Chapter 26

Kent

The glow of my phone screen feels like it's taunting me as I send another message into the void. I don't even have time to be doing this right now. Turns out today is going to be a workday, as someone has called in sick at the hospital. But I can't just ignore this.

Me: Amelia, please talk to me.

My words hang in the digital space, unanswered, four previous pleas already adrift. With a heavy sigh, I press Cordelia's name on my contact list and bring the phone to my ear.

"Hey, Kent," Cordelia answers.

"Did Amelia say anything when I left last night?" I ask, desperate for some clue to her silence.

There's a pause before she responds, the kind that tells me she's choosing her words carefully. "She didn't say much, but Kent, you dashed off to help your ex-girlfriend in the middle of your date. That wasn't exactly chivalrous."

"I—that's not…" I'm stunned. "Cordelia, they're my friends. I'd do the same for you or for Griffin."

"It's honorable to be a loyal friend, but in this case, it doesn't look good. You have to see that," she adds gently.

My mind races, trying to piece together a reality where my actions don't match my intentions. "I'm not with any of those women, not like that," I defend, feeling the frustration build. "Amelia knows that, and you know how much I like Amelia. You saw how she stood up to Father last night. We're even planning to go to London together, to visit Mum."

"Then you'd better find a way to make it up to her, little brother," Cordelia advises, her voice a mix of sympathy and sternness that only a sister could perfect.

"Thanks," I murmur, ending the call. The weight of that settles over me. I have to fix this, and fast. Have I really messed up so badly? I pace the length of my cramped living room, unable to avoid the truth. Amelia won't talk to me, and Cordelia has explained what happened last night from the perspective of those I left behind. Shit. Why wasn't I focused on getting to know Amelia better? I don't even know where she works these days. How's that possible? We've shared dinners, movies, countless conversations about everything and nothing at all. And yet, her world outside of us remains a mystery to me.

"Great job, Kent," I mutter to myself, raking a hand through my hair. I haven't met any of her friends, either. I look over at the clock. I have maybe an hour before I have to get ready for work. I need to do something, anything. My thumb hovers over the screen of my phone before tapping out another message.

Me: Amelia, I'm so sorry for leaving last night. Phoebe's car broke down, and she was stuck in a rough area by the airport. I should have handled things differently. Can we talk?

I hit send, the familiar swoosh sound mocking me. I wait, staring at the screen as if my gaze alone could will her to reply. Seconds tick by, turning into minutes, and still, no acknowledgment. My heart sinks a notch with each passing moment.

"Come on, Amelia," I whisper, as if she could hear the desperation in those three words. My phone feels like a lead weight in my hand, a testament to my failure.

The silence is deafening, amplifying my loneliness. Her silence is a clear message, one that echoes louder than any words she could send. I toss the phone to the couch. It bounces once before coming to a rest. I'd like to hit the streets and go find her, but right now, I don't have that option.

Several hours later, during a break in my shift, Griffin claps a hand on my shoulder, making me flinch. His grip is strong, meant to anchor me in the present, away from the storm of texts and calls that have gone unanswered. Amelia hasn't left my mind all day, even though there's been plenty else happening in the ED to keep us busy.

"Hey, man," he says. "Thanks for covering for Bishop. You look like you could use a break. Why don't you come over for dinner tonight? Tori's ordering in sushi."

I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak. My stomach churns, a tangled mess of guilt and confusion. I can't impose on Griffin and Tori, not when I'm like this, a cloud of gloom ready to rain on their evening.

But then my phone pings in my pocket and I yank it out. Not Amelia. I'm bone tired, and going to look for Amelia in person seems less a good idea than it did earlier. Not that I don't want to. But maybe spending time with Griffin and Tori is better in my current state. I'm not even done with the shift yet.

Tori: Sushi's on me tonight. Don't make me eat all this alone. Be there or be square!??

I let out a sigh, unable to refuse the united front of Griffin and his fiancée. They're throwing me a lifeline, one I'm too weak to reject. "All right, I'll come," I relent.

The emergency department doesn't give me time to dwell on my personal life. The chaos erupts as if on cue when a busload of Chinese tourists stumbles through the sliding doors. Their voices rise in a cacophony of distress, speaking a dialect I can't even begin to understand.

"Kent, we need all hands on deck!" a nurse yells over the commotion. I nod and slip into autopilot, moving to meet the flood of patients.

"Most of them are speaking Wu," another nurse informs us, her words slicing through the linguistic barrier that seems as tangible as the walls around us. "It's different from Mandarin and Cantonese." She mimes eating and sleeping, showing us how we'll need to communicate basic needs through gestures.

I focus on the task at hand, pushing aside thoughts of Amelia and unanswered texts. Patients need me now. There are broken bones to assess, pain levels to manage, and fears to calm without the bridge of a shared language.

I guide three tourists with evident fractures toward the radiology department, using exaggerated motions to promise care. They nod, understanding born from the universal language of empathy. Then I'm off again, escorting another patient to get a CAT scan, their side swollen in a telltale sign of internal injury.

As the hours wear on, the initial frenzy subsides into a steady rhythm of treatment and care. We've done what we can with what we had—words made of gestures and compassion beyond language.

And as my shift ends, I realize that with all the day's turmoil, I haven't thought about my own predicament for hours. Maybe Griffin and Tori's invitation is more than just a meal. It's an escape, a temporary reprieve from my spiraling thoughts. As I leave the hospital's bright lights behind, I prepare myself for the evening ahead, ready to face whatever comfort or confrontation it may bring.

When the shift finally ends, I make one last attempt to beg off from dinner plans with Griffin and Tori. "Mate, I appreciate it, but I think I just need some solitude tonight," I tell him in the locker room.

But Griffin won't have any of it. He slings his arm over my shoulder, escorting me out the door. "No arguments, Kent. You're coming." His tone brooks no opposition, and I find myself caving, too exhausted to put up a real fight.

We drive in silence, the hum of the car a counterpoint to my frayed nerves. When we pull up at Griffin's place, we take the elevator to the penthouse. The warmth spilling from inside seems like a promise of normalcy, something I desperately crave.

Tori ushers us to the kitchen, where the smells of soy sauce and seaweed fill the air.

"Hope you're hungry," she says, gesturing to the spread of sushi on the dining table. It looks like a feast for royalty, not just enough for a third wheel like me.

As we sit down to eat, chopsticks clatter against plates, and I can't help but feel out of sync. I pick at my food, the events of the day heavy on my mind.

Tori's gaze sharpens on me, intuitive as always. "You're quiet tonight. What's up?"

I hesitate, then the whole story spills out—the text messages, Amelia's silence, and my impromptu rescue mission for Phoebe. Tori listens, her expression thoughtful. "Why didn't you take Amelia with you to help Phoebe?" she asks. "Wouldn't she have wanted to be with you? And to be there for your friend too?"

My chopsticks freeze mid-air. "I…I didn't want to drag her into it. Didn't want to ruin her fun," I admit, feeling foolish now that I voice it aloud.

"Kent," Tori says, "when you're on a date, being together is the fun part."

That simple truth strikes a chord. How did I miss that? How did I not see that Amelia would've wanted to be part of my life, mess and all?

Dinner continues, though I feel even more confused. It's like I don't even know myself, let alone Amelia. What is it that I actually want? Why did it have to be me to help Phoebe? Why didn't I connect her with another of our friends? It's not like she needed me to move furniture this time. Every one of those women has a car. I watch Griffin and Tori, their ease with each other highlighting my own disjointed thoughts. They laugh, share pieces of their day, and sneak affectionate touches between bites. It's beautiful and painful to witness.

Finally, I've had enough, not of the sushi, which is delicious, but of the reminder of what I may have lost, what I may not know how to have. Pushing back from the table, I stand. "Thanks for dinner, guys. It was phenomenal, but I think I should head out."

"Sure you don't want to stay?" Griffin offers, but I'm already shaking my head.

"I've got some things to sort out," I tell him, though it's clear they both understand what I mean.

"Take care, Kent," Tori says, her eyes soft with concern.

"Will do."

Downstairs, I step out into the night. Alone with my thoughts, I start the walk home, debating my next move. I have to talk to Amelia. And it's not just about smoothing things over; it's a gnawing need to hear her voice, to explain my mistake and confusion, to make sure she knows that this—whatever this is between us—it matters. And I want it to continue.

When I get home, I find her name on my phone and press call. It rings once before it cuts abruptly to voicemail. My heart sinks. Is it deliberate? Has she blocked me, or is her phone simply off? I can't tell, and that uncertainty is worse than knowing for sure.

"Amelia, it's Kent," I start after her message concludes, but then I hesitate and delete the message before it can save. What am I doing? This isn't me—I've never been the guy who leaves rambling messages, who feels so desperate after a single misstep.

But with Amelia, everything is different. She's not just someone I dated; she's the one who laughs at my terrible jokes, who challenges my opinions, who sees through the fa?ade I didn't even know I was wearing. And now, here I am, utterly unsure how to bridge this silence between us.

I shove the phone into my pocket and head back out the door. Maybe space is what we both need. Maybe the intensity gnawing at me is just a reaction to being pushed away. But as I walk down the street, each step echoes the same questions. Why does this feel so urgent? Why do I need to talk to her more than anyone else I've ever dated? More than those women I count as my closest friends? And if I know this—how different and special she is—why do I keep messing things up?

A cold breeze cuts through my jacket, and I shove my hands deeper into my pockets. It seems there will be no answer tonight, just the empty streets and the weight of a conversation I don't know how to begin.