Chapter 12
Regan
It’s my first Saturday morning sleeping in at Pulse Point.
I stretch under the warm blanket, blinking up at the ceiling while the sun cuts through the blinds.
My muscles ache from the week and from hunching over Harrison’s research until one in the morning, including an unpublished paper on patient-centered protocols that I found in his office.
The smell of coffee and bacon seeping under the door pulls me out of bed.
I shuffle into the bathroom, yawning as I splash cold water on my face, then change into a pair of relaxed-fit jeans and a soft sweater. With no plans for the day, I walk into the kitchen.
Dad’s already up. I find him setting a plate and a mug of coffee on the table like he’s done it a thousand mornings before.
“Morning,” I mumble, my throat scratchy with sleep as I brush past him.
He grunts something that could be a greeting or just a general acknowledgement of my existence and leaves me to the coffeepot.
I pour myself a cup, add a splash of creamer, and watch it swirl.
It reminds me of him. I push those thoughts away and focus on the food set out on the counter: eggs, bacon, and toast. I make myself a plate, the quiet clatter of utensils sounding loud in the still kitchen.
When I sit down, Dad’s already hunched over his coffee. I don’t bother making small talk. We haven’t exactly been on great terms lately. The last time we had a real conversation, he lectured me.
So when he speaks, I expect another one.
“I was wondering if you’d help me clear out the spare room,” he asks, not looking up from his mug. “Saw you changed the sheets in your room. Swapped out some paintings. Looks better.”
I freeze, my fork halfway to my mouth. Did he just compliment me?
“You want to redecorate one room or the whole house?” I ask slowly, checking his expression to see if he’s serious.
Still not meeting my gaze, he shrugs. “The whole house. It’s bland. Kind of boring in here.” He waves his hand. “Figured maybe it's time to make it feel like someone actually lives here.”
A chuckle escapes him… It’s soft, like it snuck out before he could stop it.
He clears his throat. “That’s what happens when all I do is work.”
I nod, chewing, still unable to believe this change in him.
This is a man who has barely spoken to me.
And when he has, it’s been cold and gruff.
Now he wants to redecorate with me? I feel a mix of hope and guilt.
Hopeful that it will help our strained relationship, and guilty because I’m leaving after my residency in a year, and I still haven’t told him.
But I’m hopeful it’s a positive thing. “Sure, I’ll help. I mean... this place could use it.”
We eat in a comfortable quiet for a while, forks scraping gently against plates.
Thinking about his openness to change the house, I wonder if that would include other things, like what about the lonely dinners, the empty bed, the years he’s spent angry that someone left him behind?
I shouldn’t ask, but if not now, when? I glance up and go for it.
“Have you ever thought about moving on?”
His brow furrows. “Moving on?”
“I mean… dating. Meeting someone new.”
His mouth tightens, the way it always does when he doesn’t like a subject. So naturally, I expect him to shut me down completely. I’m a little sorry for bringing it up, but then a little push might help. “Not really.”
“Not even a little?”
He stares into his coffee like it might save him. “A few women have asked me out,” he admits after a beat. “But I wasn’t interested.”
“Was that soon after Mom left? Or more recently?” I’m a little shocked by his confession, and then it shifts to pain. To hear women have asked him out and he turned them down.
“Doesn’t really matter. People go.”
“You know,” I say quietly. “Not everyone’s going to leave you.”
His eyes lift slowly to meet mine. “You’re leaving.”
The bacon turns to lead in my stomach.
“You know about the offer?” I whisper as I try to understand how he found out. How long he’s known and why he’s been sitting on this information without asking me. I only found out just before I arrived in Pulse Point.
He nods. “The New York Hospital director is a friend of mine, so he called me after he spoke to you and said they offered you a spot after your residency and that you accepted.”
A strange pressure builds in my chest. This was my dream. My goal. And he knew before I even had a chance to tell him myself. I wanted to find the right moment to bring it up. But there hasn’t been one.
“I didn’t think you’d…” I stop myself. “It’s a good offer.”
“You earned it.”
There’s something in his voice: a proudness that breaks me a little.
I blink fast to push back the sting behind my eyes. “Still. Maybe you could find something… someone who’ll stay in town. You deserve that.”
He exhales sharply. “Let’s not talk about that anymore.”
I offer a small but sincere smile, grateful he shared as much as he did. “Tell me more about this renovation. What’s the plan?”
He leans back, stretching his arms over the back of the chair. “Clear it out. Donate some stuff. New paint. Some prints. Blankets that don’t look like they came with the house in the eighties.”
I laugh. “Trying to make it look more inviting?”
He gives a half-smile. “Exactly.”
I push my plate aside, feeling strangely optimistic after the conversation we just had. “I don’t have to be at the King’s until later tonight. We’ve got time.”
“Should we head to the hardware store first?” I ask. “Get the paint and supplies before we start clearing things out?”
He nods, grabbing his keys. “Makes sense. That way, we can work straight through once we get back.”
We climb into his truck and head to Pulse Point Hardware.
The ride is quiet, but not in a bad way.
After a few rounds of bickering over swatches, we settle on White Dove, which is a soft warm white with a touch of beige, creating the cozy and inviting atmosphere he’s looking for.
Personality will come later, with prints and decor.
At a Pulse Boutique, the home decor store, we grab sheets, rugs, and artwork.
We head home with arms full of paint cans and brushes, the faint chemical scent clinging to my top. Back inside, we roll up our sleeves and tear into the spare room. Dust puffs up with every box we drag out. Old blankets. Board games with missing pieces.
Then I see it, wedged in the back of the closet like it didn’t want to be found. A cardboard box, soft at the edges. My breath catches. I know what this is before I even touch it. Dragging it out, I lift the lid.
Photos. Maybe hundreds of them.
Snapshots of us at Pulse Point. Another of us wearing ice cream mustaches at the beach. Dad steadying me on my very first bike. I was so small, so happy, and I miss that time with dad.
I pick up one in particular, pressing my thumb gently into the worn corner. “Oh my God… do you remember this day?” I ask. “Mom dragged you to that country festival in Heartwood. You bought me that ridiculous pink rhinestone cowboy hat.”
“Think I still have it. Top of the linen cupboard.”
I look at him as an ache settles in my chest, surprised he’s kept it, but also means that memory was also special to him.
My chest tugs tight at the memory as I smile down at the photo. “That day was so fun.”
It’s a good reminder that Dad wasn’t always angry. That we used to have a normal relationship once, and hopefully, this is the beginning of finding our way back to that.
“I might frame a few of these photos,” I say. “They deserve better than this box.”
He nods slowly. “Yeah. I think that’d be good.”
We go back in, disassemble the old bed, roll up the rug, strip the room bare. He pours paint into a tray. I dip the brush and cut in along the trim, while he rolls long, even strokes across the walls.
The hours fade as we paint together.
At lunchtime, I run to the sandwich bar while Dad cleans up the paint brushes and trays.
I come back with Italian B.M.T. wrapped subs in hand.
Dad’s now on the sofa, with photos on his lap, and some spilling over onto the cushion beside him.
He’s hunched forward, elbows on his knees, staring at a black-and-white picture.
Looking at him right now makes him seem unguarded, and I almost don’t want to interrupt.
I step around the coffee table and set the bag down. “Here you go.”
His mouth twitches, not quite a smile, but close. His eyes flick up, then back to the photo. I lean in to take a look. It’s an old family one at a Thanksgiving dinner. It makes me sad seeing us in a happier time.
“I think they’ll still live up to the hype,” I say, unwrapping mine. “These sandwiches were basically my childhood. You raised me on them, remember?”
He laughs. “You practically lived off these during high school.”
We eat in silence, mostly. No small talk, just the occasional comment about the photos or the room. Our chewing fills the space.
As the paint dries, we get started on cleaning up.
I tape up the donation box while Dad carries old furniture parts and junk into the truck and then into the thrift shop.
A woman behind the counter straightens when she sees us. She has long dark hair, with striking features that belong on TV, high cheekbones, and expressive dark eyes.
“Not sure if any of this is worth much, but—” I lift the box onto the counter with a huff.
She reaches in and pulls out something with dials and metal arms, some kitchen tool.
“Oh my God,” she gasps, holding it up like it’s rare. “I haven’t seen one of these in years.”
“I was thinking maybe I shouldn’t give that to you.” Dad chuckles behind me.
I glance sideways at him, one eyebrow raised. He’s messing with her. I can hear it in his tone; see it in the way he’s trying not to grin. Is this one of the women who asked him out? The one he said he wasn’t interested in? Because right now, he seems pretty interested.
She clutches the gadget to her chest. “This is mine now.”