16.

Roman

The taste of espresso lingers on my tongue as I sit at my desk, phone to my ear, listening to my mother plan my life. Well, sort of listening. My mind wanders. Dr. Johns’s stern face from earlier today still haunts me. He saw me waiting for Ava, but he insisted we have a drink and get started. And then he gave me all the credit for the Martins’ offer of their home and refused to hear anything I had to say. He’s in this for personal glory instead of the good of King George House. And he assumes I am too. I’m not sure there’s anything I can do about that. Should I have pushed back harder? It didn’t seem wise at the time, but the look on Ava’s face… Everything’s fallen apart again. I rub my temple, feeling a headache forming. I never wanted that.

“Roman?” Mother’s voice on the other end of the line pulls me from my thoughts. “Are you listening?”

“Sorry, Mom,” I reply, squeezing the bridge of my nose. “Just…a lot on my mind.”

“Your brother Alister is doing amazing work in Botswana,” she says. “He’s preventing an Ebola outbreak. Saving lives. Now that’s a significant contribution.”

“Yeah, he’s great.” My words come out flat, as I can’t muster the enthusiasm she expects. Alister has always been the golden child, and here I am, just trying to keep my head above water.

“Tell me, what are you doing to stand out? To climb the ladder?” she presses.

“Actually, I’m working with Ava Winters on a fundraiser for the hospital’s King George House,” I tell her, though I know it won’t satisfy her hunger for prestige. “It’s a big deal for the hospital, and we’re meeting with the chief medical officer and head of the promotion board.”

“Ava,” she scoffs. “That girl snatched the fellowship right from under you. And now you’re helping her?” There’s a clatter on her end, likely her disapproval manifesting in rearranged kitchenware.

“Mom, it’s not like that,” I protest, though arguing feels futile. “She earned it. And we’re actually working well together.”

“Roman, darling, don’t be na?ve,” she chides. “You need to be strategic. This isn’t about making friends. It’s about your future.”

“Working on this event is good for my career,” I insist. “And Ava’s part of the team. That’s all there is to it.”

“Teamwork doesn’t get you chief of pediatrics,” she counters.

“Maybe not,” I admit, glancing at the clock and realizing how much time I’ve spent defending myself. “But it might help more than stepping on others to get ahead.”

“Roman…” Her sigh crackles through the phone, signaling her disappointment.

“Look, I’ve got to go. Patients to see, remember?” I interject before she can continue.

“Fine. Just remember who you are,” she says, and then the line goes dead.

I let out a breath. “Remember who I am,” I mutter, a mantra that only adds to the pressure. I am Roman Quinlan, and right now, all I want is not to mess things up any further—with the fundraiser or with Ava.

I push back from my desk to stretch my legs, the conversation with my mother leaving a weight on my heart. I need to clear my head, focus on what matters: the fundraiser, Ava, making things right.

After work, the cool breeze off the water hits me like a slap as I pound down the waterfront path on the North Shore, my running shoes thudding on the pavement. I can’t shake my mother’s words, her voice still ricocheting around my skull. “ Just remember who you are .”

But who am I if not the disappointment sandwiched between an international savior and, in her mind, a fellowship thief?

I push harder, my breath coming in short, sharp puffs that match the churning frustration in my gut. I love being a doctor—the late nights, the life-or-death decisions, the way it feels when a patient says thank you and means it. Why does she need me to be something more? Isn’t this enough? My heart is here, not on some pedestal she’s contrived for her own satisfaction.

As the Lion’s Gate Bridge into Stanley Park and downtown Vancouver looms into view, I slow to a jog, then to a walk, hands on hips, trying to catch my breath. The seagulls overhead seem free from expectations, just gliding on the wind, unconcerned with legacies or societal standings. If only I could join them, even for a moment.

Back at my condo, I peel off my damp running shirt and head straight for the shower, the water scalding against my skin. It does little to wash away the conversation or the nagging guilt about Ava. I towel off and find my phone, hesitating for a moment before dialing her number.

“Hey, it’s Roman,” I begin after her voicemail beeps in my ear. “I wanted to apologize about earlier. I never meant for things to get so twisted with the King George House fundraiser, and I’m sorry if it seemed like—I don’t know, like I was undermining you. That’s the last thing I want. I want this to be successful so you can get your promotion. And I want Dr. Johns to recognize your work. I’m going to try again to tell him how much you’ve done.”

I run a hand through my still-damp hair. “I respect you, Ava, always have. And if there’s any way I can help—with anything, really—just let me know.”

I realize I’ve been rambling. “Anyway, that’s it. Sorry again. I’ll see you at the hospital.”

I end the call, tossing the phone on the bed. It’s out of my hands now. Except it isn’t, because seconds later, my phone lights up with a text from Ava.

Ava: Still have the meeting with Julia Martin and co. on Friday at 2. You can come if you want, but don’t bother showing up early to impress anyone.

She includes the address. I type back quickly.

Roman: Wouldn’t dream of it. I’ll pick you up so we arrive together.

Ava doesn’t respond, and I’m left staring at my phone, wondering if my apology did anything to bridge the gap between us. One thing’s for sure, Friday’s meeting will make or break what’s left of our precarious truce. I have to show up ready to support her, and ready to face whatever comes next.

As expected, the roads are choked with traffic on Friday, the city’s pulse sluggish under the burden of too many people. I tap my fingers against the steering wheel. Ava’s continued silence is a void, and I can’t help but feel I’m driving toward an abyss of my own making.

But when I pull up outside her home, she’s there waiting, a solitary figure wrapped in a coat that’s too thin for the bite in the air. Her posture is stiff, guarded, as if she’s bracing herself against more than just the weather. That might be because of me.

“Hey,” I offer softly as she slides into the passenger seat, bringing with her the faint scent of jasmine that always seems to linger on her skin.

“Roman.” Her voice is neutral, noncommittal, and she doesn’t meet my eyes.

The silence returns as we merge onto the road again. I want to say something, anything, to fill the space between us, but I worry about making things worse. So, I focus on the road ahead, letting the hum of the engine and the rhythm of the wipers fill the silence.

Eventually Point Grey looms before us, grand houses perched like sentinels overlooking the sea. The Martin residence is no exception, its gates opening to a world far removed from the cramped spaces of the hospital.

“Looks like we’re here,” I murmur as the guard steps out, clipboard in hand.

“Dr. Roman Quinlan and Dr. Ava Winters,” I announce, watching the guard scan his list before nodding.

“You can park next to the front door,” he directs, and I steer the car accordingly, gravel crunching beneath the tires.

Ava shifts beside me, her energy that of anticipation. Or maybe it’s apprehension. It’s hard to tell with the walls she’s built.

We park, and before I can get the door completely open, we’re ambushed by a horde of wagging tails and fluffy ears. Julia’s husband, a man whose face is familiar from countless press conferences for his company, Martin Communications, is amidst the pack, attempting to herd the cocker spaniels with a bemused expression.

“Quite the welcoming committee,” I joke, reaching down to scratch behind the ears of the nearest dog.

“Seems so,” Ava replies, a ghost of a smile touching her lips.

For a moment, there’s a flicker of the connection we once had.

“Ava! Roman! So glad you could make it.” Allison Pate-Martin, Julia’s daughter in law and part of her fundraising empire, floats toward us. She extends her hands, enveloping ours in a grip that’s both firm and inviting.

“Thank you for having us,” I respond, and Ava echoes a similar sentiment.

“Please, come in,” she says. “We’ve been looking forward to discussing the fundraiser with you.”

As we follow Allison into the house, I catch Ava’s eye, a silent truce passing between us. For now, our personal grievances take a backseat. Today, we’re a team, united by a cause greater than the sum of our past mistakes.

The dining room is a canvas of pastel hues, the walls adorned with Griffin’s artist wife Paisley’s masterpieces. The table is set with bone china plates resting on linen the color of cream. Sunlight filters through floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the sound, casting a soft glow on the gathering.

“Roman, you’re outnumbered today,” Paisley says with a playful smirk, her vibrant chestnut hair a stark contrast to the pale room. She gestures to the seat next to her, her bangles jingling like a wind chime.

“Seems I’m in the presence of greatness, surrounded by women successful in their fields,” I reply, sliding into the chair and ignoring the flutter of nerves in my stomach.

Tricia, another daughter in law whose chocolates are the guilty pleasure of many—including me, chuckles as she passes a platter of delicate sandwiches my way. “Don’t worry. We won’t bite. Well, unless you’re made of chocolate.”

“Good thing I’m not,” I quip, taking a sandwich, the cucumber crisp and fresh. “I’m just here to support Ava.” I nod toward her, but she’s busy discussing the event layout with Allison across the table.

“Ah, so you’re the helper today?” Tricia teases.

“Exactly,” I say. Ava’s eyes meet mine for a moment, acknowledging my comment without words.

The conversation flows around me like the wine from Tricia’s bottle, talk of art exhibitions and chocolate trends mingling with medical fundraisers. I take a sip, the red bold and smooth. I focus on Ava as she speaks with conviction about King George House, her passion evident. It’s this fire, this dedication that drew me to her, before our paths diverged into contention.

“Roman, what do you think about using local artists’ work as part of the auction?” Paisley asks.

“Great idea,” I answer. “It ties the community to the cause, makes it personal.”

“See? You’re not just a helper, you’re full of good ideas too,” Paisley says, and there’s a collective nod of agreement from the others.

“Team effort,” I deflect, feeling a warmth that’s only partly from the wine. Here at this table, despite the teasing, I sense an unexpected camaraderie, one that might help reconnect Ava and me—as long as I do everything I can to be sure she’s treated fairly and this event comes off without a hitch. And though I can’t predict where our path will lead, I’m willing to walk it beside her, if only she’ll let me.