Page 68 of My Best Friend Is Broken
Pride blooms in my chest, the first time I’ve felt truly proud of myself for something, in longer than I can remember.
“Thank you,” I say, helping him apply the final dressing. “That was... I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed this.”
Dr. Torrino strips off his gloves and looks at me thoughtfully. “You know, I could use an assistant. Someone with medical training and the right temperament for our particular clientele.”
My heart skips. “An assistant?”
“The work isn’t always straightforward,” he continues. “Bullet wounds, knife injuries, the occasional overdose. People who can’t go to regular hospitals for obvious reasons. It requires discretion, skill, and the ability to work under pressure.”
I glance at Nicky, who’s watching this conversation with growing interest.
“And eventually,” Dr. Torrino adds, “I’ll need a replacement. I’m not getting any younger, and this work is too important to leave to chance. The right person could build quite a career in this field.”
“There wouldn’t be any official qualifications,” I say slowly, thinking through the implications.
Dr. Torrino waves a dismissive hand. “Pieces of paper mean nothing in our world. What matters is competence, trustworthiness, and the ability to keep your mouth shut. You’ve already demonstrated the first, Nicolo vouches for the second, and prison would have taught you the third.”
The possibility spreads through me like warmth. A purpose. A career. Something I could be good at, something that would make me useful rather than just another burden for Nicky to carry.
“I could train you properly,” Dr. Torrino continues. “Advanced first aid, minor surgery, pharmacology. Everything you’d need to handle the situations that arise in our line of work.”
I look at Nicky again, seeking... what? Permission? Approval? Some sign that this wouldn’t complicate our relationship or create problems I haven’t considered?
Nicky catches my look and rolls his eyes. “You don’t need my permission, dufus. This is your decision.”
The casual endearment, the easy affection in his voice, makes my chest tight with emotion. He’s right. I don’t need his permission. But knowing I have his support, knowing he wants me to have this opportunity, makes all the difference.
“I’d love that,” I tell Dr. Torrino, and the words feel like stepping into a future I’d never dared imagine. “When can I start?”
An hour later, we’re walking through the heart of London, and everything feels transformed. Not just by the conversation with Dr. Torrino, though that’scertainly part of it. The entire city seems to sparkle with possibility.
Christmas decorations are everywhere. Twinkling lights strung between lampposts, shop windows dressed in gold and red, the scent of mulled wine and roasted chestnuts drifting from the market stalls that have appeared on seemingly every corner. London is getting into full swing for the holidays, and the festive atmosphere is infectious.
“I can’t believe it,” I say for probably the tenth time since we left Dr. Torrino’s office. “An actual job. Something I could be good at.”
“You are good at it,” Nicky corrects, his hand warm in mine as we navigate through the crowds of Christmas shoppers. “He wouldn’t have offered if he didn’t think you had real potential.”
We pause at a Christmas market that’s sprung up in one of the small squares, the wooden stalls decorated with garlands and fairy lights, vendors calling out their wares in cheerful voices. The whole scene looks like something from a holiday film, picture-perfect and impossibly romantic.
“This time last year,” I say quietly, “I was in a prison cell wondering if I’d ever see proper Christmas lights again.”
Nicky’s hand tightens in mine.
“Now I’m here with you, looking at a future I actually want to be part of.” I turn to face him properly, taking in his face in the warm glow of the market lights. “I have you, I have a potential career, I have hope. It feels almost too good to be true.”
“It’s not too good,” he says firmly. “It’s what you deserve. What we both deserve.”
I don’t think I deserve it. I never will. But Nicky does, and that’s good enough for me.
A vendor calls out something about hot chocolate, and Nicky raises an eyebrow in question. I nod, and we make our way over to the stall, joining the queue of couples and families and friends all wrapped up in scarves and the general warmth of the season.
The hot chocolate is perfect. Rich and sweet with a hint of cinnamon, served in paper cups that warm our hands as we continue wandering through the market. Everything feels magical, the lights, the music, the laughter of children running between the stalls, the general sense of joy and anticipation that Christmas brings.
But none of it is as magical as the feeling of Nicky’s hand in mine.
“Thank you,” I say as we pause by a stall selling handmade ornaments.
“For what?” Nicky raises an eyebrow and then shakes his head. “You don’t have to thank me for anything.”
