here. Two hundred guests won't invite themselves."

"Two hundred," I muse, wondering how many faces in that crowd will mirror the adoration I see in the couples around us. How many will still be looking for the right chemistry, mixed with my laundry list of partner must-haves that I've yet to find? "That's quite the party," I manage, keeping my tone light.

"Only the best for my big day," Cordelia declares.

"Only the best," I repeat, smiling. Despite my own ambiguity about love and marriage, I want nothing less for her.

Father pays the bill, and he's out the door. Suddenly, I feel like a third wheel. Standing, I say goodbye to my sister and William.

"I mean it, Kent," Cordelia warns. "There will be pictures at the wedding, and I don't want one of your bimbos as a reminder of my day. Promise me you'll find a woman you can spend time with."

"I'll do my best," I tell her. That's all I can promise.

Rain speckles the window of the rideshare as it pulls away from the restaurant, blurring the brightly lit signs and orange streetlights into a kaleidoscope of color against the night. I lean back in the faux leather seat, tracing patterns on the fogged-up glass beside me.

"Rough day?" the driver asks, glancing at me in the rearview mirror. He's making conversation, the kind that fills the silence but rarely scratches the surface.

"Long day," I correct, offering a half-smile. "You know how family dinners can be."

"Tell me about it." He chuckles, his gaze returning to the slick streets ahead. "At least you're headed to a nice area now," he notes, nodding toward his navigation. "Quiet evening in?"

"Looks like it." I let out a sigh, my breath fogging the window even more. The truth is, quiet evenings in are all too familiar, a stark contrast to the vibrant life my sister Cordelia plans with William.

My phone pings. I smile, looking down at the group chat with my four closest friends outside the hospital—what Cordelia referred to as the Kent Alumni Association. Joanna Kelly, Phoebe Michaelson, Leah Holt, and Danielle Parsons.

Jo: How did dinner go? We're dying to know.

Phoebe: Inquiring minds want to know.

Leah: I want to be your date for the wedding. Take me with you, pleeeeze…

Danielle: I'll carry your suitcase.

Me: Dinner was nice. Cordy has great plans for the wedding. She even secured a black sand beach for the ceremony.

Leah: Make sure you wear shoes. The hot sun makes that lava sand hot!

Me: Good to know. Where are you ladies hanging out tonight?

Phoebe: I just got home. Tomorrow night?

Me: Can't. I have a date with that girl I met on Slide Right.

Leah: Make sure Cordelia knows I'm the one going with you to the wedding.

She already said they couldn't go. I hate to lie, but it's the only way to sell it gently to my friends.

Me: I already have a date.

Jo: What!

Phoebe: With who? We want the deets.

Leah: I'm heartbroken.

Danielle: ???

Me: I'll tell you later.

Phoebe: Please tell me you're not going with your cousin.

Me: Will you stop? I went with my cousin to her sister's wedding, and if you remember, I met a nice girl that night.

Joanna: Didn't she give you the clap?

Danielle: No, you're the only one who's gotten VD—after that date with the guy from Slide Right.

I put my phone away. I adore those women, but they don't need me for this. They'll be texting for another hour.

As we drive, I catch glimpses of couples strolling under umbrellas. They seem insulated in their own little worlds, sharing something intangible—a connection, a spark—that I've not yet managed to find.

"Ever feel like you're missing out on…something?" I find myself asking the driver. I've surprised even myself with the vulnerability of the question.

"Sometimes," he admits, navigating a turn. "But then, don't we all walk our own paths?"

I nod. For a long time, my path seemed straightforward—become a doctor, help people, live a good life. But somewhere along the line, everyone's interest in love and companionship got tangled up in the mix. I'm determined not to settle, not to make the mistakes I've watched others endure, yet now I'm here, wondering if I set the bar too high or just never learned to reach for it. And part of me remains unsure there's a need to reach for it at all.

"Here we are," the driver announces, pulling up to my building. Lights from the condos reflect off the water, each one a beacon of someone else's life, their choices, their loves.

"Thanks," I say. "Have a good night."

"Take care," he replies as I step out into the drizzle.

The lobby of my building is empty as I pass through, my footsteps echoing on the marble floor.

"Evening, Kent," greets the security guard.

"Good evening, Dave," I respond.

Waiting for the elevator, I watch my reflection in the polished metal doors—a man just past thirty, with traces of fatigue lining his face. Is this what contentment looks like, or is it merely complacency?

Just as the doors open, the newlyweds from the fifteenth floor join me in getting on the elevator. Not only am I not getting an express ride to the thirty-second floor, I'm stuck with two people who would probably be humping each other if I wasn't here. Yeah, this is uncomfortable.

They exit when we reach their floor, and the remaining ride has me questioning why I see couples everywhere all of a sudden.

I stride down the hall, and my key turns in the lock with a satisfying click. Inside my place, I toss my keys on the entryway table and shrug out of my coat. The silence of the space greets me, neither comforting nor oppressive, just there, like the steady beat of my heart.

I wander over to the wide windows that offer a view of False Creek, the lights of the city dancing on the water's surface. Couples probably sit in those boats down there, sharing secrets and wine, wrapped in each other's arms. And here I am, wondering if love is just a sham.