17.

Ava

The scent of gardenias wafts through the air, mingling with the smell of freshly baked bread and citrus from the tea spread out before us. I look around Julia Martin’s dining room, a space as elegant and inviting as its owner. Light dances off the crystal chandelier, casting prismatic swirls on the creamy walls.

“Thank you again, Julia, for opening your home to us,” I say. “It’s going to make a beautiful backdrop for the fundraiser.”

Julia waves off the compliment with a graceful hand. “Anything for a good cause. And this one is close to my heart.”

Her daughters in law, Allison, Paisley, Trish, and Tori, nod in agreement, their expressions a mirror of earnest support.

“So, you’ve got the basics down,” Julia says, looking over the materials we’ve laid out on the mahogany table. “But we need a theme that’ll have everyone talking—and donating.”

“Something timeless, glamorous,” Tori suggests, flipping through a stack of fabric swatches and samples.

“Exactly,” I murmur. And then it hits me. “How about a Great Gatsby theme? Think of the roaring twenties—jazz, pearls, bootleggers, and marathon dancers.”

“Brilliant!” Paisley exclaims, clapping her hands.

“Costumes?” Roman asks, his eyes meeting mine. There’s a twinkle there, a spark of creativity that quickens my pulse just a bit.

“Definitely a costume party,” I confirm. “It will add to the allure. Make it an event no one wants to miss.”

“Oh!” Julia interjects. “We have the perfect prop—an authentic nineteen thirty-two Duesenberg convertible. We can park it out front for photographs.”

“Really? That’s incredible!” I can already envision the guests arriving, the flash of cameras as they pose beside such a classic.

Tori nods. “I can set up a photo booth around it, make it interactive.”

Paisley laughs, a light, musical sound that makes the whole room brighter. “It’s in my garage at the moment. Might need a tow to get here.”

I join in their laughter, feeling lighter than I have in weeks. It’s a reminder of why we’re all here—to bring joy, to heal, not just through medicine but through community and shared purpose.

“Last year, each table was priced at two thousand dollars,” I note, pulling out the budget sheet. It’s a figure that now seems almost quaint, given our ambitious goals.

Julia tilts her head, considering. “Well, we should aim higher this time. Let’s set the tables at the back for twenty-five hundred. And then go up to five thousand, and even ten thousand for a table closer to the stage. And sponsors who pay twenty-five thousand can have the closest tables.”

“Isn’t that a bit steep?” Paisley asks, her eyebrows knitting together.

“Think about it,” Julia counters with the confidence of someone used to getting her way. “These are doctors, professionals, people who don’t blink at spending that kind of money for a night out. Plus, it’s for charity. They’ll open their wallets.”

“True,” I concede. “And if anyone can convince them, it’s you, Julia.”

“Then it’s settled,” Roman says. He catches my eye again, and for a moment, it’s just us at the table, partners in this endeavor.

“Let’s do it,” I agree, my heart beating a little faster. “Let’s make this a night to remember.”

“Here’s to making a difference,” Julia toasts, lifting her glass.

“Making a difference,” we echo.

I shuffle papers, my mind abuzz with figures and plans. Trish, an altruist with a business edge, leans forward. “Speaking of sponsorships,” she says, “I’ve been thinking about how Devine Delights can contribute more substantially this year.” She pauses. “We’ll commit to a twenty-five-thousand-dollar sponsorship, and we can do a special chocolate for each dinner plate to commemorate the event.”

A gasp escapes me. Twenty-five thousand dollars? That’s not just generous; it’s game changing. Roman’s eyebrows shoot up, mirroring my shock.

“Trish, that’s incredibly generous of you,” I manage. “Devine Delights’s support will make a significant impact.”

“Happy to help,” she says, waving off our thanks.

“Your chocolate is going to be the sweetest part of our fundraiser,” Roman quips, and even Julia chuckles at that.

“Speaking of which,” I segue, “we still need to catch up on the silent-auction preparations.”

Roman’s face shifts to an expression I’m all too familiar with—mild panic veiled by professionalism. “Yes, I’m afraid I’m a bit behind on that front,” he admits, adjusting his napkin on his lap. “Responses to the letter we’ve sent are coming more slowly than I’d like.”

Julia looks to Roman with a kind smile, the sort one gives when they have a solution tucked up their sleeve. “Don’t worry. I might have a few items that could entice bidders. And I’m sure we can secure some more intriguing pieces.”

“Actually, I’ve already reached out to Griffin about donating some of his tech gadgets,” Roman says.

“Ah, Griffin always has the latest toys.” Julia nods with pride. “But don’t you worry. I think I have a couple of other ideas that could add a touch of…exclusivity to our auction.”

“Exclusivity is exactly what we’re aiming for,” I agree—a rare vintage wine collection perhaps, or a weekend getaway to a secluded beach house.

“Let’s reconvene next week with an updated list of auction items,” Roman suggests.

“Perfect,” I reply.

“Then it’s settled,” Julia declares. “I’ll see what I can do on my end.”

“Thank you, Julia,” I say again. “This event wouldn’t be the same without your touch.”

As we wrap up our tea and sandwiches, we toast to small victories, to second chances, and to partnerships that just might mend more than a fractured fundraiser. Roman seems truly contrite and completely supportive today, so perhaps there’s hope for us yet.

When the rain has stopped, Julia sweeps us out onto her expansive patio, her arms gesturing grandly. “Imagine this,” she enthuses, “guests mingling with cocktails in hand, the air filled with laughter and the clinking of glasses.”

“Passed hors d’oeuvres?” I suggest, envisioning elegant waitstaff weaving through clusters of guests.

“Nothing less,” Julia agrees. “Only the finest for our esteemed donors.”

We follow her down the manicured lawn, the grass cool beneath my heels. The vision of an opulent tent emerges, white and vast, like a blank canvas ready to be splashed with the vibrancy of the night’s festivities.

“Forty tables, I think,” Julia points to the swath of grass, her red nails stark against the green. “Enough to seat around four hundred guests.”

“That’s twice the size of last year,” Roman points out.

I sneak a glance at him, noticing the way the light catches his face. For a second, I’m lost in the thought of a dance, our hands touching… But I push that aside, reminding myself to focus. “I think, given the boost we’ll have from the Martins, we can make that happen.”

“Music is a must,” Julia continues. “I have a shortlist of bands—four of them. All splendid. I’ll have them send over samples of their work.”

“Music sets the mood,” I agree, imagining the sound of jazz swelling under the stars. It feels almost too perfect, too close to the kind of romance I tell myself I’m not looking for—not with Roman, not with anyone.

“Let me show you where we can set up the silent auction,” Julia says, leading us back inside her home. Her living room is a showcase of luxury, but it’s the piece of silver-dipped driftwood that captures everyone’s attention.

“Exquisite, isn’t it?” Julia beams. “Paisley created this when she was still a student.”

Roman steps closer to the sculpture, his fingers hovering but not touching. “It’s incredible,” he murmurs. “My apologies, I’m not well-versed in art.”

Paisley looks down, her cheeks rosy with embarrassment or perhaps humility. “It’s just something I made a long time ago,” she dismisses, waving off the praise.

“Still,” Roman insists, turning to Paisley with a sheepish smile, “it’s amazing what you’ve created.”

“Thank you,” she responds.

There’s a warmth in the room that goes beyond the sun streaming through the windows. It’s in the way Julia looks at Paisley, the pride of a mother figure. It’s in Roman’s sincere apology, the blush on his cheek. It’s in the camaraderie we share as we plan this event, something bigger than all of us.

The soft glow of the late afternoon sun filters through the windows as we wrap up our meeting. When it’s time to go, Julia stands by her grand mahogany door, a graceful silhouette against the sprawling foyer.

“Before you go,” she says, her voice echoing slightly in the vast space, “would you be able to come back tomorrow? I’ll have the caterers here with their menu suggestions.” Her smile is warm and genuine, the kind that makes you feel like you’ve been included in an inner circle.

“Of course, Julia. We wouldn’t miss it,” I reply, and Roman nods along.

We step into the crisp air outside, and I feel a surge of satisfaction at how things are falling into place. Roman clicks the key fob, and his car beeps twice in response, a high-end model that’s sleek and practical, just like him.

As we slide into the leather seats, the close confines of the vehicle seem to amplify the scent of Roman’s cologne, a mixture of cedar and citrus that’s become increasingly familiar. I catch myself taking a deeper breath than necessary.

“Julia’s going to be such an asset,” I remark as I buckle my seatbelt, unable to contain my enthusiasm. The engine purrs to life under Roman’s sure hands.

“Mmm-hmm,” he murmurs, steering us back down the driveway and out onto the road. His profile is all sharp angles and concentration, sunlight catching the edges of his jawline. “I was thinking, though, maybe for the next meeting I could step back—let you and Dr. Johns handle it, to avoid any confusion.”

It would be easier to work without the tension that seems to wind around us like ivy, but I can’t let my personal feelings dictate this project. That isn’t fair, and neither is the idea that his presence somehow prevents me from getting my due. That’s all on Dr. Johns and doesn’t seem likely to change. I can’t imagine what trying to manage him with the Martins would feel like.

“Roman,” I say, turning to face him fully, “as co-chair, your presence is important. We’re a team, remember?”

“Right. A team.” He glances at me before focusing back on the road. I can tell he’s not convinced, but he lets the subject drop.

“Besides,” I add after a moment, hoping to lighten the mood, “who else will ensure that Julia doesn’t turn the whole event into an art showcase?” I tease.

This time, he smiles. “Fine, you win. And I’m holding you responsible if we end up auctioning off a priceless Monet.”

“Deal,” I say with a laugh, settling back into my seat.

I watch the way his hands grip the steering wheel, capable and steady. He’s always been like this. Even when we were at odds, his calm under pressure was something I secretly admired.

Eventually the engine hums to a stop outside my house. A soft breeze carries the scent of more impending rain through the open window.

“Thanks for the ride,” I say, unbuckling my seatbelt. My hand hovers over the door handle, but I’m not quite ready to break the bubble of our temporary truce.

“Hey.” Roman’s voice is casual. “Do you want to grab dinner? We could go over some more details? Brainstorm a bit more?”

I hesitate, torn between the need for space and the undeniable pull I feel in his presence. “I think…maybe we’ve done enough for today. We’re meeting with the caterers tomorrow, and how about we meet up after your shift some day next week?” It’s safer that way, keeping Roman in the neat boxes of colleague and co-chair.

“Well, I suppose that’s fine, but I was thinking I could cook for us,” he counters. “Would that work? Something low-key, at my place?” There’s a hopeful note in his voice that chips away at my resolve.

“Roman…” The warning tone slips out before I can rein it in.

“Come on. It’ll be good, like old times.” His smile is coaxing, disarmingly charming, and suddenly, I’m nodding before I’ve fully processed the decision.

“Fine. One night next week. But nothing fancy, all right?”

“Scout’s honor.” He chuckles, holding up two fingers.

“See you tomorrow for the tasting.” I step out into the cool air, the closing door punctuating the end of our conversation.

Alone in my living room, I sink into the couch. As the shadows grow long and the light fades into evening, my thoughts circle back to Roman—his offer to cook, the warmth in his eyes, the easy banter.

Zara texted me earlier today to tell me her case was going into trial, so she wouldn’t be around much. I get it. This happens, but the timing is less than ideal. I really wish I could talk to her.

I let my mind wander, tracing the contours of my life beyond the walls of the hospital. There’s a hunger within me that goes deeper than the physical and scientific, a yearning for something that isn’t defined by scalpels and sutures. I love what I do, but it’s not all of who I am. I have more to offer—I know it. I want it.

Who am I when I’m not saving lives or navigating the minefield of hospital politics? The question echoes in the quiet, a challenge and an invitation.

It’s Roman who’s unwittingly nudged me toward this introspection. Our complicated history and the intense connection we share, despite everything, compel me to explore facets of myself that I’ve buried under the weight of responsibility and ambition.

“Who are you?” I whisper to the empty room.

Next week, I’ll sit across from Roman, sharing a meal he’s prepared, and perhaps I’ll allow myself a glimpse of the woman I am outside the confines of my career, the multifaceted woman I know I want to be.