Chapter 17

Chance

My new car keys jingle in my pocket. I'm really glad Lucy got me the deal on the SUV. I don't miss being soaked after every ride home, and even though driving a car puts me in the awful traffic longer, all the bells and whistles make it worth it.

This week has started out better without all the extra time showering and drying off from the rain, but today's still ending with a visit to Dr. Johns. Nothing's perfect, and this needs to be done. I stop when I reach the door marked Chief Medical Officer . The brass plaque glints under the harsh fluorescent lights, and I take a deep breath to steady my resolve.

I smile at Dr. Johns's admin. "Good afternoon, Catherine. I think he's expecting me."

She smiles wide. "Go ahead and knock on the door."

I give it three hard raps and wait.

"Come in," calls a voice from within.

I enter to find Dr. Johns hunched over his desk, glasses perched precariously on the bridge of his nose, peering at a mountain of paperwork. He looks up, the lines in his forehead deepening. "Chance, what can I do for you?"

"I wanted to speak with you about Prometheus Health Solutions." I'm direct, no time for pleasantries as I take a seat. "Do you know anything about a drug trial they're running through our ED?"

His brows knit together. "Prometheus Health Solutions?" He shakes his head, pushing back his chair with a muted screech. "I don't know what you're talking about."

I can't tell if he's playing dumb or genuinely clueless. Either way, I need to press on. Reaching into the satchel slung across my chest, I retrieve some of the paperwork Eleanor left behind. It's a lot of data points and annotations but not much synthesis that makes sense. Without a word, I set it before him, the papers sprawling across his orderly desk.

Dr. Johns leans forward, adjusting his glasses and begins to sift through the documents. The initial skepticism on his face dissolves into concern as he turns the pages. He's silent, and I watch his eyes track back and forth, consuming the information that I hope will spur him to action.

"Where did you get this?" he finally asks, not looking up from the report.

"Eleanor left it. It's an ongoing drug trial, but William Long in legal doesn't have a contract. I don't know who to speak with or even where to submit our findings. I have reports that go back over a year," I explain, keeping my tone even. "It seems Eleanore had been compiling the data for them."

He doesn't respond immediately, his focus still tethered to the pages beneath his fingertips. I wait.

"Prometheus Health Solutions," Dr. Johns mutters again, finally looking up from the report with furrowed brows. "I remember a drug rep came by, dropped off some…gifts." He waves a hand dismissively as if the thought of such perks is trivial, but I can see the discomfort in his eyes .

"Gifts?" I probe, leaning forward in my chair.

He sighs. "iPads for all the staff, a couple of lunches to ‘thank us for our time.' It's not unusual in this business, but…" He trails off and glances at the documents again, a silent admission that the swag might be more than just corporate generosity.

"Look into it," I press. "Please. There's something off about this trial."

He nods, his expression hardening. "I will. Give me some time."

"Thanks," I say, standing. "I appreciate that."

As I return to the ground floor, the conversation with Dr. Johns lingers in my mind. He didn't have a clue what my predecessor was doing. Why is that? I push my concerns aside for now. There are other things, lighter things, waiting for me beyond this hospital.

Exiting the building, the cool evening air is welcome against my tired face. I pull out my phone, the light from the screen cutting through the dusk. There's a message from Lucy. A picture loads, and I'm staring at a child's painting—vibrant colors, bold strokes, and there, unmistakably, is a figure in a white coat, stethoscope around the neck, a benevolent smile painted on its face.

Aleksander's artwork. I feel myself grinning. It's humbling, touching even, how a simple visit could mean so much to a kid.

Me: Tell Aleksander he's got a fan in me.

Stowing the phone in my pocket, I head to my new Explorer and make my way home, smiling all the way. Small victories like this remind me why I do what I do, both inside the hospital and out.

Back home, I lean against my kitchen counter and fire off another text to Lucy.

Me: Had a Houdini on our hands today. A patient with an enlarged prostate tried to make a break for it. Security caught him hiding behind the vending machines!

Almost immediately, my phone buzzes with her reply, a string of emojis that convey raucous laughter. The corners of my mouth tug upward. I take a sip from my lukewarm coffee, considering the ease between us, how conversations with Lucy never need a roadmap. They just…flow. The thought is comforting—and unexpectedly thrilling.

Later, as I'm sprawled on the couch, flipping through channels, the familiar ping sounds again from my phone. My pulse quickens, hoping it's Lucy with tales from Barney's, maybe even inviting me over.

But the name on the screen isn't Lucy's. It's Céline. My heart doesn't just drop. It plummets. And a knot tightens in my stomach. There's no escaping the past when it clings to your present with the persistence of a shadow.

Céline: Comment ?a va? I miss you.

The words hover in the air, even as I put the phone face down on the coffee table, leaving the message marked unread. Every time I try to forget her, it's like she senses this and reaches out. With a deep breath, I try to shake off the unwelcome intrusion and refocus on the here and now, where thoughts of Lucy offer me comfort.

The television drones on, a low murmur in the solitude of my apartment. Another ping, and my gaze flits back to the phone.

Céline: I've been thinking about you. How are you?

My thumb hovers over the screen, feeling an instinctive twitch to reply, to fall into old patterns. But no, not this time. I let out a sigh and press the power button until the display dims and quiets.

I lean back, pressing my head against the couch, willing Céline to move on so I can too. It's time to cut these threads that bind me to a past that chose to stay behind in Montreal. And that more and more seems like it wasn't right for me anyway.

Lucy. Her laughter surfaces in my memory. It's her face, bright with humor and sincerity, that fills my thoughts more often than not these days. Keeping it friendly with her is becoming more and more difficult. Despite what I told her I wanted, every text, every glance, seems laden with something deeper. It's getting harder to ignore the current pulling us closer, harder still to ignore what I want to happen.

"Keep it simple," I mutter to myself, pushing off the couch. Simple is safe. Simple is uncomplicated. But with every laugh we share, every inside joke, I'm realizing all the things I didn't have with Céline.