Page 115 of Wistful Whispers
I don’t hesitate. “With everything I have.”
“Fuck.” He’s quiet a moment.
“I’ve been thinking about all of it. About what kind of surgeon I want to be,” I go on. “I’m hoping to work with Dr. Madison this year—for my R5 research. Studying the neural mechanisms of female sexual function. It’s niche, I know. It’s the first time I’ve felt inspired again. Like I’m building something, not trying to solve my own family’s dysfunction.”
I meet his eyes. “Dr. Madison didn’t take my side. She challenged me to see this whole thing in shades, not absolutes. Conditioned her support on me facing you. She was right. Our conversation changed everything for me.”
“How so?” He regards me carefully.
“I don’t want to coast through the next three years. I want to be better. Smarter. Different. I can’t accomplish anything if I don’t face the ways I got this wrong—including how I treated you.” I swallow the last bit of my pride. “I want to be the best.”
“Then act like it. Starting now.” He doesn’t tell me I’m safe. Doesn’t tell me I’m forgiven. At least the heat in his glare is gone. Replaced by something harder. Cooler. Not indifferent. “I’ll see you back in the OR.”
“Yes, sir.” I rise. It’s time to get the fuck out of here before he changes his mind.
I make it to the door before he says, “Don’t make me regret this.”
I glance back. “I won’t.”
This isn’t redemption. It’s accountability.
Dr. Madison gave me a second chance. Caldwell gave me a lifeline.
I give myself a mission.
No more excuses. No more drifting.
This is my shot.
I’m not wasting it.
thirty-five
Marcella
A Few Weeks Later
Theelevatorhumsbeneathus as it climbs, the faint buzz filling the space between us.
Seamus leans against the wall, one knee bent, hands deep in the pockets of his jacket. The collar’s turned up, more habit than style.
He doesn’t say anything, just watches me out of the corner of his eye like he’s waiting for a signal.
“What?” I finally ask, lifting a brow.
He points to my chest, slow and casual. “You got sauce on your cardigan.”
I glance down to see the faintest speck of tomato right in the middle of my boob. “The only reason you noticed is because of the placement.”
“What can I say?” He smirks.
My chest does this funny little flutter thing, like my heart’s trying to stutter-step out of time. Six months in and I still feel like I'm in junior high around him.
When we step into the condo, I drop my clutch on the counter, kick off my shoes with a sigh of relief and tug my sweater over my head. Seamus trails in behind me, shrugging out of his jacket and laying it over the back of the couch.
He doesn’t say anything. I turn and catch him watching me again.
“What now?” I ask, teasing this time.
