Page 8 of Boiling Point
I shook my head, surprised at how easily I’d let those pieces of myself slip out. “No, it’s fine. He died just over a year ago.”
His eyes darkened with empathy. “I’m so sorry. That’s dreadful to go through at any age—but especially when you’re so young.”
“He had ALS—diagnosed just before I graduated from high school.” Talking to Dr. Hawthorne, even about this, was surprisingly easy. My words flowed like a current. “So that put the brakes on college. He felt guilty that I stayed back to take care of him, but who else was going to do it?”
“That’s an enormous sacrifice to make so early in life.”
“It didn’t feel like a sacrifice. It felt…” I searched for the right words. “It felt like a gift—time with him that I wouldn’t have had otherwise.”
“When are you going to stop that?”
I shot up straight, back rigid. “Stop what?”
“Stop surprising me.”
The rain continued to beat against the windows. For a moment, I couldn’t think of a thing to say.
“I’m not trying to surprise you,” I finally offered, my voice subdued.
Dr. Hawthorne’s expression shifted, something unguarded flickering across his face. “Most people your age would resent having their lives interrupted. They’d view it as a burden, not a gift.”
I grabbed my mug from the coffee table and traced the rim with my finger. “Maybe. But most people my age haven’t lost someone they love inch by inch, watching them fade away physically but still mentally all there.” It was all still so clear—Dad’s frustration as his body betrayed him, his determination to maintain dignity, his insistence that I pursue my dreams. “When someone you love is dying, you realize how precious every moment is.”
The intense way he stared at me made my skin tingle. “That’s a wisdom most don’t acquire until much later in life. If at all.”
“I’m not sure it’s wisdom,” I admitted. “Just reality.”
Our eyes met and held, and something tightened in my chest—a peculiar ache, both pleasant and painful. The burgundy-and-green plaid couch seemed to shrink beneath us, the space between our bodies suddenly charged with an electricity that had nothing to do with the capacitors we’d discussed earlier. His fingers rested mere inches from mine on the worn cushion, and I found myself acutely aware of that proximity—of how easy it would be to bridge the tiny gap…
He glanced at his watch, breaking the spell. “I’m afraid it’s getting late,” he said, voice low, reluctant. He crossed to the window and parted the blinds, peering outside where the rain had softened to a steady patter. “It looks calm enough to drive.”
He carried our empty mugs to the kitchen sink, rinsed them, and tucked them into the dishwasher. The image of refined, precise Dr. Hawthorne doing dishes in my tiny apartment felt surreal.
“Can I offer you a ride to campus in the morning?” he asked, drying his hands on a blue towel. “I can pick you up on my way.”
I hesitated, not wanting to impose more than I already had. “It’s okay, I’ll order a rideshare.”
He chuckled, a low, rich sound that flooded the room. “Good luck finding one around here.”
He pulled on his coat, fastening each button with an unhurried precision that felt strangely intimate.
When I didn’t reply, he said, “I’ll be by at seven.” His eyes met mine.
My heart skittered. “All right. Seven.”
He paused at the door, his hand resting on the knob. The air between us almost tingled. “Good night, Miss Clark,” he said softly. My name hung like an echo in the room.
“Good night,” I replied, surprised at how much weight those two words carried.
He lingered at the door a moment longer before stepping out into the chilly night. Rain-scented air swept in to fill the space where he’d stood—sharp and clean, mingling with traces of tea and warmth.
Chapter 5
Callum
Gabrielle opened her front door and immediately thrust a green travel cup into my hands.
“Good morning,” I said, mildly startled. I glanced down at the mug, its warmth seeping through the hard plastic into my gloved fingers. “What’s this?”
