Page 6 of Parallel

I only wish the rest of my life was as simple, that I knew which parts required adjustment. I’ve done exactly what I was supposed to, dammit—college, med school, residency—but something is still missing, and it’s this constant itch just beneath the surface of my skin, wondering what itis.

My mother claims what’s missing from my life is a family, but I suspect that has more to do with her desire for grandchildren than anything else.You and Meg are both 30, she says.Her biological clock is ticking even if yours is not.But every time I even consider it, the dream about the girl in the boat returns to needle me, to leave me dissatisfied with what I have and suddenly uncertain I’m doing the rightthing.

It makes no sense, really. I can’t name a specific quality about the girl. I can’t really see her face. I don’t know what she likes, how she will laugh, if she’s rude to waiters or hates dogs. All I know is how I feel—as if I’d swim the ocean to save her, walk into battle on her behalf without a second thought. That when I stand on that dock in my dream, I want to give myself to her until there is nothing left ofme.

And I don’t feel that way about Meg. I’ve never felt that way aboutanyone.

* * *

My morning is full.It’s afternoon before I get in to see Darcy, the patient who kept me here so late last night. Things looked pretty grim fourteen hours ago, but when I walk into her room she’s laughing over a cartoon so hard she’s got to hold onto her stomach. Her exhausted mother is sound asleep in the chair beside her. Seven year olds bounce back a lot faster thanadults.

“Teen Titans?” I ask. “OrTeen DramaIsland?”

“Teen Titans,” shereplies.

I walk over and watch for a few seconds. “And your favorite is the gothone.”

Darcy tilts her head. “What doesgothmean?”

I take the seat beside her and point at the screen. “You know how Raven never smiles and is always wearing all black and looking unhappy? That’sgoth.”

“I want to be goth when I grow up too,” shesays.

When she grows up. My chest aches, but she’s watching my reaction so I force myself to smile as I rise. “Don’t tell your mother I gave you thatidea.”

I go to the nurses’ station next to make sure there’s nothing pressing to be dealt with. The waiting room is packed, which means I’ll be here this evening too. Not a great day to get by on four hours ofsleep.

I turn away, but as I do my eyes catch on a couple standing by the elevator. There’s something so familiar about the woman, even from behind—about the set of her shoulders, in the way she gathers her long brown hair into a ponytail before letting it fall. I feel a pull toward her I can’t explain, and the fact that she’s clearly with the guy beside her matters not atall.

“Mr. Jensen’s family has called for you twice,” says Bev, one of the nurses, thrusting a piece of paper into my hand. “The nursing home wants you to up hismeds.”

I look back at the elevator but the woman is gone. For a moment I just look blankly at the space where she stood, feeling as if I’ve lostsomething.

“You okay, Dr. Reilly?” Bevasks.

I wince. I’m acting like a nutjob today. “Sleep deprivation,” I tellher.

Yes, that’s probably all itis.

4

QUINN

Idream that night about so many things, some big and some small. Nick’s flat in Marylebone, which becameourflat in Marylebone. Grocery shopping. Trying to make the perfect gin fizz. Sitting with Nick at some pub on a night in late autumn, getting pleasantly smashed, happy in a way I’ve never been before and didn’t even know existed until the day wemet.

“Show me,” he says, nodding at my laptop bag. In the three months we’ve been together, there’s not been a single project I’ve completed for my graduate program that he hasn’t demanded tosee.

“It’s just a basic building design. There’s no way you actually want to see it,” Iargue.

“Of course I do,” he says, sliding his drink toward me. I take a sip and flinch. I’ll never get used to the taste of whiskey. “And then I want you to start throwing out terms like spaciality andcantilevers.”

My mouth tips upward despite my every effort to look stern. “You’re making fun ofme.”

“I’m not,” he says, placing his palm on my cheek. “I love watching you talk about architecture. Your whole face lights up. And it amazes me that you can do allthis.”

I laugh. “You can save human lives, but you’re impressed I can draw abuilding?”

“But I don’t create things,” he says. “And I love that you’re so fascinated byit.”

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