Chapter 4

Kent

The thump-thump-thump of helicopter blades slices through the air, urgent and invasive. I'm already moving toward the bay doors, my mind shifting gears as the sound announces the imminent arrival of a patient needing critical care. Moments later, the paramedics burst through, wheeling in a woman whose face is locked in a silent testimony of pain and fear.

"Forty-eight-year-old woman collapsed while skiing at Mount Seymour. BP skyrocketing, two-thirty over one sixty."

"Let's get her on some beta blockers stat," I bark, slipping into the practiced dance of emergency medicine. My gloved hands are steady, attaching leads to her chest even as her heart stutters an erratic rhythm across the monitor. An arrhythmia—dangerous, life-threatening. "She's going into V-fib. Prep one hundred and fifty megs of Dabigatran, IV push."

I watch the drug take hold, the wild spikes on the screen taming into something resembling normalcy. "Transfer her to cardiology," I say, a glimmer of satisfaction warming me as I make a mental note to follow up for possible pacemaker or ICD surgery. This is what I live for—the chaos, the correction, the tiny victories against mortality.

But there's no rest in the emergency department. There's always someone who needs my help. The girl on the next stretcher looks more like a child, huddled under the scratchy hospital blanket. Her eyes are wide and lost, pupils still dilated despite the NARCAN dose that brought her back from the brink.

"Hey." I crouch down to her level, my voice gentle. "How are you feeling?"

"Like crap," she mumbles, voice brittle as autumn leaves.

"Can you tell me what happened?" I ask.

She hesitates, and then the words tumble out, raw and painful about her mother's boyfriend and the door that closed on her childhood home. Fourteen. God, she's only fourteen.

"Listen, I've got a place for you," I assure her, squeezing her hand. "A clinic where they can help with…everything. And when you're ready, there's a foster family waiting." It's not much, but it's a start, a chance at a different path.

As the girl nods, a fragile thread of trust forming between us, I feel the weight of her story, like so many others, pressing against my own. I'm a lifeline, but also a witness to the moments that break people, reshaping futures in the shadowed corners of the ED.

As I move on to the next patient, the next crisis, I carry the heaviness of knowing that for every life I patch back together, the world outside these walls keeps fraying at the edges of countless more.

When my shift is over, the sterile scent of the emergency room lingers on my scrubs as I peel them off, muscles aching from the relentless pace of my time here. My locker clanks shut, echoing through the empty space. I'm bone-tired, the kind of tired that sits deep in your marrow, but the promise of normalcy outside these walls pushes me forward.

"Kent! Wait up!" Tori Marston's voice cuts through the fatigue, her steps quick and light against the tile. Tori used to be an emergency room nurse—probably the best in the department—but once she and Griffin got involved, she moved up to surgery.

She's with Griffin now, his lopsided smile a welcome sight. "Hey," I greet them, forcing a semblance of energy into my tone.

"We're headed to Gastown Grill for some dinner. Join us?" Griffin slings an arm over my shoulders like he can prop up my weariness.

"Sure, I could use a decent meal." My stomach rumbles in agreement, thoughts of solitude quickly replaced by the prospect of good company. The time I've spent on Swipe Right lately is certainly doing nothing to move me toward that goal.

We spill out into the evening air, the city's pulse a comforting rhythm after the staccato beat of the ED. At the grill, we slide into a booth.

"Can't believe Cordelia's getting married," Tori muses, perusing the menu. She flips it down, all bright eyes and curiosity. "How's the planning going?"

"Turns out she's gotten her dream location for the ceremony—some black sand beach on the Big Island."

"Ooh, fancy," she coos, clasping her hands together. "I've always wanted to go to Hawaii."

Griffin's hand finds her back, a gentle reality check. "Don't get too excited. We might not even be invited."

Her face falls, lips pursing in a pout she aims squarely at Griffin. "We talk about the wedding every time I see her. Why wouldn't we be invited?"

I take a sip of water, buying a moment before answering. "Pretty sure you're on the list. Cordelia mentioned something about wanting a big celebration."

"Good," Tori says, reclaiming her sunny disposition. "Wouldn't want to miss out on the party of the year."

Laughter rises, a release valve for the tension I've been carrying. Here, with these two, I can find a slice of ordinary life, a balance to the weight of the work experiences we share.

The sizzle of the grill syncs with the murmur of conversations around us. I'm halfway through my burger when Tori leans in, her expression serious.

"Kent, Cordelia's being a bridezilla about you bringing a date," she whispers conspiratorially. "But lucky for you, I have a roster of nurses who'd leap at the chance."

I chuckle, despite the unease that tugs at my insides. "No hospital staff, Tori." I shake my head. "Nothing against them, but Cordelia was firm. Mixing work with…whatever comes next is not her idea of a good time."

"Too close for comfort?" she teases, popping a fry into her mouth.

"Exactly."

Griffin raises an eyebrow. "What about that flight attendant? The one who slipped you her number on the redeye from Toronto?"

"Ah, Laura." Her name mingles with a sigh. "We're not exclusive. It's more of a pleasant diversion kind of thing when she's in town."

"And the teacher?" Griffin prods, swirling his drink. "You said she had a nice smile."

"Jenna," I correct him. "She did. But she loved jazz. And I mean loved it." I wince at the memory of trumpets blaring into the night, at odds with my craving for silence after long shifts. "Let's just say our playlists clashed."

"You could always bring your whole posse," Griffin suggests.

"Cordelia also said that was not an option. Plus, they're friends. I want to have a different kind of fun at the wedding."

Tori looks at me, her brow furrowed.

"I think he's trying to say he'd like the option for naked Twister," Griffin says.

Tori rolls her eyes. "Okay then. What's your ideal woman like?"

I lean back, the faux leather of the booth cradling me as I ponder her question. Ideal? As if a perfect woman exists outside a book or movie or even a well-meaning friend's imagination. "An ideal woman?" I echo, buying time as I search for an answer that feels honest but not too revealing. "There's no such thing, Tori. At least not one that fits neatly into a checklist."

"Everyone has a type," she insists with a smile.

"Maybe," I concede, my fingers tapping a rhythm against my glass. "But life isn't as simple as matching symptoms to a diagnosis. People are…complex."

"Spoken like a true romantic." Griffin chuckles, raising his glass in mock toast.

"Or a skeptic," I counter with a smirk, even as the thought lingers. Perfection aside, what am I looking for?

"Either way," Tori says, reaching across the table to pat my hand, "Cordelia's wedding won't be any fun without a plus-one by your side."

"Guess I'll keep my eyes open, then," I reply, though part of me wonders if I'm really looking at all.

When we've finished our meal, we go our separate ways, the last echoes of laughter from Gastown Grill fading as the night swallows Griffin and Tori, leaving me to my solitary walk home.

"Goodnight, Kent!" Tori calls, already distant.

"See you tomorrow," I reply without turning, my gaze fixed ahead.

Streetlights cast long shadows on the pavement, and a breeze carries the mingled scents of sea salt and city life. As I stride toward my condo, hands in pockets, the checklist begins to unfold in my mind, an involuntary inventory of desires. She can't be from medicine—not another soul who lives by the urgency of a pager and hospital coffee. She needs to be tethered to something else, a different world entirely.

Beauty? Yes, it matters, but that's the easy part. A smile that can light up these drab sidewalks, eyes that hold stories yet to be told. But more than that, a spark of intellect, smart enough to challenge me, to spar with words over a bottle of wine or the morning's crossword puzzle.

"Charming," I mutter under my breath. Someone with grace, wit, a laugh that comes easy and genuine. The thought warms me, despite the evening's chill.

A couple passes by, engrossed in each other, the woman tucking her head under the man's chin. For a moment, I envy their connection, then I shove the feeling away. What's it worth if it inevitably leads to pain? It's too easy to get lost in what others seem to have.

Can't have Googled me, I think to myself, almost a prayer. That's the rub, isn't it? In this age of digital curiosity, anonymity is a luxury rarely afforded to someone in my position. They find out about Mum, about the title waiting for me like an unclaimed inheritance, and suddenly, I'm no longer just Kent.

I shake my head as I open the front door of my building. I nod at Vince, our security guard. The lobby is quiet, save for the soft hum of the overhead lights. I step into the elevator, press my floor number, and lean against the mirrored wall, watching my reflection do the same.

"Lord Burnaby-Johns of Surrey," I say to my mirror image. He doesn't look particularly noble, just tired. If Mum has anything to say about it, one day, that'll be my life, a life mapped out by lineage instead of choice. England's green hills, the musty halls of the House of Lords, a flock of sheep that couldn't care less about arrhythmias or drug overdoses. "Bugger the sheep," I tell my reflection, and it smirks back at me. I know that's not what I want.

The doors open to my floor, and silence envelops me once more. As I slide the key into my door, I pause. What if she's out there, this non-Google-savvy beauty? Is she walking home right now, unaware that our paths are destined to cross? Or is she curled up with a book, her imagination painting scenes I'd love to step into, at least for a little while?

"Mustn't work in medicine, alluring, smart, charming," I recite as I shed my coat and toss it to the couch. "And completely oblivious to the tangled web of nobility."

My condo feels too still, the city's heartbeat muffled by layers of concrete and glass. I pour myself a drink, and a sigh escapes me, a fleeting admission of loneliness before I squash it down.

"Doesn't exist," I conclude, the words ringing hollow in the expanse of my living room. "And maybe not even worth the effort." But as I settle on the sofa, the list lingers in my mind, a set of coordinates for a destination I'm not sure how to reach.

Alluring, smart, charming. The mantra echoes in my head. And with it, a question: If she's out there, will she see beyond the title and the expectations? Will she see me?

Even if she did, who's to say it would last? When have I seen it ever last? It's not like my parents are role models in that regard.