Alex #3
I consider the question, because it’s not small.
“Like so many people, cancer has touched my life. My grandfather. But the funny thing is, oncology isn’t just about treating cancer.
It’s about helping people find a way to keep living while they’re fighting it.
You celebrate clean scans, mourn setbacks, and get invited to weddings you never expected your patients to live long enough to have.
Sometimes you lose them.” I pause. “And sometimes you get to help them live for years beyond what’s expected. ”
Josie’s mouth curves, sympathetic. “I can see why your patients trust you.”
After another stretch of eating, I try again to ask about her. “What was it like growing up here?”
Josie’s gaze shifts toward the window, the glass reflecting bar lights and the faint movement of people behind us.
“Sometimes it’s a fishbowl. I’m close with my brother and sisters,” she says.
“That’s the simple part.” She takes a sip of water, and then adds, “My mother still lives in town, but my father lives up north now.”
There’s a lot in the way she says father, and she doesn’t offer more.
“I’m sorry if it feels like I’m prying,” I say.
Josie’s eyes move back to mine, and something in her face eases. Not gratitude exactly, but recognition of a boundary being respected. “What about you?” she asks. “Your childhood.”
“I’m the youngest of two boys,” I begin. “My older brother is more responsible, more suited to being the person everyone expects him to be. He’s taking over the family business.”
Josie waits, patient, giving me the space to explain what the business is without asking directly.
I don’t. Not because I’m hiding it from her as a trick, but because I don’t want the business to enter this room with us. I don’t want to be assessed for reasons that aren’t about my choices. Though if anyone could understand being more than your family name, it’s probably her.
For now, though, Josie doesn’t press. She simply nods and returns to her salmon.
That restraint makes me like her more than I should this early, because it suggests she’s not trying to collect facts to use later. She’s simply listening.
We finish our meal at an unhurried pace, and Stuart offers dessert, which Josie declines with a polite shake of her head. This has been a lovely evening, but I’m already thinking about whether Eloise will be asleep when I get home.
Gather is full now, the air warmer, the noise thicker. Josie’s attention shifts outward for a moment, and I can see her awareness of the room returning, the reality of who she is in this town and what it means to be seen with someone new.
I set my hands on the table. “Can I see you again?” I ask, and I keep my tone even, not playful, not demanding. Just direct.
Josie looks at me for a long beat, the kind of pause where you can feel someone weighing the choice in real time. Then she says, “I could give you a behind-the-scenes tour of Black Bear.”
My heart leaps, and I’m sure my face gives me away before I can control it. “Seriously?”
“Yes,” she says, with a hint of amusement. “You look like I just offered you front-row seats to your favorite hockey team.”
“I mean…” I don’t bother hiding it now. “I’m not going to pretend that isn’t exactly what it feels like.”
Josie’s smile deepens, becoming warmer, less guarded. “Afterward,” she says, “we could order in dinner and hang out there. I promise not to make you watch K-Pop Demon Hunters.”
I laugh. “You’re taking all the fun out of it.”
“I’m protecting you,” she says, deadpan.
“I don’t need protection.”
“Everyone does,” she says.
I don’t know whether that’s a joke or something she believes.
We stand, the movement itself changing the energy, turning the conversation into an ending instead of something that could continue. Josie slips her jacket on, smoothing the sleeves, and I mirror her.
Outside, the air is cooler, clearing my head a bit. The noise of the bar fades behind us as the door closes, replaced by night sounds and the quiet hum of the street.
I walk Josie to her car without touching her, keeping a respectful distance that still feels attentive. She stops at her driver’s side door and turns toward me.
“Saturday?” I ask. That’s almost a week away, but it doesn’t make it sound like I’m as anxious to see her as I actually am.
“Saturday works,” she says.
I nod, already slotting it into my week the way I put in consults and school pick-ups. “What time?”
“Late afternoon,” she says. “Before dinner. I’ll text you later this week.”
“Perfect.”
She opens the door and then pauses with her hand on it. Her gaze holds mine for a second, and I find I really want to know what she’s thinking.
I stand there for a moment longer as she gets in and closes the door, hands in my pockets, carrying the warmth of the evening with me as I turn toward my own car.
A tour of Black Bear. Dinner ordered in. A promise not to make me watch the movie she also has on her playlist.
I get into my car and pull out of the lot, thinking about the way Josie relaxed the moment I apologized, and then a little more when I acknowledged the situation.
Because this town doesn’t get to decide whether I see her again.
She and I do.
And now I will.