Chapter 10 Liz
Ten
Liz
The office has quieted, but as has become my habit, I’m still here.
It’s a Friday night, and I’ve worked here for over a month.
The rhythm is familiar now, so I’m not staying because I’m worried about getting up to speed.
I’ve just found I like doing it. It’s after five, and the building has emptied.
Perfect. No interruptions. Just the sound of paper sliding into neat piles and the soft tap of my pen against the desk.
Four folders wait in front of me—manila for my travel information, blue for the sessions I’ll attend, green for open projects in case someone calls, and red for tracking CME compliance. I pause and then flip each one closed. Everything is aligned. Everything controlled.
I double-check the last flight confirmation before shutting down my laptop. My six-a.m. flight to Vancouver is booked, the connection to Kauai confirmed, and my seat assigned—window because aisle seats feel too exposed.
It’s been three weeks since I ran into Alaric at Dot’s Diner. Since then we’ve only exchanged short, polite emails about hospital business. “Approved.” “Noted.” “Attached for review.” Nothing more. Safe. Professional.
The word professional has become my armor, and I wear it at all times.
My phone buzzes against the desk.
Trinity: Are we still on for dinner tonight? Don’t bail.
I lean back in my chair. I’d completely forgotten we made plans.
Me: I can’t. I haven’t even started to pack. The flight leaves at six am. Rain check?
Trinity: I’ll bring Paradise Grill to you. You can pack while we eat.
I debate that for a moment. My shoulders ache from the day, and my head’s full of last-minute details. A night to myself would be nice, but relaxing feels elusive when I’m not prepared.
Me: You’re impossible.
Trinity: And you’re boring. See you in an hour.
A smile tugs at my mouth. Trinity never takes no for an answer.
I glance around the office one last time, making sure everything’s in order. Papers stacked, pens capped, floor spotless. I shut off the light and tell myself the same thing I always do before I leave. I’m fine. Everything’s fine. The echo that follows me down the hallway doesn’t sound convinced.
Hudson’s office door is half open, light shooting into the quiet corridor. He’s still at his desk, sleeves rolled, glasses low on his nose as he studies a spreadsheet. I knock lightly before leaning against the doorframe.
“Still here,” he says without looking up. “You’re as bad as I am.”
“I just finished. Thought I’d wish you luck with the board meeting next week.”
He glances up and smiles. “Thanks. I’ll need it.”
“You’ll be great,” I say. “If it helps, I’m bringing you back chocolate-covered macadamia nuts. They’re supposed to bring good luck.”
“That’s a new one,” he says, laughing. “I’ll take whatever luck I can get.”
I wave and head down the hall. Misty is at the copier, a stack of papers in her arms. The air between us always feels slightly charged, like static that won’t dissipate no matter how many times I try to ground it.
“I’m heading out,” I tell her. “If you think of anything you need for the board meeting, email me tonight. I’ll check before I go in the morning.”
She nods without meeting my eyes. “Everything’s covered.”
“Okay. I’ll bring you something from Hawaii,” I say, too brightly. “Chocolate-covered macadamia nuts sound good?”
Her smile is polite but thin. “Sure. Thanks.”
The conversation stalls. I wait a beat before giving up. “All right, then. See you in a week.”
“Safe travels.”
Her voice is even, but I can’t shake the sense that I’ve done something wrong.
The elevator drops, and my ears pop. The car smells faintly of lemon cleaner. In the mirrored doors, I look composed. But that’s not how I feel.
I tell myself not everyone has to like me, that it doesn’t matter as long as the work gets done. I pretend that helps. It doesn’t. The doors slide open in the empty lobby, and I step out, adjusting the strap of my bag. I close up my coat and pull on my gloves, ready for the walk home.
Trinity’s car is already in the driveway when I arrive.
The porch light glows against the fading sky, and through the kitchen window, I can see her moving around like she owns the place, setting out plates on the counter.
I breathe deep as I open the door—roasted chicken, honey-glazed salmon, warm bread. Comfort in edible form.
“You’re ridiculous,” I say, kicking off my heels. “You realize I was going to have cereal for dinner, right?”
“That’s exactly why I’m here,” she says, unpacking a paper bag. “I told Greyson you were trying to cancel on me, and he said to bring reinforcements.”
I laugh, hanging my coat on the hook. “Remind me to thank him later.”
“You can start by eating.” She slides a plate toward me. “I brought the good stuff because I knew you’d pick this one.”
She’s right. I take a bite of the salmon, and the taste pulls a small sound from my throat. “You’re a saint.”
“Don’t forget it,” she says, grabbing a piece of chicken for herself. “You weren’t really going to skip dinner, were you?”
“I have a six-a.m. flight, and half my clothes are still in the laundry,” I admit. “I was trying to be responsible.”
“Responsible is overrated.”
She moves through my kitchen, familiar and at ease, while I pull my suitcase from the hall closet. My packing style is efficient—rolled clothes, labeled toiletry bag, everything in its place. I just have to get everything ready first.
Trinity leans against the counter, watching me. “You know, for someone who spends her life telling other people how to manage stress, you don’t seem very good at it.”
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
“You’re always fine.”
I pause with a shirt in my hands, caught between a retort and the truth. “It’s a lot right now. This trip, the new systems, the staff. I just need to get through next week.”
She nods. “I get it. But you’ve been here a month, and I barely see you anymore. The hospital has swallowed you whole.”
“I know.” I close the suitcase and survey my pile of laundry. “After this trip, I’ll be home more. I promise. We’ll go for dinner somewhere without paperwork or fluorescent lights.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it.”
Her tone is teasing, but her eyes are kind. She’s reminded me what it’s like to exhale. For the first time all day, I do.
Trinity helps me fold a few more shirts while I refill our glasses with sparkling water. The fizz catches the light, tiny bursts of silver. She’s quiet for a long stretch, which has me studying her. “What is it?” I ask.
She hesitates, then smiles nervously, which gives her away. “I wasn’t sure if I should tell you yet, but you’ll find out soon anyway.”
“Now you have to tell me,” I say, laughing.
She bites her lip, eyes bright. “I’m twelve weeks pregnant.”
For a second, the words don’t register. Then they do, and I let out a startled laugh, covering my mouth. “What? Trinity!”
“I know.” She shakes her head. “We didn’t plan it. We were just getting our lives back, but Greyson’s over the moon. He’s already talking about finishing the new house before the baby comes.”
I pull her into a hug, laughing against her shoulder. “I can’t believe it. You’re going to have two kids. That’s insane.”
“Tell me about it,” she says, sinking into the couch. “I was so sure we were done for a while. Guess the universe had other plans.” Her hand drifts to her stomach, and her expression softens.
The sight tugs at my chest. Joy, fear, acceptance, all tangled up in one small motion. “I’m really happy for you,” I say quietly. “You’re going to be great.”
She looks at me, the corners of her mouth lifting. “You forget I can be a mess too.”
“That’s why I like you. It makes me feel less alone.”
She laughs, and it fills the small room with warmth. For a moment, the lists and deadlines and travel plans fade into the background. All that’s left is this. Two friends, food on the table, and new beginnings.
Trinity squeezes my hand. “Don’t work too hard while you’re gone, okay? You’ve earned some time to breathe.”
“I’ll try,” I say.
Trinity follows me to my room and leans back on the bed while I flop the suitcase at the foot and pull the rest of my wardrobe options from the closet.
I open my suitcase at the end of the bed, half-packed with neutral tones and pressed dresses that scream business trip.
I hold up a navy sheath dress. “What about this for the opening reception? It’s professional but still relaxed. ”
She tilts her head. “Relaxed for a tax audit, maybe.”
I laugh. “It’s classic.”
“It’s boring.” She stands and goes to a shopping bag she left near the doorway. “You’re going to Hawaii, not to a staff meeting.”
“I’m there to work.”
“Work can still have color.” She pulls out a floral sundress, bright and unapologetically loud. “Here. Borrow this. You need it.”
I stare at the explosion of coral and yellow. “I can’t wear that. I’ll look like a walking hibiscus.”
“That’s the point,” she says, holding it up against me. “I picked it up on our last trip to Hawaii, and it will look fantastic on you. You spend your life blending in. Try standing out for once.”
I can’t help laughing. “You’re relentless.”
“Someone has to save you from yourself.”
I take the dress and drape it over the chair. It’s soft under my fingers, lighter than anything I’d normally wear. “Maybe I’ll pack it,” I say, which makes her beam.
“Progress,” she teases.
We eat a few more bites of our dinners while I fill up the suitcase. Trinity eyes the list I’ve taped to the dresser. Clothes, toiletries, backup charger, travel folder. “You’re a machine.”
“It’s called being prepared.”
“It’s called not knowing how to relax,” she says, smiling.
I roll my eyes, but there’s no heat in it. “I can relax.”
“Sure,” she says. “And I’m the Queen of England.”
She glances at the pile of clothes again and lowers her voice. “So…are you going to see much of Alaric while you’re there?”
The question sends a ripple through me. “I doubt it. He left today, so we’re not even on the same flight. And the schedule’s packed. Chances are slim we’ll do much more than cross paths, as we’re in different cohorts.”
“Still,” she says, drawing out the word. “Six days in Hawaii. Anything can happen.”
“Not that,” I say quickly. “Definitely not that.”
Trinity grins. “You never know.”
I throw a balled-up sock at her, and she ducks, laughing.
When she finally stands to leave, she hugs me tight. “Promise me something. Have a good time in Hawaii. And if you get the chance, get laid.”
“Trinity,” I groan, laughing.
“What? You can’t tell me you don’t need it.”
I shake my head, still smiling. “It’s unlikely.”
“Then at least wear the dress and pack Bob,” she says, heading for the door. Bob is our nickname for my battery-operated boyfriend.
I send her home with the leftovers and look at what else I need to do before I leave in the morning. I rinse the dishes and stand for a moment with my hands on the counter.
I should finish up and go straight to bed. Six-a.m. flight. Long day tomorrow. Instead, I wander back to the bedroom and stare at the open suitcase. Everything is in its place. Folded shirts, a navy dress, the floral one sitting neatly on top like a dare.
I smooth the fabric with my fingers. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I could use a little color.
The clock on my nightstand glows past nine. I move through my final checklist. Chargers, toiletries. Each item slips into its spot—precise, predictable. The rhythm of order usually calms me. Tonight, it doesn’t.
My thoughts keep circling back to Alaric. He’s already there, maybe walking the beach. Maybe he took someone with him. Maybe he’s not thinking about me at all. That should help. It doesn’t.
When the packing’s done, I open my bedside drawer to find my travel adapter. My fingers brush something else instead. Bob, in the small velvet pouch I tucked there when I moved in last month. I unzip the suitcase and slip it between the layers of my clothes. Just in case I need some stress relief.
But as I zip the case, I know it’s more than that. I’m not as sure of myself as I pretend to be. Tomorrow, I fly to Hawaii. And the man who still makes me come undone is already there.