Chapter 8

Kent

The chill of mid-February seeps through my living room window, casting a pale light on the sailing magazines strewn across the coffee table. I have the next three days off and just returned from breakfast with Danielle before she went to start her Monday at work. She's having boy problems and wanted my advice. She never likes my advice, though—fuck them and move on.

I clutch my mug of Earl Grey, its warmth a stark contrast to my cold thoughts of Amelia's tumble from her bike and subsequent abandonment. Though I suppose I don't feel entirely badly about the second part. Your loss, buddy. She's been tumbling through my mind as well—relentless and enticing, smart, funny, quick, and undeniably sexy.

"Snowshoeing or skiing?" I murmur to myself, dismissing each with a shake of my head. Those activities are too risky for someone who's recently taken a spill. But what then? Dinner is so ordinary. I want extraordinary for us.

But then an idea unfurls like a spinnaker catching wind. It's right there in front of me. Sailing. It's unorthodox in this weather, sure, but exhilaration often accompanies the unconventional. We could navigate the Salish Sea, slicing through waves to Salt Spring Island and have lunch there, surrounded by the rustic charm of winter—perfect. And there's no time like the present.

I reach for my phone, its screen a blank canvas waiting for me to paint our next encounter. Selecting her contact, I rehearse the invitation in my head, each word a careful step toward the weekend I envision.

"Come on, Amelia," I whisper, willing her to pick up.

The call rings through to voicemail, and my heartbeat stutters with surprise. "Hey, it's Kent—Dr. Kent Johns." I cringe at the formality, an involuntary reflex from days spent in the hospital. "We met at the grocery store, remember? And I was the one who patched up your knee after the bike mishap. Then we had dinner…"

I pause, the silence of the line pressing against me. "Anyway, I've been thinking about you, and I've got an idea that's a bit out of the box. Give me a call back when you can. Hope your knee's healing well."

Disconnecting the call, I set the phone down with a peculiar heaviness. After a moment, I decide a run around False Creek is in order. The waterfront is a popular spot to enjoy a decent workout.

When I return, I check my phone, but there's no return call or message. Maybe she's busy at work?

After a shower and several shuffles through the takeout menus I've accumulated, I opt for a quick lunch at home, and then I'm at a loss. The quiet of my condo wraps around me, a shroud of anticipation and uncertainty. She should have called back by now, or at least that's what I've convinced myself. I'm used to quick responses from women when I show interest.

Dragging a hand down my face, I try to shrug off my discomfort. It's unlike me to be this hung up over someone not returning a call, but Amelia isn't just someone. And the waiting game is one I've never learned to play well. Haven't had much practice, honestly. My phone lies inert on the coffee table, a silent sentinel. I'm restless, a low simmer of frustration bubbling beneath the surface.

I pick up the book I'm reading from the side table, its glossy cover depicting a shadowy figure standing outside the White House. The title screams intrigue and espionage, but the pages fail to grip me today. I flip through the chapters as the afternoon passes, but the words blur into a monotonous march of letters, each sentence mocking me with its fiction. Real-life treachery, I know, is far subtler. Finally, I toss the book aside; even international conspiracies seem trivial compared to the enigma of Amelia's silence. Surely, she's finished at work by now?

"Come on, Kent," I mutter to myself, pushing off the sofa. In the kitchen, I move mechanically, slicing vegetables for a stir-fry, a task that doesn't require much thought. The sizzle of the pan fills the silence, but not even the aroma can distract me from my focus on the device across the room.

My phone pings. I jump to retrieve it. It's Leah.

Leah: Drinks tonight?

I could use the distraction.

Me: Sure. I'm in the mood for some fun. Let's get the gang together.

Leah: I'll put a message on the group chat.

My phone returns to its silent taunting. Why hasn't Amelia called me back?

"Should've gone with something less complicated," I say to the empty apartment, referring to both my dinner and women. But then, Amelia isn't just any woman. She has a laugh that ricochets through my mind and a wit sharp enough to skewer my best defenses. I smile, remembering the way her hair tumbled around her shoulders.

By the time I eat and clean up my mess, it's time to head over to meet my friends. I shake off the rain as I step into the warm glow of The Lamplighter, the familiar scent of malt and hops greeting me like an old friend. Across the room, Leah, Danielle, Jo, and Phoebe are clustered together at a table, their laughter weaving through the ambient noise. Each one of them has been a chapter in my life's odd romantic novel, but now they're just pages in a shared history we fondly leaf through.

"Kent!" Danielle calls, waving a cocktail sporting a tiny paper umbrella.

"Hey," I greet them. Four pairs of eyes—each reflecting a different shade of camaraderie—track me as I make my way over.

"Look who decided to join us," Phoebe teases, her voice as light and bubbly as the champagne she's sipping.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," I reply, sliding into the booth beside them.

The bartender brings over my pint, and I lift it to the ladies. "To the Kent Johns Alumni Association," I announce. Their glasses rise to meet mine in a clink of solidarity and humor.

"Speaking of associations," Leah says, tucking a strand of chestnut hair behind her ear, "how's Cordelia's wedding planning going?"

"Trying to keep my distance," I confess, taking a sip of the beer. "Hawaii is an entire ocean away, thankfully."

"Is your mum going to make it?" Jo's concern is genuine; she's always had a soft spot for family ties.

"Parliament duties," I say with a shrug, trying to sound nonchalant. "She sends her best."

"And what about you? Who's this date you have lined up for the tropical nuptials?" Phoebe leans forward, and four sets of eyebrows arch in interest.

"Met her at the grocery store," I tell them, chuckling at the absurdity of it and trying to ignore the fact that I'm exaggerating my accomplishments. "Then she wound up in the ED, and we managed dinner after that."

"ED?" Leah's protective instinct seems to kick in. "Is she stalking you? Are you sure you'll be safe with someone you hardly know? Wouldn't you rather take a friend?"

The suggestion hangs in the air for a heartbeat before the table erupts into laughter, each woman playfully jostling for the imaginary plus-one invite.

"Hmmm… Maybe you're on to something." I laugh along. "Just imagine the headline: ‘Kent's Exes Take Hawaii'."

Laughter flows with us as we tumble out of The Lamplighter an hour later. Danielle leads the way back to her place, her steps sure and purposeful despite our drinks. She needs my help, and everyone else is coming to make sure I do it right.

"Seriously, Kent, it's just one picture," Danielle assures me as we reach her door. She fishes for her keys, exasperated.

"Ah, but it's not about hanging the picture, is it?" I tease. "It's about having an excuse to prolong the evening."

"Guilty as charged," she admits, her smile bright.

Her place is a cozy haven of warm colors and eclectic decorations. I take the frame from her—a landscape painting of rolling hills under a stormy sky—and examine the wall she's chosen. The task is simple—find the stud, hammer in a nail, and make sure it's level. I make quick work of it and stand back to admire the result.

"Perfect," Jo declares, tilting her head. "Adds character."

"Thanks, handyman," Leah chimes in, nudging me with an elbow as we all collapse on the sofa, surrounded by the artifacts of Danielle's life—photos, trinkets, memories.

We fall into a comfortable rhythm discussing our jobs, the daily victories and inevitable frustrations—Jo's pediatric nurse's healing touch, Danielle's marketing triumphs, Phoebe's nutritional miscalculations, and Leah's classroom anecdotes.

"Sometimes I wonder why I didn't just become a handyman," I muse, only half-joking. "So much less stress than the ED."

Might be more in line with my mother's vision for me, too. If she had her way, I'd return to England to take care of our small acreage and follow in her parliamentary footsteps, leaving medicine behind. But she's not going to have her way. I just don't know quite how to convince her of that.

"You'd miss the thrill of adventure," Leah retorts, winking at me.

"And you enjoy being our go-to guy too much," Phoebe adds.

"Either way, you're stuck with us," Danielle concludes, and we raise imaginary glasses to that truth.

After not too much longer, the night winds down, and we say our goodbyes. Everyone but me has work in the morning, after all. Stepping outside, I let the quiet settle over me. The walk home is a solitary affair, but I'm far from lonely. Gratitude fills me. I met these women under the pretense of romance, yet fate had something else in store—companionship, camaraderie, a bond stronger than fleeting love. They are my allies, confidants, a safety net woven from what could have been awkward history. Sometimes, I think that's the best we can hope for. Friendship certainly has more meaning, more depth in my life than any other sort of relationship ever has. I can be myself with these women precisely because I know that's all there is to it.

"Kent's Exes Take Hawaii" would have been the talk of the wedding, but I know if I ever needed anything, these women would drop everything for me. In addition, tonight was a welcome distraction from waiting for Amelia to ring me back. See? The idea of romance is inherently stressful.

I let myself into my condo and stand watching the lit path below my building as it skirts the water. I spot a couple walking hand in hand. Why hasn't Amelia called me back?

"She's just busy," I tell the reflection in the window, but the man staring back seems unconvinced. Women don't usually elude me like this. If she's playing games, she's more cunning than I gave her credit for, and I'm not sure I appreciate being outmaneuvered.

Eventually, I surrender to the beckoning sheets of my bed, though it's still early enough that the city outside hums with life. Beneath the covers, I close my eyes, and there she is again—Amelia, with her big brown eyes that seem to see right through me, her chestnut hair that falls in soft waves, her quick smile that lights up the room.

"Damn it, Amelia," I whisper into the darkness. "Why haven't you called?"

Sleep tugs at me, but I resist, replaying our brief encounters, dissecting them for clues I might have missed. Maybe I read her all wrong. Maybe she's not interested. Or maybe life just got in the way. I drift off to restless slumber, the image of her laughing—head thrown back, carefree—anchoring me to a hope that refuses to be extinguished.

Three days later and back on the work schedule, Barney's Pub is a poor outlet for my continued restlessness. I'm mid-flirt with Sarah, the leggy rheumatology nurse with a penchant for dirty martinis, when my phone vibrates against my thigh. Excusing myself with a wink, I fish the device from my pocket. Amelia.

"Hey, Amelia," I say as I answer, pushing through the crowd to the rainy street outside. The cool drizzle is a slap of reality as I stride toward home, phone pressed to my ear.

"Kent, hi! Sorry I missed your call earlier this week. It's been insane at work," she says. Her voice softens the edges of my irritation.

"Sounds rough. You've been busy saving the world?" The raindrops measure time on the pavement, a rhythmic patter that syncs with my quickened pulse.

"Feels like it. We're on the brink of losing our biggest client. It's been all hands on deck," she confides, and I can almost see her—brows furrowed in concentration, sleeves rolled up in the trenches of corporate warfare.

"Ah, so you weren't playing hard to get. Just buried in the trenches." My laughter is genuine, relief flooding through me. She's real, not a figment of my imagination or some cruel game player.

"Exactly," she replies, a hint of laughter in her tone too. "I hope you haven't written me off."

"Write you off? Never. Actually, I was wondering if you're free this weekend. I'm off on Sunday. How about a little adventure on my sailboat?" I throw the idea out there, hoping it doesn't sink like a stone.

She laughs, a sound that fills the spaces between raindrops. "You know, my friends and I recently decided you should never go sailing on a first date. How do I know you're not a total creep?"

"Because you've already seen my creep side, remember? And it's technically not our first date. Plus, I promise not to throw you overboard," I assure her. "If you decide you've had enough of my company after lunch, I'll pay for your ferry ride back."

Her hesitation hangs in the air, mingling with the mist, before finally dissipating. "Okay, Dr. Johns. It's a date. Surely, I can manage a day off. Where do I meet you bright and early Sunday morning?"

"You've been working on Sundays?"

She makes a noncommittal sound. "Like I said, things are a little rough at work these days."

"Well, this Sunday please report to Vancouver Marina in Coal Harbor. Shall we say nine a.m.? I'll bring the coffee." I smile into the phone, feeling a warmth that has nothing to do with the whiskey burning in my belly or the nurse I left back at the pub.

"Looking forward to it," she says, and then the line goes dead.

I pocket my phone, a smile on my face as I navigate the slick sidewalks. The city lights blur through the rain, but everything seems clearer now, sharper. I can't shake the excitement thrumming under my skin, the anticipation of seeing her again, of sharing my world with her on the waves.

"Amelia…" I whisper her name to the night, a prayer for calm seas and the beginning of something more than just a hopeful sailor's dream.