Chapter 26
Mia
The door to Cheryl's room makes that same soft whisper it always does when I push it open after my shift. The moment she sees me, her face brightens.
"Well, if it isn't my Birdie," she says, marking her place in a paperback with her thumb. "Come to check if I've expired yet?"
I laugh despite myself, setting my bag on the visitor's chair. "Just making sure you're not terrorizing the nursing staff before I head out to dinner. What are you reading?"
She holds up the book, a romance novel with two impossibly beautiful people locked in a passionate embrace on the cover. "Research," she says with a wink. "Keeping my mind sharp."
"Research, huh?" I move to the window, adjusting the blinds to let in more light.
"Don't knock it till you've tried it." She pats the edge of her bed, inviting me to sit. "These stories keep me company when certain doctors are too busy making eyes at each other to visit."
Heat rushes to my cheeks. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Of course not," she drawls, her knowing smile making the wrinkles around her eyes deepen. "And I didn't spend forty years teaching hormone-addled teenagers how to plié without learning to spot sexual tension from a mile away."
I perch on the edge of her bed, grateful for the distraction when she hands me the book. The spine is cracked in multiple places, the pages dog-eared and well-loved.
"Page ninety-four is particularly educational," she says with a mischievous glint. "Though I doubt Dr. Walker needs the instruction."
"Cheryl!" My voice comes out higher than intended, and she laughs, the sound dissolving into a brief coughing fit that makes my chest tighten. I reach for the water glass on her bedside table, holding it steady as she takes a small sip.
"Don't look so worried, Birdie," she says when she catches her breath. "I've had worse."
I set the glass down, noting how her hand trembles as she reaches for it again. Her latest labs showed liver function declining further. The bruises on her arms take longer to fade now. Each symptom another tick on a clock running down faster than I can reset it.
"How are you feeling today, really?" I ask.
"Like a dancer who stayed en pointe too long," she says, making a dismissive gesture with her frail hand. "Nothing worth mentioning."
"Cheryl—"
"No, no. I've had my fill of medical talk for today." She smooths the blanket over her legs with precise movements. "Tell me about your day instead. Did you make any progress with my case? Or were you too busy making progress with that delicious doctor of yours?"
I ignore the second question entirely. "I ran some new tests. I'm exploring a connection to a rare form of vasculitis that primarily affects the hepatic blood vessels."
"Mmm. Sounds riveting." She yawns dramatically. "And completely unrelated to what I asked."
Looking down, I fiddle with the edge of her blanket. "There's nothing to tell."
"The flush creeping up your neck suggests otherwise," she says, her voice softer now. "But I won't pry. Not much, anyway."
We sit in comfortable silence for a moment. Cheryl reaches for her book again, thumbing through the pages. "You know what I miss most? Teaching. Watching a student finally master a difficult step after weeks of struggle." Her eyes take on a faraway. "There's nothing quite like it."
Something shifts in my chest, a memory sliding into place: my dad sitting at our kitchen table, explaining for the tenth time how an engine timing belt worked while I struggled to understand. His patience never wavered. And the way his eyes lit up when I finally got it…
"My dad was like that," I say before I can stop myself. "He could teach anyone anything. Had the patience of a saint."
I can feel myself slipping backward in time, to sterile hospital rooms not unlike this one, to machines beeping in the same rhythm, to my dad's hand, once so strong, growing weaker in mine. To all the signs I missed because I was too busy with my own life.
"Birdie?" Cheryl's voice pulls me back. Her hand covers mine, paper-thin skin over prominent veins. "Where did you go just now?"
I blink rapidly, forcing a smile. "Nowhere important. Just thinking about a case."
But now that the seed is planted, the parallels are just too stark: my father's deteriorating condition, doctors waving away concerns, tests that came too late. And now Cheryl, slipping away despite our best efforts.
I look at her—really look at her—and make a silent, fierce promise. I will not fail her the way I failed my father. I will not let another person I care about slip away because I missed something, because I didn't fight hard enough. The vow burns through me, settling deep into my bones.
"I'm going to figure what’s happening to you," I promise. "Whatever it takes."
A smile touches her lips. "I know you will, Birdie." She squeezes my hand once more before releasing it. "Now, didn’t I hear you mention something about dinner?"
"My friend Laney's birthday dinner. I need to go home and change first."
"Well, then." She waves me away with regal authority. "Off you go. Can't keep your friend waiting."
Standing, I gather my bag but pause at the door. "I'll check on you first thing tomorrow."
"Bring me something scandalous to read," she calls after me as I slip out. "Preferably with pirates. Or vampires. Or vampire pirates."
I laugh, the sound echoing down the quiet hallway, but the vow I made sits heavy in my chest, a weight and a purpose all at once. I will solve Cheryl's case. I will not lose her too.
***
Pastis glows like a jewel box in the evening light, strings of fairy lights crisscrossing the patio where couples lean into each other over small tables.
Inside, the walls vibrate with local artwork—bold strokes of paint and color that somehow work with the mismatched vintage furniture.
Laney waves frantically from a corner table, her two messy buns bobbing with enthusiasm.
She's wearing a ridiculous "Birthday Queen" sash across her scrub top because of course she came straight from her shift, and of course she brought her own party accessories.
"There she is!" Laney shouts over the bistro buzz, drawing more attention than necessary. "The ghost of Sierra Mercy, back from the dead."
I slide into the chair across from her, dropping my purse on the floor. "Happy birthday, drama queen. Nice sash."
"Thank you." She adjusts it proudly. "I bedazzled it myself in the break room. The night nurses helped." Leaning forward, she narrows her eyes. "Now, where the hell have you been all weekend? I texted you like seventeen times."
"It wasn't seventeen," I counter, unfolding my napkin and spreading it across my lap with excessive precision. "More like seven. Maybe eight."
"Twelve, actually. I counted." She sips her drink—something pink with a paper umbrella—and points at me with her free hand. "Start talking, Phillips. I want details. Time stamps. Geographic coordinates."
A waiter materializes beside our table, saving me momentarily. I order a gin and tonic, heavy on the lime. Laney asks for another "pink thing with the umbrella" without bothering to learn its actual name.
"You're stalling," she says the second he walks away. "Spill it. You disappeared Friday night at Pulse, sent me one cryptic text Saturday morning, and went radio silent until this afternoon." She leans in closer, her voice dropping conspiratorially. "Was it Walker? Please tell me it was Walker."
Heat crawls up my neck faster than I can control it. I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. "What makes you think it was Sebastian?"
Her eyes widen in triumph. "Sebastian… Not Dr. Walker or The Human Iceberg or Satan in a lab coat." She claps her hands together. "Gah, it was him. You slept with him."
"Shh," I hiss, glancing around nervously. "Could you maybe announce it a little louder? I don't think they heard you in the kitchen."
My supposed friend looks utterly unrepentant. "Details. Now."
Thankfully, my drink arrives, and I immediately take a too-large gulp. "We didn't actually sleep together," I say, setting the glass down carefully. "Not technically."
Her eyebrows climb toward her hairline. "Define technically."
Images flash through my mind; Sebastian's hands on my skin, his mouth between my thighs, the way he looked up at me just before—
"Earth to Mia." Laney snaps her fingers in front of my face. "Your eyes just glazed over and you're blushing harder than that time you had to present the rectal prolapse case to the board."
I readjust my napkin, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles. "We spent the weekend together. It was... intense."
"Intense how? Like, emotionally intense? Physically intense? Both?" She leans so far forward I worry she might fall into my lap. "Did he give you multiple orgasms?"
"Are you kidding me?" I cover my face with my hands. "Can we please talk about literally anything else? Like your birthday? Which is why we're here?"
"My birthday happens every year. You finally getting horizontal with Walker is a once-in-a-lifetime cosmic event." She takes another sip of her drink. “Something is finally happening with you two then?”
Something is definitely happening, but for whatever reason I don’t want to talk about it. It’s not that I don’t trust my best friend—I trust her with my life—it’s just that everything is so new and I’m still figuring it all out.
I stare intently at my drink, watching condensation slide down the glass. "Can we please drop this?" I beg, tucking another strand of hair behind my ear even though it wasn't loose. "I'll tell you more later, I promise. Just not... here."
Laney studies me for a moment before her expression softens. "Hey, are you okay? Did he do something shitty? Because birthday or not, I will go over there and remove his testicles with a rusty spoon if he hurt you."
"No, nothing like that," I assure her quickly. "It's just... complicated."
"Because he's your boss."