CHAPTER FOUR
Lennon
The morning greets me with a symphony of raindrops tapping against my window in a soothing melody. One of the reasons I love San Francisco so much. Despite the comfort of this sound, my mind is restless, still consumed by thoughts and dreams of that man .
Okay, not any man. His name is Ruben Posada. Jennifer shared that information last night. He’s a lawyer from a fancy firm representing the investor who wants to buy the theater.
A sudden urge to know more about him overwhelms me, so I jump out of bed and grab my laptop, determined to uncover hidden secrets. Fingers tapping furiously on the keyboard, I search for any information on Ruben M. Posada, ESQ.
I’m spending an obscene amount of time scanning through articles, his alma mater webpage—he graduated Summa Cum Laude , impressive—and social media apps, searching for clues about his past and potential motives.
Minutes fly by in a blur as I delve deeper into the digital labyrinth, determined to unravel this mysterious man. Just when I start to feel frustrated with the results, a name catches my eye in an old news article about a scholarship, a name that I never would have imagined being linked to him.
My heart races as the puzzle pieces begin to fall into place. Suddenly, his actions and allegiance make sense in a twisted way. But understanding his motives does little to ease his threat to everything I hold dear.
? ? ?
The pediatric ICU is quiet as usual, just filled with the steady hum of monitors, the rhythmic beeping of heart monitors, and the occasional shuffle of footsteps. The air is thick with tension and worry as families anxiously wait for their loved ones to recover.
Among the sea of wires and machines lies Kelly Hart, her body still and fragile in the hospital bed. Her dark curls splay across the pillow like a halo, making her look even smaller amidst the medical equipment.
At her bedside sits her father, his once strong frame now slumped in a chair. He clutches a stuffed bear with one hand while the other rests on the metal rail of Kelly’s bed. His face is gaunt, stubble covers his jawline, and his eyes are shadowed from sleepless nights spent at his daughter’s side.
I enter the room quietly, my soft steps barely making a sound. “Mr. Hart?” I speak gently, but he startles as though I’ve pulled him out of a distant memory.
“Oh,” he mutters, straightening up in his chair. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.”
“No need to apologize,” I reassure him approaching to Kelly’s bedside. Glancing at her chart clipped to the foot of her bed, I ask, “How’s she doing?”
He lets out a shaky sigh, never taking his eyes off Kelly’s face. “She’s… the same. They said she hasn’t woken up yet, but her vitals are stable, right? That’s good, isn’t it?”
“It is,” I confirm, keeping my voice steady and calm. “Her body is taking a bit of time to heal.”
He nods, but I can feel the tension in his shoulders. “She loves movies, you know? Animated ones. Her favorite is Inside Out . She used to watch it every Saturday morning… before…” His voice cracks, and he looks away, fighting back tears.
Setting down the chart, I offer him a small smile. “ Inside Out is a good one. Bing Bong is my favorite character.”
A faint smile tugs at his lips. “Yeah, Kelly’s too. She always says he’s the best because he can make people laugh and cry at the same time. We used to watch it together every weekend. Sometimes twice.”
It’s stories like this that remind me why I do what I do - working every day to give kids like Kelly another chance.
“Sounds like Kelly knows how to pick the good ones,” I remark, leaning over to check her IV and adjust the flow. “Maybe soon she’ll be able to tell us all about her favorite parts again.”
His breath hitches and he rubs a hand over his face. “I hope so. God, I hope so.”
After warming the stethoscope inside my hands, I place it gently against Kelly’s chest, listening to the steady beat of her heart. This is good. “She’s a tough cookie,” I say quietly, more to myself than to her father. “Kids are resilient and have a way of surprising us.”
He watches as I finish my checks, his eyes glassy with emotion. “Do you really think she’ll get better?”
Meeting his gaze, I respond firmly, “I think she has a lot of people rooting for her. And sometimes, that’s all it takes to get through the toughest days.”
He nods, but the worry in his expression remains. Stepping back from Kelly’s bedside, I give her hand a light squeeze before turning to leave. “We’ll keep a close eye on her, Mr. Hart. Try to rest if you can. She needs you to stay strong for her.”
He murmurs a quiet thank you, but his focus has already returned to Kelly - his fingers brushing against the stuffed bear in his lap.
? ? ?
By the end of my shift, my scrubs are dirty and the emotional residue of my work clings to me like a thick blanket. Changing into my civilian clothes does little to alleviate the heaviness that weighs on me.
As I walk out of the hospital, the crisp evening air brushes against my skin, but it feels like I’m carrying all the sadness of the world on my shoulders. Kelly’s father’s voice echoes in my mind, a reminder of all the other parents I’ve seen over the years. The ones who sit in silent vigil by their child’s bedside, the ones who sob uncontrollably into their hands, and the ones who desperately try to bargain with any higher power for just one more day with their little loves.
I shake my head, trying to clear it. Dwelling on these thoughts won’t do any good. I’ve learned that the hard way. But no matter how many walls I build around my heart, this job always seems to break through and touch me in ways I never thought possible.
Instead of heading straight home like I planned, I find myself making my way to the old theater. The marquee lights are dim and the once-pristine facade is now peeling and cracked, but there’s still a sense of sanctuary within its walls.
Inside, Jennifer and Mike are sorting through a pile of flyers at the ticket counter. Jennifer waves excitedly when she sees me.
“There you are!” she calls out. “I was starting to think you’d abandoned us.”
I force a tired smile onto my face. “Not a chance. What’s on the agenda tonight?”
Jennifer hands me a stack of flyers. “I’m working on finalizing the seating arrangements for the premiere and Mike’s trying to figure out how to set up the audio system for the auction.”
I nod, sorting through flyers, double-checking the ticket sale numbers, and making notes about auction items provide a much-needed distraction.
But even as I try to concentrate on the task at hand, my mind keeps drifting back to Ruben.
He had come by earlier this week, his presence both unwelcome and strangely magnetic. The way he looked at me with that infuriating mix of irritation and intrigue sent an electric shock through me that I still can’t seem to shake off.
It doesn’t make sense. He’s the enemy, the man working for the people who want to tear down this theater that holds so many precious memories from my childhood.
And yet…
There’s something about him. Something in the way he carries himself with an air of confidence that borders on arrogance, but also a surprising vulnerability lurking beneath the surface. It confuses me, frustrates me, and if I’m being honest with myself, it intrigues me.
I hate that he’s taken up residence in my head.
“Lennon?” Jennifer’s voice snaps me back to reality.
I blink and refocus my attention on her. “Sorry, what was that?”
She gives me a knowing look. “I asked if you’re okay. You seem… distracted.”
“I’m fine,” I lie again, trying to force a smile. “Just a long day at work.”
She nods but I can tell she doesn’t quite believe me. I go to the back, where there is a space we use as our headquarters, set my computer and start with the possible vendor’s list. It’s time to make a few calls and see who’s ready to join the forces.
“Lennon!” After a while, Jennifer crosses the threshold. “I need your back-up. Tell Mike he’s wrong.”
Mike comes behind her, his brow furrowed. “Don’t listen to her. She thinks Casablanca is overrated.”
I pause, my fingers lingering over my laptop’s keyboard, giving Jennifer an exaggerated look of betrayal. “You’re kidding me, right? Tell me this is a bad joke.”
Jennifer rolls her eyes. “It’s fine. I mean, fine fine . It’s not the cinematic holy grail everyone makes it out to be.”
Mike clutches his chest like she’s just stabbed him. “Not the cinematic holy grail? Jennifer, that movie is iconic! It’s romance, sacrifice, and quotable lines all wrapped in one glorious black-and-white package.”
Jennifer smirks, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “Sorry, I just don’t buy into the whole ‘let’s watch two hours of unresolved sexual tension in a war-torn world’ thing.”
“Unresolved sexual tension is the whole point!” I chime in, looking for another phone number on Google. This taco truck would be the perfect addition to our catering options. “It’s the longing, the heartbreak. The ‘We’ll always have Paris.’ Come on, Jen, it’s a masterpiece.”
She waves a dismissive hand. “If I wanted longing and heartbreak, I’d just scroll through my ex’s Instagram feed.”
Mike groans, looking to me. “Lennon, help me out here. It’s not just about the romance—it’s more than that.” He leans in conspiratorially. “And honestly, who doesn’t want to be as cool as Rick Blaine?”
Ah, these two make me laugh all the time, the tension of the day easing slightly. “I mean, he does have that whole ‘world-weary but secretly noble’ thing going for him. But let’s be real, most of us are more Victor Laszlo than Rick.”
“Speak for yourself,” Mike retorts, puffing out his chest dramatically. “I’ve got Rick energy for days.”
Jennifer snorts. “More like Sam energy. You’d be the one stuck playing the piano while everyone else figures out their love lives.”
Mike gasps in mock offense, pointing an accusing finger at her. “How dare you. If anyone’s Sam here, it’s you. I mean, you did just say you hate romance.”
“I didn’t say I hate it,” Jennifer shoots back, her tone playful. “I said I don’t buy into Casablanca . Big difference.”
I shake my head, smiling as I grab a stack of flyers from the counter. “You two are impossible.”
Jennifer leans on the counter, her grin wicked. “Fine. What’s your favorite old movie, Lennon? And don’t say Casablanca . That’s a cop-out.”
I pause, considering. “Okay, fine. Roman Holiday . Audrey Hepburn on a scooter? Gregory Peck being charming as hell? Perfection.”
Mike groans. “Another heartbreaking ending? What is it with you and sad romance?”
“It’s not sad,” I argue, a laugh slipping out. “It’s bittersweet. There’s a difference.”
Jennifer winks at Mike. “You hear that? Bittersweet. Translation: Lennon likes crying in the dark.”
“Don’t we all?” I shoot back, my smile widening.
For a moment, the weight of my day feels lighter, their banter a much-needed escape. Whatever lingering thoughts are temporarily drowned out by the comforting absurdity of old movie debates and the warmth of shared laughter.
As the evening wears on, I find myself staying later than I intended. By the time I finally leave the theater, the streets are eerily quiet and a chill has settled in the air. Driving home, my hands are clenched tightly around the steering wheel as my thoughts continue to be consumed by Ruben Posada.
Why him? Why now?
I shake my head again, trying to push aside these thoughts. There are bigger things to worry about than one man who seems intent on destroying my memories. But as I lay in bed that night, his image still lingers in my mind like a stubborn puzzle I can’t seem to solve.