Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
VIC
It’s been years since I last saw Dani, and yet even at thirty, not a single day passes without her ghost of a memory lingering in the recesses of my mind.
I left her there, standing in the street, as I drove away.
Both of us were eighteen, with hearts and dreams too big, and an all-consuming love.
Time and distance have done nothing to subdue it, and the ache only sharpens with each passing year.
On the rare reprieve from the relentless life of a surgeon, I retreat to my favorite corner table at Café Nero, a steaming cortado warming my hands as I attempt to read the pages of my newest thriller.
Her absence has never truly left me, it follows me even in quiet moments such as this, seeping into every corner I try to hide in.
I tell myself I come here for the quiet, for the illusion of normalcy.
Truthfully, it’s in these moments that I feel at peace because they are the only times I can convince myself that I’ve let her go.
Well, almost, until that peace shatters the moment Bethany walks in and spots me. Her face lights up as she rushes over. “What the fuck did I do in this life to deserve this?” I mutter under my breath, keeping my expression perfectly blank.
“Dr. Flores! I didn’t expect to see you here.
” Her voice carries that syrupy forced-happiness, grating on my nerves like nails on a chalkboard, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
I stare at her in disbelief because the woman has been circling me like a vulture for about a year now.
Or maybe that’s when I first started noticing her little games.
I’m about to tell her I was just leaving when she rushes off to snatch up her to-go order from the row at the counter.
Perfect. My chance to slip out before she corners me again.
Unfortunately, luck isn’t on my side today. “Dr. Flores, wait!” She shuffles along in those ridiculous heeled boots, her scarf trailing behind her as she scrambles to catch up to me, heading for the door.
“Bethany, good to see you.” I greet, because I’m a respectable person.
Or at least that’s what I tell myself. Anyone who says that is probably far from it.
But hey, her problem, not mine. “Sorry, I was just leaving.” Not that I’m actually sorry.
I tuck my book under my arm, sparing her a flat-out rejection.
But she doesn’t quit. Of course not. Instead, she quickens her pace.
The blast of cold air hits us as we walk outside, contrasting sharply with the café’s comfortable heat.
Coffee clutched firmly in hand, I lift the collar of my dark grey field jacket, the chill biting at my neck.
I frown, cursing the thoughtless mistake of leaving my scarf at home.
Fall is fast approaching, and the cool, crisp air is a welcome reprieve from the city’s relentless humidity in summertime. It’s finally sweater weather. I pick up my pace, and she tries to keep up, but I’m not about to be late for my lunch obligation.
“Where are you going? Mind if I join you?” I stop mid-stride and turn to look at her.
She halts, too, wobbling as her heel nearly catches on a crack in the sidewalk, but I don’t lift a finger to help.
If she’s going to insist on wearing those ridiculous boots, the least she could do is master the art of walking in them.
She steadies herself, flashing me a triumphant smile, like she just won the lottery, but the joke’s on her.
“Actually, that would be wonderful,” I say, slowing my pace for her to keep up. She looks surprised, but quickly masks it.
“Where are we going?” she asks curiously.
I glance at her, eyes narrowing. “It’s a surprise,” I say, a smirk tugging at my lips. “Wouldn’t want to ruin the fun.”
Bethany fucking claps. “Oh, how exciting,” she gushes animatedly with fake enthusiasm.
I arch an eyebrow and give her my best, Seriously?
Look, but it doesn’t faze her in the slightest. This woman is beyond annoying, but soon enough, I’m about to discover her true character. Perhaps I‘ve judged her too harshly.
“Are you going to the gala?” she asks suddenly, the abrupt topic shift so startling that I can’t help but chuckle at her persistence.
I nod once. “Of course,” I reply. Bethany leans in closer, brushing her arm against mine as if by accident, and her overpowering perfume nearly makes me gag.
“It is for a great cause,” I continue, side-stepping to reclaim some space, “helping parents of children needing treatment at the hospital stay on campus for a reduced fee, and making it easier for them to be near their loved ones.”
Her manicured hand flies to her chest. “Isn’t it wonderful?” she coos, but the sincerity is about as genuine as her knock-off Louboutins.
“Not much farther.” I throw her a bone, noticing her wince in those four-inch stiletto boots, as we trek down Boylston Street in downtown Boston.
We turn the corner and stop in front of the Catholic charity house where I volunteer.
I take the steps two at a time and pull the heavy door open, holding it wide for Bethany to go in first. Only, she isn’t there.
I turn slowly, exaggerating the movement, pretending to search the landing like she’s vanished into thin air.
Until I spot her clicking heels retreating down the first step.
I let the door close behind me and approach her, already knowing I had judged her correctly from the start.
“Are you not coming in?” I ask, putting on the most sincere face I can muster. She looks around, avoiding my eyes.
“Isn’t that a soup kitchen?” she asks, and I can’t help but wonder how she ever became a nurse.
“That is correct,” I say, watching her, waiting for her just to admit it. But I’m not about to make it easy on her. She ruined my last few minutes of peace, and I could have spent them finishing that chapter.
She looks down at her outfit. “I’m not really dressed to hand out food,” she replies, and I can tell it’s the best excuse she could come up with. Honestly, it’s almost shocking.
“I didn’t realize serving people who don’t have access to warm meals requires a certain attire,” I deadpan, more than a little pissed at her lack of empathy. In short, Bethany sucks as a human. She starts to back away, and I can’t help the curl of my lip, almost a sneer.
“I just remembered I have to meet my sister to help with her wedding plans.” She nearly misses the last step, and I briefly consider whether it’s terrible to hope she face-plants on the granite. Well, that would make me late, so I’d settle for her just leaving.
“Right,” I say, expression perfectly unimpressed. “Well, see you never, Bethany,” I add dryly, swinging the door open with a flourish, stepping inside, and finally ridding myself of that drab gold digger.
My sneakers squeak against the clean floors as I walk toward the kitchen, where food service is scheduled to begin from eleven-thirty to one p.m. I usually arrive an hour early to help prepare everything.
I spot Arthur at the hospitality desk, and he waves me over.
I grab my volunteer pass, the lanyard proudly displaying the word volunteer in yellow letters, and sling it around my neck.
“How’s life at the hospital, man?” he asks, smiling widely, showing off his gapped teeth.
It’s endearing to him, and I can’t help wondering if orthodontia would take away some of that charm.
He always jokes that he can fit a buck-fifty in there, though I hope he hasn’t actually tried. I shudder at the thought.
“Never-ending,” I say, and that seems to please him. His mom was an operating room nurse, and from her stories and firsthand experience, he knows how grueling the workload can be. With a wave of my badge, I walk to the kitchen ready to help in any way I can.
“There you are, love,” Betsy calls, waving me over.
“Can you be a dear and load the trays with the canned veggies, please?” I nod, offering her a quick smile, and get to work, opening cans and arranging the vegetables in the warming trays.
Soon, the metal serving trays steam, and I’ve loaded all the utensils into bins, along with napkins.
Taking my place in line, I prepare to help as the first guests arrive.
Many are familiar faces, but a woman and her daughter, about five people down in line, catch my attention. They’re new here.
As they draw closer, I notice the woman has a black eye.
It’s healing now, but it’s still ringed with streaks of yellow, green, and purple.
I force myself not to stare, but it’s hard to look away.
The little girl beside her clutches a worn rabbit, its big, floppy ears matted from too much love.
Her wide eyes sweep over the trays of food with such wonder that it makes my jaw ache from clenching.
She looks at it like a child who hasn’t had steady access to food in a long while.
“What do you like to eat?” I ask her, forcing my voice to remain calm while anger claws at my insides, urging me to punish whoever let it get this far because they deserve far worse than hunger.
Her eyes widen in surprise. “I can have whatever I want?” she whispers in disbelief, and my heart aches a little at her question.
“Of course,” I assure her softly, but before I can say more, her mom steps in.
“Rose Daniella, just get a couple of things that you know you’ll eat. We don’t want to waste any food.” I freeze with my serving spoon suspended mid-air. She looks up at me and points eagerly to a dish of pasta.
“I’ll take that one!” Her little hand extends toward it, and that’s when I see it—a bruise.
The handprint is an angry purple and wraps around her entire wrist. I fight the surge of anger rising inside me.
I grip the spooner tighter, fighting to smother it down, to keep my face composed while every instinct screams out to find the bastard responsible.
She looks at me with those kind, trusting eyes that have probably seen more than her fair share of injustice.
Instead, I keep my voice calm for her. “Dani, do you want something else with your pasta? We’ve got meatballs and some sauce, too,” I offer as an afterthought.
She nods quickly, her little eyes wide, watching intently as I place a generous scoop onto her plate.
She takes the tray, confused by my nickname for her, but I can’t help it.
It’s too close to home. “Thank you, sir,” she offers politely, and her mom gives me a small, timid smile before they leave and settle at a tiny table in the corner.
I watch them as Dani—I mean, Rose—holds onto her bunny tightly as she eats her spaghetti, sauce smeared across her face.
But for now, at least she’s fed and smiling.
When the line dwindles and the cleanup is done, I step back out into the city streets.
The air is cool and brisk against my heated skin.
It isn’t much—just a few meals served and some donated hours of my time—but I feel good about having spent my afternoon doing something that makes a difference in someone else’s life.
Still, as I walk home, I can’t shake the feeling that Dani lingers at my side.
Sometimes, I can swear I feel her, though I know that’s impossible.
I’ll just have to settle for the ghost of her.