Alaric
Four
Idon’t even need to check my phone when the first text buzzes through this morning. I already know it’s one of my sisters, probably the three I haven’t heard from.
Josie’s call last night to tell me Liz is here in Paradise knocked me off balance. Turns out what I saw at the market is exactly what my mind said it was.
Liz is the one who got away. I loved her. I wanted forever with her. But my family was coming apart at the seams, and my grandmother was in full crisis mode. I couldn’t hold anything together, least of all my own relationship.
And anyway, the Dempseys are always in crisis mode. No one wants that in their life if they can avoid it. I did Liz a favor, keeping her away from all this. Only now she’s here…
I pick up my phone, and sure enough, Addie, Sera, and Ginny are lined up like a firing squad.
Addie: Don’t be an idiot. She’s here. Be nice.
Sera: It wouldn’t kill you to show her around. She doesn’t know anyone but Trinity.
Ginny: If you don’t, I will. And you know how much I love stirring up hospital gossip.
I toss my phone onto the kitchen counter and lean against the sink, watching snowmelt trace thin rivers down the window.
They’re all thrilled that Liz Ward—the Liz Ward—is back in my life.
She’s moved to Paradise and is working at the hospital, the same one I walk into every morning pretending to have my life together.
The Dempsey women seem to think this is some kind of second-chance miracle.
They don’t remember the details—the way I left, the things I didn’t say.
My life was falling apart even back then, and dragging Liz into it would’ve been cruel.
Now, four years later, they want me to pick up where I left off, as if love is a song you can just unpause.
The kettle clicks off, and I pour hot water over an English breakfast tea bag. The scent tugs at an old memory—Liz sitting cross-legged on the counter of her Vancouver apartment, teasing me for buying “grown-up tea.”
I stir the mug and tell myself to focus on the day ahead. But every thought finds its way back to Liz and our time together.
By the time I hit the road, the caffeine’s barely kicked in, and my tea’s already gone cold. I crank the car heater higher and try to focus on the snow-lined highway curling along the lake, on anything that isn’t her.
Halfway into town, the car speakers light up with a call from my grandmother. Of course. “Good morning, Evie,” I say, though I know better than to think this will be a good-morning kind of conversation.
“Don’t you morning me,” she fires back. “I heard your ex is working at the hospital.”
I sigh. “News travels fast.”
“News like this always does. I warned you about women tied to the Paradise family. Trinity Paradise is her best friend, isn’t she?”
“She was when we were dating.”
“Then she’s trouble,” she says simply. “And you’ve got enough of that to last you a lifetime.”
I almost laugh. “You don’t even know her.”
“I met her, and I know you,” she says. “And I know how evil that family is. They brought her here to spy on us for them. Stay away from her. You hear me?”
This is why I can’t be with Liz. Nothing has changed.
By the time I’d finished my practicum in Vancouver, the Dempsey name was hanging by a thread. We look put together, but underneath we’re carrying generations of resentment and attempts at control. Silence feels safer than honesty, and even our desire to protect each other usually backfires.
Not drawing Liz into this was my choice.
She had her life in Vancouver—friends, a close family, stability.
I told myself I was sparing her when I ended things.
Yet even now, the memory of her eyes—quiet, steady, breaking without a sound—makes my stomach knot.
I couldn’t face that kind of honesty then. Maybe I still can’t.
“I’m not planning anything,” I say.
“You’d better not,” Evie warns. “You’ve got too much to lose.”
“I understand,” I murmur, though we both know she means the family’s reputation more than my heart.
Breathe in. Count to four. Breathe out. Count to four.
“Good.” She pauses. “Keep your head on straight, Alaric.”
The line clicks dead, but her warning lingers, and I feel that familiar squeeze of duty in my gut.
It’s not her words that stick. It’s her tone, the same one she used on my father right before he cracked.
Maybe that’s the problem with being a Dempsey.
We mistake control for safety until it smothers everything else.
I get myself to work and start the day, but by midmorning, I’m already behind schedule. My inbox is a nightmare, and the one thing I’d been counting on—a quiet hour between appointments—has been hijacked by a calendar invite.
Hospital Compliance Meeting at three in the Administrative Conference Room.
Of course, that’s where it is. The admin floor is where I hide when I need to breathe. But not today.
I hover over Decline, sigh, and hit Accept. Responsibility wins again.
My next patient, Shelly Martin, is already waiting. Mid-forties, overworked, invisible in her own home. We’ve been working on communication, getting her to use I statements instead of keeping everything bottled inside.
When I walk into the treatment room, she’s sitting on the edge of the couch, shoulders tight. “Sorry I’m late,” she says. “Traffic was bad.”
“You’re fine,” I tell her, sitting down in my chair across from her. “How’s your week been?”
“I tried what you said. Told my husband I feel ignored when he spends all evening on his phone.”
“How’d he take it?”
“He said I’m too sensitive,” she mutters, twisting her hands. “Then I felt guilty for saying anything.”
I nod. “You don’t need to feel guilty for wanting to be seen, Shelly.”
Her eyes flick up, searching mine. “You look like someone who hasn’t been seen either.”
That catches me off guard. I almost laugh. “Rough night, that’s all.”
“Well,” she says softly, “maybe try your own advice.”
That earns her a smile. “Touché.”
We talk for a while longer, and when we finish her session, she leaves looking lighter.
I jot a note in her chart, though my pen drags across the page.
My brain’s miles away, caught between dread and curiosity about that meeting invitation I wish I hadn’t accepted.
Something in my gut tells me Liz Ward will be there, and I am absolutely not ready for that.
The afternoon slides by in a blur of charts and consultations until I look up and realize my appointment has run long and I’m now ten minutes late. Fantastic. I shove papers into a folder, grab my jacket, and jog down the hall, muttering apologies to passing nurses.
By the time I reach the admin wing, the corridor is quiet, the meeting already underway.
The glass door to the conference room stands open, and I catch a glimpse of her before she notices me.
Liz is at the head of the table, hair swept back, posture straight, tablet in hand. Calm. Controlled. Everything I’m not.
I freeze for a heartbeat before my mouth catches up to my brain. “You’re the new assistant director?”
She glances up and recognition flashes, but her expression smooths before I can read it. “You’re the noncompliant psychologist.”
The words crackle like a spark between us.
I clear my throat. “Guess that memo forgot to mention I’m also punctual?”
One brow lifts. “And defensive. Not a good start.”
She’s still Liz. Still impossible.
I take the empty chair across from her, willing my pulse to settle. I didn’t realize this meeting was just me. “When did you move into compliance? What happened to physiotherapy?”
“I moved into hospital administration several years ago.” Her tone is clipped. “My team handles continuing-education credits, certifications, and licensing renewals. Including yours.”
She pushes a piece of paper across the table. “You’re missing nineteen hours of compliance.”
“Wait.” I look down at the paper. “That includes three for this year. I’ll be compliant with sixteen hours.”
She shakes her head. “You’re already out of compliance, so they’ve tacked on the three that should be done by now. You need them completed by the end of next month.”
I stare at the sheet. She’s all business, but I know that tone, a thin edge of frustration hiding under professionalism.
“We don’t have enough psychologists here in Black Bear Valley,” she continues. “If patients don’t get their mental-health needs met, we’re in trouble.”
“I couldn’t agree more. I’ll work with HR on recruiting.”
Her gaze flicks up, cool and unwavering. “We’ll be in a bigger hole if you stay noncompliant. Are you aware that any session you bill right now could be rejected by BC Health? And your malpractice insurance won’t cover you if there’s an issue?”
I hang my head. I’ve been ignoring notices from the insurance company too. “Okay. I’ll do some research and find somewhere to get my credits.”
She slides a small stack of papers across the table. “Already done. You’re going to Kauai for six days to earn twenty CME hours. I convinced accounting to merge last year’s and this year’s CME allowances to cover it. You just need to book your flight.”
For a moment, I can only blink at her. “You—what?”
She finally meets my eyes, the faintest glint of challenge there. “You’re welcome.”
A reluctant laugh escapes me. “I don’t know how I’m going to fit in a week off, but…maybe a break’s what I need.”
“Maybe it is,” she says, collecting her folder.
“Thank you,” I manage.
She stands to leave, but I stay seated, watching her gather her papers, the pen sliding behind her ear like she used to do when she was studying late.
My chest tightens. “Liz…” I say before I can stop myself.
She pauses but doesn’t turn back. “Dr. Dempsey.”
“Can we talk?”
“About your CMEs?”
“No.” I stand. “About before.”
Now, she turns, slow and measured. “Before what?”
“You know what,” I say quietly. “Back in Vancouver.”
A breath leaves her like a laugh. “You mean when we talked about getting married, and then you showed up at my apartment and broke it off as you were driving out of town?”
“That’s not—” I start, then stop. “Okay, it is. But it wasn’t because of you.”
She folds her arms. “That’s the classic line, but I already knew that.”
“I mean it. Things were falling apart. I’d gone to Vancouver because I was running away from my family, but realized I needed to come back. I couldn’t drag someone into that.”
“I wasn’t just someone.”
“I know.” The words scrape my throat. “That’s why I couldn’t ask you to come with me. You had a life there. I wasn’t going to ruin it because mine was burning down.”
Her eyes soften for half a second before she straightens again, the professional mask sliding back into place. “You don’t get to decide what I can handle,” she says quietly. “You just left.”
She’s right. And I’ve known it every day since.
“I wanted to call,” I admit. “Every day for months. But I knew if I did, I wouldn’t be able to hang up.”
Her gaze flicks to the folder on the table, then back to me. “Well, now you don’t have to. We work in the same building. Congratulations.”
She turns, heels clicking across the floor. I should let her go, let professionalism win, but the apology forces its way out anyway. “Liz, for what it’s worth,” I say softly, “I’m sorry.”
Her voice is low, almost gentle. “Apologies are easy, Alaric. Change is harder.”
The door closes behind her, and the silence that follows feels like the punishment I’ve earned. I sink back into the chair and press my palms over my face. I’ve spent four years telling myself I did the right thing, and one meeting with her blows it all apart.
Someone laughs down the hall, a cart rattles over the linoleum, and life goes on as if my world didn’t just tilt off its axis. Maybe Evie was right. Maybe I should’ve kept my head straighter. My heart’s a lousy listener, and it just remembered exactly what it lost, and what it still wants back.