Chapter 6

Kent

Amelia's hands flail as she recounts last Friday's debacle while I finish cleaning her wound and prepare to give her some stitches. She's really worked up about what I thought was just a minor mishap at the checkout line. I guess it was embarrassing. No, I didn't realize she'd just walked over to the next aisle for candy, and no, I should not have been looking at a dating app while shopping, but that hardly makes her problem my responsibility.

"Amelia," I say, cutting through her tirade with an assertiveness that seems to surprise us both. "Please, stay still."

She shoots me a glare that could sterilize surgical tools, but she complies, sinking into the chair with a huff. "You don't have to be all bossy," she mutters, folding her arms across her chest.

I can't help but smile at her defiance. It's refreshing. Most people cower under the weight of my white coat. "Sorry," I say, not really sorry at all. "But we do need to take care of that knee." I gesture to the angry gash marring her otherwise flawless skin.

Kneeling before her, I examine the wound more closely. Six stitches should do it. I explain the procedure, how I'll suture beneath the surface to promote healing, then seal the wound with a butterfly bandage to minimize scarring. Inwardly, I admire the curve of her calf, the smoothness of her skin. Those legs deserve to remain unblemished.

To distract her from the imminent threading of her flesh, I probe for context about our last encounter. "Why were you buying a frozen dinner and hunting for a candy bar at the grocery store so late on a Friday night?" I ask.

She sighs, a weary sound. "Worst day ever at work," she says, and I can tell she means it.

"Bad enough to warrant self-surgery on your knee today?" I joke, arranging my tools.

She chuckles, but it's hollow. "No. I seem to be collecting bad days. I met this guy, Jason, this morning for what he described as a casual bike ride around Stanley Park…" Her voice trails off, and she gives a wry smile. "Turned out to be more like the Tour de France."

"Sounds intense," I murmur. The syringe is ready, the local anesthetic primed to numb the pain—one needle at a time. Here we go…

We both fall silent as I get to work, and she remains remarkably still, making my job much easier. When the last of the sutures slides into place, a neat row beneath her skin, I clip the thread with precision, my hands steady as ever. But inside, I'm not quite as composed. I'm not sure what to make of that. "Where's this Jason now?" I ask, curiosity tugging at me in spite of myself.

"Left me there," Amelia says flatly, a trace of hurt crossing her features before she schools them back into indifference. "In the middle of Stanley Park, bleeding."

I feel something flare in my chest—anger, perhaps, or indignation on her behalf. "You shouldn't go out with him again," I tell her as I smooth butterfly bandages in place.

"Ya think?" A small, wry smile plays on her lips. "Don't plan to," she assures me.

I feel an inexplicable sense of relief as I peel off my gloves and look at my watch. Ten minutes left on my shift. The idea springs forth before I can suppress it. "I'm getting off soon. Would you like to join me for dinner?" It's impulsive, but the words are already hanging between us, irreversible.

She eyes me skeptically, one brow arching in question. "Isn't that against the doctor-patient rules?"

I like her fiery spirit. "Do you plan on making a repeat visit?" I counter.

She shakes her head, dark locks brushing against her cheeks. "No, I don't suppose so."

"Good," I reply. "There's a decent English pub across the street. How about it?"

For a moment, she seems reluctant, but then her features soften into resignation. "Fine," she concedes. "But only because all I have at home is a box of macaroni and cheese, without any milk or butter."

"Cardboard cuisine?" I chuckle, imagining the sad, dry concoction.

"Unfortunately," she retorts, but then dissolves into a laugh.

As I gather my belongings, her laughter rings in my ears. Something tells me dinner won't be dull. "You might want to switch out of those pajamas before dinner." I grin, motioning to her hospital-issued gown.

"My friend brought me some sweatpants." She chuckles as a blush tints her cheeks. "I don't mind waiting if you need to change out of your scrubs."

"Deal," I say. "I'll meet you out by the nurses' station." I head toward the locker room, where I'll leave behind my white coat and the weight of my doctor persona along with it.

As I'm trading blue cotton for denim in the solitude of the locker room, I envision Amelia trying to tidy herself up. It's an endearing image, her attempt to combat the aftermath of her accident with just a comb and determination.

Buttoning my shirt, I take a deep breath, trying to shake off the day's stress. There's something about Amelia that feels different, refreshing, even amidst the disaster that has been her day.

I find her by the nurses' station, slightly less disheveled and now sporting wet patches on her sweater where blood once was. "There you are," I say as I approach.

She looks down at herself. "I didn't want to embarrass you," she says, half-defensive, half-apologetic.

"Embarrass me? Impossible." I laugh, guiding her toward the exit. "You're more than fine for Barney's."

The cool evening air greets us as we step outside and cross the street, the neon sign of Barney's Pub glowing like a beacon of normalcy after the storm of our respective days.

But as we enter, the familiar faces of past flings sour the atmosphere for me. There are so many people from the hospital here. What was I thinking? Wrong move, Kent.

"Let's grab that booth in the corner," I suggest, steering Amelia away from prying eyes and whispered judgments. As I turn my back to the crowd, I see her studying me, probably wondering why we're avoiding the bar's limelight.

"Is everything okay?" she asks, a furrow forming between her brows.

"Couldn't be better," I lie smoothly, hiding my internal grimace. "Just prefer a bit of privacy, is all."

"Privacy in a pub?" Her voice lilts with skepticism.

"Contrary to popular belief, some of us Brits do prefer quiet conversation to raucous banter." I flash her a smile, hoping she'll buy the half-truth.

"Quiet conversation, huh?" She smiles back. "Well then, let's see how well you do without the distraction of bare breasts on your phone."

"Challenge accepted," I reply. Damn, I'm going to be digging myself out of a hole. Would she believe me if I told her that had been an unsolicited photo?

We settle into our secluded spot, and after a moment, I realize I'm staring. Her eyes are fathomless pools, the kind that makes a man want to dive in and never come up for air. Her hair, despite its difficult day, cascades in waves of rich chestnut. And those lips… They're the sort that speak without words, dark ruby red, full, and inviting. I catch myself before my thoughts drift farther south.

"Caught you looking," Amelia quips, a hint of mischief on her face. "So, what was so interesting that you were sexting in line at the grocery store?"

My heart skips a beat. "It was not a photo I requested," I explain, hoping my voice doesn't betray the sudden dryness of my throat. "I should know better than to open an app like that in public, but I guess I didn't."

Amelia makes a face, clearly unconvinced. "Is that right?" The corner of her mouth twitches.

I can't help but laugh, both at her tenacity and the absurdity of the situation. "You're tough, Amelia. Does anything slip by you?"

"More often than I'd like to admit." She looks away, the playfulness fading for a moment, replaced by something that looks a lot like vulnerability.

The server arrives, interrupting our moment. "This is on me," I inform her as I order shepherd's pie. She goes with fish and chips.

When the server leaves, she looks away, and I reach out, almost touching her hand. But I pull back at the last second. Best not to cross lines. I'm here to patch things up, not make them worse. Her skepticism is a wall, but maybe I can chisel through it with honesty—or at least the appearance of it.

"Listen, I really am sorry about the grocery store. Let's just say I'm better at patching up knees than navigating social nuances," I confess, offering a smile to lighten the mood. "I'm working on it."

"Good to know," she says, the ghost of her earlier smile returning. "I'll hold you to that." Her gaze meets mine again, steady and challenging. It's a look that says she's not one to be trifled with.

"Fair enough," I reply, leaning back against the worn leather of the booth. I'm still kicking myself for choosing this pub—too many memories, too many mistakes. But here with Amelia, I feel a strange sense of possibility, like a plot twist in a novel you thought you had figured out.

"Fair enough," she echoes, and I think I see truce in her eyes. "How long have you lived in Vancouver?"

"You picked up that I'm not a native. What gave it away?" I tease.

She smiles. "The shoes. The shoes always give it away."

I like her spunk. The server returns to plunk down our meals, but the clamor of the pub fades into background noise as she looks at me across the scratched wooden table.

"Moved here with my sister before secondary school," I say between bites of my shepherd's pie. "Our father snagged a job running part of Mercy Hospital." I glance up from my plate to find Amelia's dark eyes fixed on me, attentive, curious. It's unsettling how she can command a conversation without saying a word.

"Your whole family came over then?" Amelia asks, her fork poised midair.

"Actually, no." I hesitate. "Mum stayed back in England."

Her brow furrows, a silent nudge for me to continue. It's unnerving, this push and pull. She has a way of coaxing out secrets without trying.

"She had…responsibilities to uphold."

"Independent woman then?" Her tone is light, but there's an edge of interest there too.

"Something like that." I chuckle dryly, my appetite waning under the gravity of the subject. "She was supposed to come later but never did."

"That must have been difficult for you and your sister, growing up without your mother."

"Probably harder for my sister. These days I talk to Mum about once a week." I don't mention that our conversations for the last few years have been more about her business than our daily lives. Mum has kept us at arm's length since she decided not to join us in Canada.

Amelia nods, her lips pursed as if she's weighing my words. She doesn't pry further; instead, she changes the topic, asking about my favorite hockey team. I'm grateful for the shift and also impressed by her restraint, her ability to listen without judgment.

"What do you do for work?" I ask.

"I work in advertising. In fact, I'm the advertising coordinator on the Mercy Hospital account."

"What does an advertising coordinator do?"

"I'm essentially the assistant. I graduated from SFU with a degree in marketing almost two years ago and landed at my agency. It's what I love to do."

I do the math in my head. She's likely a good ten years younger than me. I cringe internally, but I feel at ease with her.

We meander through lighter topics, laughter sprinkling our conversation like seasoning, until the moment feels ripe for something more daring. Why not? "My sister's getting married next month, in Hawaii," I venture, watching her reaction closely. "Would you…" The question hangs, unfinished, uncertain.

"Go to the wedding with you?" Amelia finishes, a laugh escaping her. "No way."

"Consider it an apology," I follow up quickly. "For the grocery-store debacle."

She hesitates, her fork tracing patterns on her plate. "That's a little extreme."

My cell phone pings, and when I look at it, the group chat is going crazy. Leah just got home from a date and needs positive reinforcement.

"Do you need to go back to the hospital?"

"No. It's one of my friends." I should probably catch up with them. I open the contacts and hand my phone to her. "Can I have your number? Maybe we could do this again."

She stares at me a moment before she looks down to type into my phone.

"You know I can check whether you've given me a wrong number."

She grins. "I don't want any dick pics, and I don't send shots of my tits to anyone."

"I'll make note of that." I try to hide my smile. Yep, she'd be fun at the wedding. No doubt about that.

Amelia smiles and stands. "I should let you get back to your evening. Thanks for sewing me up, and I enjoyed dinner."

I toss enough cash on the table to cover our meals and a generous tip and follow her out.

The night air is crisp, the kind that wakes you up, makes you aware of every sensation. I turn to her on the sidewalk in front of the pub. "Thanks for putting up with me tonight," I say, feeling suddenly bold. And before she can respond, I lean in, my lips finding hers in a kiss that starts tentatively but grows fervently passionate as she responds in kind.

It's a kiss that speaks of apologies and new beginnings, deep and exciting, leaving us both breathless when we finally part. But then she quickly steps away.

I watch Amelia's retreating figure, her steps sure and unwavering. Something inside me stirs—a longing, an ache—that I recognize as wholly unfamiliar. I know then, with a strange certainty, that the kiss we shared could be the beginning of something more, something I can't define yet. Possibilities dance like fireflies in my mind, elusive yet persistent.

Turning away, I shove my hands into my pockets and head back to my condo. My phone vibrates again, a relentless interruption I can no longer ignore. Joanna, Phoebe, Leah, and Danielle are all chiming in now, their messages overlapping in a flurry of notifications. I scroll back to the beginning to get the full picture.

Leah: My date was a disaster.

Phoebe: What happened?

Danielle: Tell us everything.

Leah: I met him on Slide Right. We met at The Diamond, and he was nice. He had the British accent we all love so much. He stood close and whispered. The chemistry was off the charts, and then he invited himself over. Neither of us was even fully undressed for what I thought would be round one, but as soon as he was done, he was out the door. He thanked me as the door shut behind him and said he'd call. But he never got my number.

Phoebe: OMG. Are you okay?

I use Slide Right—sometimes in the grocery store—and it's a hook-up app, plain and simple. I know that. But Leah… She's always been the romantic type, chasing a love that lasts forever. That likely does not exist, but it's for certain not what this site offers. Swipe Right is a marketplace for fleeting encounters, not actual connections.

Poor Leah. She must have known that, deep down. But hope can blind the best of us. I can almost picture her, eyes dimming with the realization that once again, love remains out of reach. During our brief relationship, she fell in love quickly and said as much by our third date. We didn't last long after that. What Leah wants is a grand gesture, a declaration of love that outshines all others. I, on the other hand, want to have fun with few strings attached. She's a kind person, but this is why we function better as friends.

Dozens of texts follow, with everyone trying to make Leah feel better, as well as asking what she expected on Slide Right.

I pause under the glow of a streetlamp, thumb hovering over the keyboard. They're not wrong, but Leah doesn't need more reminders of reality. She's living it. What she needs is someone to remind her of her worth.

Me: Leah, you're strong, capable, kind, and pretty. Don't let this guy—or any mistake you think you've made—take that away from you.

The response is immediate and warm.

Joanna: See! That's what I was saying. Thanks, Kent, for the guy perspective. We love you!!!

A private message notification flashes.

Leah: Thank you for saying that. I really needed to hear it. You're such a wonderful friend. I owe you a drink, and we should catch up. You're off tomorrow, right? Barney's? 6:30?

It's been a long few days, and I need sleep before I can make any plans.

Me: Let's figure it out tomorrow. Right now, sleep is all I want.

My phone goes silent for a moment as I step into my condo and drop to the couch, the weight of exhaustion settling over me like a blanket. But at the same time, sleep feels like a distant dream as thoughts of Amelia swirl in my head. Her laughter, the warmth of her lips… I need more—more time, more of her. I have to figure out how to get her to Hawaii for Cordy and William's wedding.

The idea takes root, growing with each passing second. I'll find a way to make it happen. Amelia and me, under the tropical sun, an endless expanse of blue above and beyond us. Perhaps that's where I can unravel the enigma she presents.

For now, I flip on the television, letting mindless chatter fill the silence. It does little to distract me from the pull of my friends' problems or the magnetic draw of Amelia. But I know I need rest. So, I drag myself to my bedroom and close my eyes, surrendering to the images that come unbidden—Amelia's smile, Leah's disappointment, and the endless possibilities that tomorrow might bring.