Chapter 14

Lucy

The final bell rings on Monday afternoon, unleashing a torrent of students into the sunlit corridors. As I weave through the crowd, my phone pings with a text.

Dad: Beatrice is out again. Can you cover?

Frustration rushes through me. He needs to do something about her. Her job is what allows her to stay in Canada. Without it, she's supposed to return to Ireland. Maybe I can move things around with Chance…

Me: Only till eight. I have dinner plans.

A feel a twinge of guilt for compromising what I already have in place and disrupting Chance's evening as well.

Dad: Thank you. I owe you one.

As I exit the school building, I grip my phone tighter, the edges digging into my palm. My disdain for Beatrice's lack of commitment to her job grows. If it was a serious problem, why wouldn't she just say so? Or ask to change her schedule? Near as I can tell, she just comes to work when she feels like it.

I pull out my phone and open the reservation app. A tap and a swipe, and our table for two at Zeffirelli's evaporates into the ether. With a heavy heart, I send Chance a message.

Me: Work emergency at the pub. Beatrice is out again, and I need to help my dad. I canceled dinner at Zeffirelli's.

I wait, watching the gray dots bubble up then vanish. Once. Twice. No response. Anxiety creeps up my neck as I imagine him disappointed or, worse, annoyed. But no, that's not Chance. He's understanding. He knows the crazy my life can be. And anyway, it's not like I owe him something. We're just friends.

Me: But I'm only covering until 8. Maybe we could meet later?

Chance: Okay. Thanks for letting me know.

I pocket my phone, stride toward my car, and drive to the pub.

A couple hours later, Barney's is in full swing, a blur of clinking dishes and chattering patrons, when Chance walks in a little before eight. He's the calm in the eye of the storm, dressed in dark jeans that fit just right and a T-shirt that outlines his physique, the kind of casual look that somehow seems put together on him.

"Hey." He greets me with that easygoing smile, which never fails to lift the corners of my mouth in response. "I was able to get a late reservation at Zeffirelli's. But after a long day at school and working here, are you up for going out?"

I exhale, feeling tension drain from my shoulders. "Yes, please." I tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear. "Just give me a sec to finish up."

The ride over in the ride to Zeffirelli's is quiet, the city lights streaking by as we sink into the comfortable silence that has become our unspoken language.

When we arrive, the ma?tre d' welcomes us. "Buona sera," he says.

"Buona sera," Chance replies.

What language does this man not speak?

The host leads us to a cozy table for two tucked away in a dimly lit corner.

The server immediately brings water, and we peruse the menu. Everything looks good, as it isn't Irish pub food. When the server returns, I still haven't made up my mind. "You first," I tell Chance. "I'll figure it out."

"Spaghetti and meatballs for me," he tells the server, handing back the menu with a confident nod.

I scan the options once more before settling on baked ziti, comfort food for a night that's taken an unexpected turn.

"House Chianti?" Chance suggests, raising an eyebrow.

"Sounds perfect."

Moments later, the server returns to pour ruby red wine into our glasses.

We raise them in a silent toast, the clink of glass echoing softly. Then Chance leans forward, the warm glow of the candle between us casting shadows across his face. And there it is—that scent. Woodsy, with a hint of cinnamon. It envelops me like autumn itself has decided to sit down at our table. I take a deep breath, trying to focus on the here and now, not the fluttering in my chest or the way my thoughts scatter.

Friends , I remind myself, hoping my hooha gets the message loud and clear. But it's hard, so much harder than it should be, with him sitting across from me, looking like every dream I've told myself not to have.

"How was school today?" Chance's voice brings me back, and I realize I've been staring.

"Sorry," I say, shaking the daze from my mind. "It was good. Everyone is a little frazzled on Mondays, but we made it."

"Can't argue with that."

"How about your day?" I ask.

"There's a full moon tonight, so I'm glad I'm off. But the pull of the moon is real."

He regales me with a story about an elderly woman who brought her cat in and a little boy who took a bad fall and broke his arm. I love hearing about his work. He has an exciting life.

Our dinner arrives, and we continue talking about everything and nothing. Friends . It's easy because we're friends. There's no sexual tension.

"Oh, I finally met the drug rep on the study."

My ears perk up. "Really? What did you learn?"

"The medication is a combination of psychotropic drugs for behavioral control and immune-system enhancers. And that matches what the lab told me."

"Do the test subjects know this when you give them the meds?"

"They give them a spiel, but they should be monitored if we're going to give them psychotropics."

I nod. That makes sense. "Are you going to stop doing the trial?"

He sighs. "I need the contract first. I need to know more. The rep is going to bring it in, and he'll also find out where the money is being deposited. "

"You don't think your predecessor is taking that money, do you?"

He grimaces. "I don't know what to think yet."

My gaze traces his outline as Chance twirls spaghetti around his fork. Who am I fooling? Given the chance, I'd climb the man like a tree.

"So, are the kids still talking about my visit?" he asks.

"They haven't stopped talking about it," I report, feeling a bubble of pride. "Aleksander told everyone he wants to be a doctor now. Says he's going to go back to Ukraine one day to help those who are sick."

"Wow, I love that." Chance sets his fork down. "I didn't realize I made such an impression."

"You did," I assure him, and we share a smile.

A pause lingers between us, comfortable yet charged. "So," I ask, "you being a man of the world and all, how many languages can you speak?"

He chuckles. "Fluently? Just French and English." He takes a sip of Chianti, his gaze holding mine. "But, you know, being in medicine, you pick up bits and pieces. I can ask basic medical questions in about half a dozen languages. Helps patients feel at ease if you can speak to them in their own tongue, even if it's just a little."

"Half a dozen, huh?" I shake my head. "That's pretty incredible."

Chance shrugs modestly. It's clear he doesn't do it to show off. He cares about people and making a difference.

"Tell me more about you," he says. "I've learned a lot about Vancouver, but not so much about who you are."

I take a deep breath; something in his earnest gaze tells me it's okay to let down my walls. "My mother came with us when we moved from Ireland," I begin. "But she passed away several years ago. Most people think she died in a car accident or something mundane. But that's not true." My hands tremble, so I interlace them on the table. "She…she took her own life. Pills. I was the one wh o found her."

Chance's expression softens, and he reaches across the table, his hand hovering a moment before settling atop mine. "I can't even imagine how hard that must have been," he says softly.

I nod, looking down at our hands. "It's not something I tell people often. It feels like I'm burdening them."

"Thank you for trusting me," he responds.

I lift my gaze, meeting his once more, and the ache inside me eases just a fraction. "My mom was unhappy in Dublin. My dad did…some questionable things to get us out." My chest tightens at the memory. "But even after we moved to Vancouver, she couldn't find the happiness she was searching for."

"Lucy," Chance murmurs, his other hand now enclosing mine between his warm palms. "Your strength is remarkable."

"Strength?" I echo, almost scoffing at the word. But as I look into Chance's eyes, I see no pity, only admiration.

"Absolutely," he insists. "To go through that and still be here, sharing your story with me? That takes courage."

Suddenly, in this small Italian restaurant, with the scent of garlic and basil in the air, I feel a strange sense of release, a sliver of peace in acknowledging the scars of my past.

The warmth from the Chianti blushes through my cheeks, and the moment passes. Chance once again twirls his spaghetti around his fork. An impulsive thought races through my mind, igniting a reckless desire to leap over the table and press my body against his. But I squash the thought as I steady my breathing. "Chance," I ask, looking to ground myself in reality, "do you ever hear from Céline?"

He pauses mid-twirl, his blue eyes meeting mine. "She called the morning after we got back from Whistler," he says, setting down his fork. "Céline is… She's perpetually dissatisfied. I've decided she likes to be unhappy about something all the time. She was unhappy living in Quebec. It's cold for too long, the jobs are less than ideal, the government is crooked… So we came up with a solution. We'd move here and star t over. I found a job, and we readied to move, but then she decided to stay."

As he speaks of her, it seems he's made peace with a situation beyond his control. He seems resigned, a stark contrast to the fire I feel simmering within me.

"At first, she was on board with coming to Vancouver?" I prod, swirling the wine in my glass.

"Yeah." Chance nods, a wry smile touching the corner of his mouth. "She thought it would be a new start. She was out of work and feeling stuck. But in the end, she couldn't make the leap. And some people carry their clouds with them, no matter where they go."

"Sometimes leaving isn't enough," I agree softly.

"Exactly," he says, reaching for his glass. "It's about finding happiness within, not just changing the scenery."