Chapter 15 Withdrawal
Withdrawal
PRESTON
Thursday (Three Days Post-Breakup)
The view from the top of the world is spectacular. It is also incredibly boring.
I am sitting in a temporary office on the 40th floor of the York Foundation building. The carpet is plush enough to lose a small dog in. The desk is made of glass and pretension. The air conditioning is set to a crisp, unfeeling sixty-eight degrees.
I am wearing a charcoal three-piece suit. My hair is perfect. My tie is a Windsor knot that I tied myself, without trembling.
I look like a success story. I feel like an autopsy.
“Preston,” Alistair’s voice booms from the doorway. “We need to review the quarterly projections for the endowment. I’m thinking of shifting assets from tech into… what are those things? Legumes?”
“Futures, Father,” I say, not looking up from the spreadsheet I am pretending to read. “Soybean futures.”
“Right. Beans. Very salt-of-the-earth. I like it.” Alistair strolls in, looking delighted.
He is wearing the smile of a man who just won a very long, very expensive bet.
“You know, Vane called me yesterday. He’s furious about the stock drop.
He threatened to sue, and I told him to call the Pope. God, it feels good to win.”
He claps a hand on my shoulder.
“And to have you here? Finally taking an interest? It’s the icing on the cake, son. Max is thrilled. He says the transition paperwork is impeccable.”
“I’m good at paperwork,” I say. My voice sounds hollow.
“You’re good at everything,” Alistair corrects. “Now, lunch? I heard a rumor that the club has flown in truffles from Italy. We should go intimidate a waiter.”
“I’m not hungry,” I say.
Alistair pauses. He looks at me. For a second, the bluster fades, replaced by a flicker of genuine paternal concern.
“Preston,” he says. “You’ve barely touched your scotch. And you’re reading a spreadsheet about… copier toner?”
I look down. I have indeed been staring at the toner budget for forty-five minutes.
“It’s important to manage overhead,” I lie.
Alistair sighs. He pats my shoulder again.
“It’s just adjustment, my boy. You’ve been down in the trenches. It takes time to get used to the castle again. You’ll be fine. By Friday’s vote, you’ll forget you ever owned a pair of scrubs.”
He leaves.
I sit alone in the silence.
I open my desk drawer. Inside, tucked behind a box of Montblanc pens, is a plastic name badge.
Dr. P. York. Intern.
I run my thumb over the letters.
I haven't been back to the apartment in Queens. I haven't used the espresso machine. I haven't slept more than two hours a night.
I told myself I was doing this for dignity. I told myself I was proving I wasn't a tourist.
But sitting here, surrounded by glass and silence, I realize the truth.
A tourist visits a place and leaves when it gets uncomfortable. I lived there. I loved there.
And I didn't leave because it was hard. I left because he told me to go.
LUKE
The Emergency Room is a machine. It runs on blood, adrenaline, and caffeine. It doesn't care if you’re happy. It doesn't care if your heart is currently sitting in your chest like a lead weight.
“Dr. Silva,” an intern—Jenkins—stammers. “Bed 6. The patient is… he’s asking for Dr. York.”
I freeze. I am stitching a laceration on a construction worker’s arm. My hand doesn't shake, because I am a professional, but my jaw tightens until my teeth ache.
“Dr. York is no longer with the program,” I say. My voice is flat. “Tell the patient he can see Dr. Mills.”
“He… he says Dr. Mills doesn't know the ‘protocol’ for his anxiety,” Jenkins whispers. “He says Dr. York promised to bring him a fidget spinner.”
“We are a hospital, Jenkins,” I snap. “Not a toy store. Give the patient 2 milligrams of Lorazepam and get back to work.”
Jenkins flinches. “Yes, Doctor.”
He scampers away.
I finish the stitch. I tie the knot. I strip off my gloves and toss them into the bin with more force than necessary.
The ER is grey. It used to be chaotic and colourful. Now, it’s just… work.
I walk to the nurses' station to chart.
Mama Ortiz is there. She is the charge nurse today. She is formidable in her floral scrubs. She is currently staring at me over her reading glasses.
“You look like hell, mijo,” she says.
“I’m fine, Ma. Just tired.”
“You are not tired,” she corrects. “You are mean. You made Jenkins cry in the supply closet. Again.”
“Jenkins needs to toughen up.”
“Jenkins is a baby,” Mama says. “He needs guidance. He needs the other one. The shiny one.”
I stiffen. “Preston quit, Ma. He took a Board seat. He’s gone back to the penthouse.”
Mama Ortiz hums. It is a skeptical sound.
“He quit? Or did you push him?”
“I didn't push him! I told him the truth. I told him he was a tourist.”
Mama Ortiz slams a chart down on the desk. The entire station jumps.
“You are an idiot, Lucas,” she says.
“Ma!”
“Don't ‘Ma’ me. I watched that boy follow you around like a puppy for months. I watched him clean vomit off a drunk teenager in a three-piece suit. I watched him stand up to that bruja mother of his to defend you.”
She points a finger at my chest.
“Tourists take photos, Lucas. That boy took shifts. He took the night shift because he knew you hated being alone at 3:00 AM.”
I stare at her.
He took the night shift because he knew you hated being alone.
I think about the pizza place. I think about the way he looked at me in the hallway, holding that damn folder like a shield.
I showed my father I have grit. Why should I keep suffering just to prove something I’ve already won?
I thought he was bragging. But now, hearing Mama… maybe he wasn't bragging. Maybe he was asking me to tell him he didn't have to suffer to be worthy.
“He left, Ma,” I whisper. “He walked away.”
“Because you didn't give him a reason to stay,” she says softly. “Fix it. Before he turns into his father. Or worse… before you turn into yours.”
PRESTON
The day of the vote.
I am standing in the Penthouse, adjusting my cufflinks. They are gold. They are heavy.
My phone buzzes on the dresser.
Incoming Call: Jax O’Connell
I stare at it. I haven't spoken to Jax since the Gala. I let it go to voicemail.
It buzzes again.
Incoming Call: Jax O’Connell
And again.
I sigh. I pick it up.
“I’m not coming back to the program, Jax,” I say, answering. “Save the speech. I’m putting on my suit right now. I have a Board meeting in an hour.”
“Open the door, Preston,” Jax says.
“What?”
“I’m outside. Open the damn door before I pick the lock. You know I can do it.”
I hang up. I walk to the front door of the Penthouse. I open it.
Jax is standing there. He isn't wearing scrubs. He’s wearing his leather jacket and jeans. He looks furious.
He pushes past me into the foyer.
“Nice place,” he says, looking around at the marble and the art. “Very mausoleum-chic. Fits the mood.”
“What do you want, Jax?”
Jax turns on me. “I want to know why St. Jude's Medical Centre's most promising intern is currently playing dress-up instead of prepping for rounds.”
“I’m not your intern,” I say coldly. “I resigned. Max accepted it.”
“Max accepted it because he thinks you’re doing it for him,” Jax snaps. “Max thinks you’re taking the seat to save the family name. But you and I know the truth.”
He steps closer.
“I heard what happened in the hallway. Luke told me.”
“Luke called me a tourist,” I say, the bitterness rising in my throat. “He said I was just slumming it. So I decided to stop slumming.”
“Luke is scared,” Jax says. “He’s scared because for the first time in his life, he found someone who didn't need him for survival, but just wanted him. And that terrified him. So he pushed you away.”
Jax pokes me in the chest. Hard.
“But you let him. That’s the part that pisses me off, York. You let him push you. You took the first exit ramp because it was easier than fighting for your spot.”
“I am good at this!” I yell, gesturing at the suit. “I am good at the Board! I destroyed Vane! I can help the hospital from up there!”
“Sure,” Jax says. “You can write cheques. You can sign papers. You can be Alistair 2.0.”
He pauses. He looks at me with that terrifying, X-ray vision he uses on trauma patients.
“But tell me, Preston. When you talked that kid off the ledge during the hurricane? When you diagnosed that rash nobody else could figure out because you noticed the knock-off bag? When you manipulated that CEO into saving his own life?”
Jax steps closer, his voice dropping to a rough whisper.
“Did you feel like a tourist then? Or did you feel like you were the only person in the room who could fix it?”
I close my eyes. I can remember the way Elias looked at me when I told him the walls would hold. I can remember the rush of adrenaline when Hymn signed the papers. I didn't feel like the Spare. I didn't feel like a chequebook.
“I felt useful,” I whisper.
“You felt essential,” Jax corrects. “That wasn't the money talking, Preston. That was you. Your brain. Your talent. You connect with people in a way Max never could. You fix the things the rest of us can’t even see.”
He checks his watch.
“Don't throw that away because Luke had a panic attack and Alistair offered you a shiny chair. The hospital doesn't need another Board Member. We have plenty of suits. We need you.”
“The vote is at 10:00 AM,” I say, my voice shaking.
“That gives you forty minutes,” Jax says. “To decide who you are. Are you the Spare? Or are you the Doctor?”
He walks to the door. He opens it.
“Oh, and Preston?”
“Yeah?”
“If you take that seat, don't ever visit the ER again. I don't allow tourists in my trauma bay.”
He slams the door.
I stand there in the silence.
The clock on the mantel ticks. Tick. Tick. Tick.
It is 9:25 AM.
I look at my reflection in the mirror. The suit is perfect. The hair is perfect.
I look like a York.
But I feel like a fraud.
I grab my keys. I grab the cream-coloured folder.
I head for the elevator.
It’s time to go to work.