Chapter 21

Kent

"Dr. Johns, come on. You're done for the day, right?" The sun is going down outside the ED when my nurse, Susan, ever the social coordinator, snaps me back to reality with her upbeat chirp. "Barney's with the team. You're coming."

"Sure," I acquiesce, the word automatic. It's been an endless shift, and I've been preoccupied all day.

I took a break in Dad's office to review Cordelia's wedding photos this morning—at her insistence—and on my way back to the ED, I swear I saw Amelia in the administrative wing. She didn't see me, and I froze like a deer in the headlights—trapped between the rush of emotion at seeing her and my desire to respect her need for space. Was she there to visit her mother? Was it a work thing? She'd been preparing for a presentation for Mercy Hospital… I don't know what to think. And now I can't stop thinking.

I rub the bridge of my nose, feeling the sharp sting of guilt for leaving Amelia to face the storm of her mother's overdose alone. I haven't spoken with her since that evening, though she did pretty much tell me not to contact her when I dropped her off. I know she was overwhelmed and also embarrassed, but I was hoping she'd call once her mom stabilized. I don't know how to interpret the fact that she hasn't.

As we exit the hospital, headed for Barney's just across the street, I manage a smile in spite of myself as I imagine Amelia's wry commentary on our motley crew of healthcare warriors seeking solace in cheap beer and fried food. I think of her far too much, especially today, but things have gotten so complicated. We only agreed on our time together in Hawaii, but after what I realized during the wedding, I know I want more. I just haven't had the chance to talk to her about it, and now, she's pulled away. We need to reconnect. I just don't know how to do that in a way she'll accept.

"Kent, spill. How's it going with the woman you brought to Cordelia's wedding? She was a knockout," prods Leo Gallagher, one of the paramedics. He nudges me with an elbow at Barney's dimly lit bar. He's rubbing salt in my wound, though I know it's not intentional.

"Amelia?" I deflect, sipping my drink and shrugging noncommittally. "She's fine." What else can I say? I certainly don't need this cast of characters trying to help me sort this out.

"Fine rarely means fine," Susan teases, eyebrow cocked, but I dodge her curiosity with another gulp of my beer, letting the cold bitterness wash away the lump forming in my throat.

"Fine is all it is," I insist, even as Amelia's laughter echoes in my memory, hauntingly close. Why was she at the hospital today? Is she okay? Should I have followed her instead of going back to the ED?

"He's already moved on," Susan says. "Pay up, Leo. I told you he moves on quickly."

I give them a half smile. They bet on whether or not Amelia and I would date past the wedding? I mean, I know I'm not one to date someone long term, but I didn't think the staff had noticed.

"Hey, if fine turns into fantastic, you owe us the juicy details!" Leo laughs, clinking his glass against mine.

I force a smile, but underneath, concern gnaws at me, concern for a woman who doesn't realize how often she commandeers my thoughts, even amidst the chaos of the ED. But maybe I should wait for her call. She was adamant after the incident with her mother… Maybe also not thinking clearly, though.

"Hey, Kent, you sure you don't want another drink?" Kate Campbell asks as I finish my beer and gather my things to go. Her hand lingers on my arm just a moment too long, her smile bright and inviting.

I chuckle, shaking my head. "Raincheck?"

She nods, her eyes hopeful.

The streets are painted in the soft glow of streetlights as I walk out, my breath visible in the cool night air. The evening's clamor fades behind me with each step away from Barney's, replaced by the hush of the city at rest. I shove my hands into the pockets of my coat, not surprised to find that raincheck felt more obligatory than enticing. I don't even know why I said that. Kate is vibrant, her touch electric. But she's like all the others. She's not Amelia.

I stop at a crosswalk, waiting for the signal to change, and fish out my phone. I can't stand this any longer. After a brief hesitation, my thumbs tap out a message to Amelia.

Me: Saw you at the hospital today. Everything okay?

I hit send before I can overthink it. The silence that follows is heavier than the night around me. Minutes stretch like hours, and not a single vibration from my phone offers relief.

"Come on," I mumble, shoving the device back into my pocket as I cross the street. My steps quicken, but it's not the chill in the air that urges me forward. It's the unease settling in my chest, an unfamiliar weight.

I'm not used to being ignored. Ignoring, yes. Brushing off advances, dodging commitments—that's my usual dance. But Amelia isn't playing by the script I know, and I can't decide if it's irritating or intriguing. Did my father call her in? I know he's not a fan of anyone who might distract me from following in his footsteps.

Maybe she's busy, I reason with myself as I unlock my apartment door. Or maybe she just doesn't want to talk. Either way, it bothers me more than it should. More than I expected.

"Stupid," I mutter, tossing my keys onto the table.

I lean back against the door, closing my eyes. I can see the look on her face when she thanked me for helping her mother and turned away. She clearly wanted me to leave. But I also remember the fabulous time we had together in Hawaii. Was that it for us? What is she thinking now?

"Dammit," I exhale, my frustration laced with something that feels dangerously close to longing. Why didn't I go after her today?

"Tomorrow," I promise myself. "I'll figure it out tomorrow."

But tonight, it's just me and the echo of a text sent into the void, the ghost of a smile that isn't mine to keep, and the unsettling realization that, for the first time in a long while, I want more than the fleeting connections that come so easily. And I'm going to do something about that.

"Tomorrow," I whisper again, and the night offers no reply.