17. Everyday Spaces
CHAPTER 17
Everyday Spaces
T he bell above La Colombe's door chimed exactly as I remembered it. I froze just inside, realizing too late that exhaustion had led my feet down familiar paths. I hadn't been here since the accident – couldn't face the baristas who used to greet us by name, the corner table where Michael would spread architectural drawings across worn wood, debating renovation plans over cooling coffee.
The morning crowd pressed around me, but I couldn't make myself move. Everything was exactly the same – the copper espresso machines gleaming in early light, the chalkboard menu with its artistic flourishes, even the peculiar way sunshine caught the glass pastry case. Only Michael was missing, and that absence felt bigger than the entire space.
“Their Ethiopian roast is still excellent,” Alex's voice came from behind me, gentle but grounding. “Though I've had better.”
His unexpected presence should have felt intrusive in this space that held so many memories of Michael. Instead, it somehow made breathing easier. Like having a witness made the moment less overwhelming.
“I haven't been here since...” I gestured vaguely, not needing to finish the sentence .
Then something clicked. “Wait a minute,” I turned to face him fully. “How do you keep doing this? First the hospital garden, then that bookstore on 73rd, now here. Are you following me?”
Alex's smile held both mischief and warmth. “Maybe I'm just very good at being in the right place at the right time.”
“Or maybe you have a very sophisticated surveillance system,” I said, but found myself smiling despite everything.
“Please,” he laughed softly. “If I had sophisticated surveillance, I'd have better timing with the hospital board meetings. Join me for coffee?”
I should have pressed for a real answer, should have questioned this strange pattern of perfectly timed appearances. Instead, I found myself nodding, letting him guide me toward a table – not Michael's corner, but a new space with morning light painting everything in gentle gold.
“Medium Ethiopian, extra shot?” he asked over his shoulder.
“With—”
“A touch of honey,” he finished, already ordering.
“How did you know my coffee order?” I asked as he set two steaming cups between us.
His smile held warmth without pity. “The same way I know you've been avoiding this place for six years. The same way I know why you're here now – muscle memory after a long night shift, your feet following paths they remember even when your mind tries to forget.”
“Michael's order was different,” I said, fingers tracing the cup's warmth. “Ethiopian roast, three shots, enough honey to make the baristas cringe. He said coffee should be strong enough to wake you but sweet enough to make you smile.”
“Tell me about him?” Alex's question held no jealousy, no agenda, just quiet invitation.
Something in my chest loosened – not healing exactly, but the possibility of it. “He loved buildings the way I love medicine. Not just the structures, but the stories they held. The lives lived in their spaces.”
“That's why he specialized in restoration?”
I nodded, taking a sip of perfectly prepared coffee. “He said every old building had secrets to share, if you knew how to listen. He used to drag me to construction sites on weekends, pointing out architectural details I never would have noticed.”
“What was his favorite?” Alex's interest felt genuine, his attention focused completely on my words.
“The Public Library.” I smiled at the memory. “He spent six months working on preservation plans for the Rose Reading Room. Said it was like touching history, like being part of something eternal.”
The light caught Alex's profile as he listened, turning him into something almost painted. But his presence remained solid, real, anchoring me in this moment rather than letting me drift into grief.
“The last project he was working on...” I swallowed hard, but the words wanted to come. “It was a hospital renovation. Historical preservation while maintaining modern medical standards. He was so excited about combining our worlds.”
“That sounds like him.” Alex's voice held such certainty that I looked up sharply. “Someone who could see the beauty in both old and new, who could bridge different worlds.”
“You talk like you knew him.”
“I know you,” he said simply. “And I can see how much he shaped the person you are now. How much he's still shaping you, even in his absence.”
The words should have hurt, should have felt like pressure on a bruise. Instead, they settled into my chest like truth I hadn't known I needed to hear.
“I miss him,” I whispered, the confession feeling safe in this quiet morning space. “Every day, in a thousand little ways. But sometimes... sometimes I worry I'm starting to forget things. The exact sound of his laugh. The way his hands moved when he talked about architecture.”
“You're not forgetting,” Alex said softly. “You're just... making room for the memories to breathe. For grief to settle into something you can carry without breaking.”
I studied him over my coffee cup, this man who somehow knew exactly what to say, who had appeared in my life like something from a half-remembered dream.
The morning crowd ebbed and flowed around us, but our table felt like its own pocket of time. Like a space where past and present could coexist without breaking each other.
“Dinner is still on for tonight?” Alex asked finally, giving me space to change the subject.
“Yes,” I found myself saying. “Though I'm not sure I'm ready for whatever truth you're planning to share.”
“Truth comes in its own time,” he replied. “For now, there's coffee and morning light and memories that deserve to be spoken aloud.”
I looked around the café – at Michael's empty corner, at the baristas who still snuck glances at me with careful concern, at this new table that held its own kind of promise.
Maybe that's what healing really was. Not forgetting, but making room for new memories alongside the old. Not moving on, but moving forward with all the pieces that made you who you are.
The phone rang precisely at 7:15 AM, catching me mid-coffee. I'd barely been home twelve hours after the Rothschild party, my mind still churning with Will's strange questions and Alex's cryptic promises.
“Dr. Monroe,” Vale's voice was crisp, professional – and entirely out of place on my first day of mandatory administrative leave. “I need you to come to the office.”
I nearly laughed. “Excuse me?”
“There are urgent forms that require your immediate attention. Your signature is critical for the hospital development project.”
Something felt off. Mandatory leave meant exactly that – mandatory time away from the hospital. Bureaucratic procedure was clear: no work, no contact, complete disconnection. “That's not how administrative leave works,” I said carefully. “Is there a problem?”
A pause. Just long enough to confirm something was definitely wrong.
“The board needs your specific authorization,” Vale pressed. “I can email the documents, but they prefer?—“
“No,” I interrupted. “If the board needs something, they can contact my representative. That's standard protocol for someone on leave.”
Another pause. Then, “Dr. Monroe. Your presence is required.”
The command beneath the words was new. Vale had never spoken to me like that before – not in all our years working together. My surgeon's instincts, the same ones that had me reading micro-expressions in critical moments, were screaming.
“I'll be there in an hour,” I found myself saying, though every rational part of me knew I shouldn't.
I wasn't even dressed for the hospital. Worn jeans, a soft navy sweater I'd grabbed from the back of my closet – clothes meant for a quick coffee run or picking up groceries, not for official business. My hospital badge was tucked into the pocket of my jacket, an afterthought, a reminder that I was technically still on administrative leave.
I think Vale just wanted to keep an eye on me during my forced leave. But I needed the distraction – anything to keep my mind from spinning around the conversation I'd overheard in the coffee shop that morning, a fragment of dialogue that had sent a chill down my spine .
My phone buzzed just as I was contemplating the merits of reorganizing my entire filing system: “Roof in 10? Brought sustenance.”
I had no real excuse to refuse. With forced leave keeping me from seeing patients, my schedule was an endless stretch of paperwork and restless energy. A moment of hesitation—professionalism warring with something deeper, more instinctive.
Instead, I found myself taking familiar stairs two at a time, emerging into afternoon sunshine to find Alex arranging what looked like a proper picnic.
“Is that from Mai Thai?” I asked, recognizing the containers that Rachel was always praising. “How did you even get them to deliver here?”
“Who says they deliver?” Alex's smile held playful mystery as he handed me a container that smelled amazing. “Some things are worth a personal trip.”
“How did you know I'd be free?” I settled onto the blanket he'd somehow produced, noting how he'd chosen my favorite spot – the one with the best view of the city skyline.
“I didn't.” He started arranging spring rolls with careful precision. “But I've learned to take chances.”
“Is that what this is?” I gestured between us, surprised by my own boldness. “Taking chances?”
Alex considered this while adjusting the napkins – real cloth ones, because of course they were. “I think it's about choices,” he said finally. “Fate might bring people together, but it's choice that keeps them there.”
“That's very philosophical for a rooftop picnic,” I observed, but found myself smiling.
“What can I say? Good Thai food brings out my profound side.”
The food was perfect – spicy enough to wake up my taste buds after too many hospital cafeteria meals. We fell into easy conversation about hospital politics, about Alex's latest development project, about Sofia's uncanny ability to know everything that happened in the ER.
“She terrifies the board, you know,” Alex said, his eyes dancing with amusement. “Will tried to exclude her from a meeting once. Just once. The look she gave him – I thought he might spontaneously combust.”
His impression of his brother's affronted expression startled a laugh from me – real, unguarded, free. The sound surprised me so much I almost choked on my pad thai.
“When was the last time you laughed like that?” Alex asked softly, not pushing, just curious.
I started to say something deflective, but honesty won out. “I don't remember. Before Michael, probably.”
But the admission didn't hurt like it should have. Maybe it was the sunshine, or the excellent food, or the way Alex watched me with warm understanding rather than pity.
“Marcus tried to cook Thai food once,” he said, smoothly changing the subject. “Set off every smoke alarm in the building. The fire department actually showed up.”
“No way.”
“Hand to god. Will still brings it up at family dinners. Though to be fair, Marcus's French cuisine is exceptional.”
I found myself relaxing into the moment – into good food and easy conversation and afternoon light that made everything feel possible. Alex told stories about development projects gone hilariously wrong, about Will's attempts to modernize their family's ancient filing system, about corporate politics that somehow seemed funny rather than cutthroat when he described them.
“You make everything feel so... normal. Even when nothing about this situation is normal.”
He considered this while offering me the last spring roll. “Maybe because normal is overrated. Maybe what feels right is more important than what feels expected.”
“Is that what this feels like to you? Right? ”
His eyes met mine, warm with something that made my heart skip. “What does it feel like to you?”
Before I could answer, my pager buzzed – Sofia, probably wondering where I'd disappeared to. Alex started packing up with efficient grace, somehow making even cleanup feel elegant.
I helped him fold the blanket, our hands brushing in a way that sent warmth through my entire body. The afternoon light caught his profile, turning him into something almost painted, but his presence remained solid and real.
“Thank you,” I said as we headed back toward the stairs. “For lunch, for stories, for...”
“For taking chances?” His smile held gentle teasing.
“For making it feel possible,” I finished softly.
He paused at the door, looking at me with an expression I couldn't quite read. “Possible is good,” he said finally. “Possible is where everything begins.”
I watched him disappear down the stairs, carrying his picnic supplies with the same grace he seemed to do everything. The afternoon stretched ahead – more paperwork, more of Vale's suspicious attention, more questions I wasn't sure I was ready to ask.
The city settled into evening as we walked, streetlights flickering to life one by one. Alex had insisted on accompanying me after my shift ran late, claiming he was headed this direction anyway. We both knew it was a lie – his penthouse was in the opposite direction – but neither of us mentioned it.
Our path took us past the skeleton of a new building, steel beams reaching toward stars just beginning to emerge through Manhattan's light pollution. My steps faltered. Michael would have loved this – would have already had his sketchbook out, explaining about load-bearing walls and aesthetic balance with that infectious enthusiasm that made even physics sound like poetry.
“Tell me about his work,” Alex said quietly, reading my silence. Not 'are you okay' or 'we can go another way,' but an invitation to remember.
“He loved impossible things,” I found myself saying as we continued walking. “Buildings that shouldn't stand but do. Spaces that feel bigger than they are. He said good architecture was like good magic – it made people believe in the impossible.”
Alex's steps matched mine perfectly, his presence steady but not crowding. “He sounds like he understood something fundamental about spaces.”
“He did. This renovation he was working on, at the Natural History Museum? Everyone said the suspended gallery couldn't work, that the cantilevers would be too unstable. But he proved them wrong. Made something beautiful that shouldn't have been possible.”
We walked in quiet after that.
The restaurant Alex chose was small and private, tucked away in a quiet corner of the Village. No Rothschild ostentation here – just warm lighting, exposed brick, and a quiet table far from curious eyes. Something about the space felt familiar, though I knew I'd never been here before.
“You promised me answers,” I said after our wine arrived. “Real ones this time.”
Alex studied his glass, something ancient flickering across his features. “What do you remember about the dreams? About Greece?”
My hands tightened around my water glass. “Fragments. A battlefield. Healing tents. The smell of herbs I've never used but somehow know how to prepare.”
“There was a war,” he said quietly. “Not the one in the history books – this was smaller, more personal. A territorial dispute that shouldn't have mattered, except... ”
“Except?”
“Except it brought you to the healing temple. To me.” His eyes met mine across the table. “You were their finest healer. I was a warrior who'd never believed in the gods until I saw you work.”
“This is insane,” I whispered.
“The war started because of pride,” Alex continued. “A petty argument between city-states that escalated into bloodshed. But it became something else when Vale – when Valerius discovered certain texts in the temple library.”
“Valerius?” The name sent shivers down my spine. “You mean Vale?”
“He was your mentor then. A priest who'd taught you everything about healing. But he found something in those ancient scrolls – something about transferring life force, about cheating death itself.”
The waiter arrived with our appetizers, forcing a pause in the conversation. I used the moment to try to steady my racing thoughts, to find logical ground in this impossible story.
“You're telling me we're... what? Reincarnated? That Vale and I were some kind of ancient healers?”
“I'm telling you that some souls are bound together across time,” Alex replied. “That some connections are strong enough to survive death itself. Even when remembering causes pain.”
“And Vale? What's his role in all this?”
Something dark crossed Alex's expression. “He was brilliant, but that brilliance turned to obsession. The texts he found... they weren't meant for mortal hands. When you refused to help him experiment with them...”
“Stop.” I pushed back from the table slightly, needing physical distance. “This is too much. You're talking about ancient magic and immortal souls like they're real things. Like I'm supposed to just accept that my hospital administrator used to be some kind of dark priest?”
“I'm telling you what you asked to know,” Alex said gently. “ What part of you already recognizes as truth, even if your mind rebels against it.”
“And you? What were you in this story?”
His smile held centuries of memory. “I was the fool who fell in love with a healer who believed every life was sacred. Who watched you save countless soldiers without ever asking which side they fought for. Who learned what real strength looked like from your steady hands and unfailing compassion.”
“Until what?” I asked, though part of me didn't want to know. “How does this story end?”
“It doesn't.” Alex reached across the table but stopped short of touching me. “That's the point. It never really ends. We find each other, again and again. Sometimes we get it right. Sometimes...”
“Sometimes Vale interferes?” The words came from some place deeper than conscious thought.
“Sometimes patterns repeat themselves,” he agreed carefully. “Unless we choose to break them.”
I stared at my untouched food, trying to process what he was saying. “Why tell me this now? Why not wait until I remember on my own?”
“Because Vale is remembering too. And his memories... they're fragmenting, distorting. He thinks he's protecting you, but he's working from incomplete information.”
“Protecting me from what?”
Alex's expression held ancient grief. “From me. From what loving me has cost you in every life.”
“I can't...” I stood abruptly, needing air. “This is too much. I need...”
“Time,” Alex finished softly. “I know. Take whatever time you need. But Eli...” He caught my eye, his gaze holding centuries of love and regret. “Be careful. Vale thinks he's saving you, but his methods... they've always had unintended consequences.”
I practically fled the restaurant, the cool night air helping clear my head. But I couldn't escape the ring of truth in Alex's words, or the way my hands remembered ancient medicines, or the bone-deep recognition I felt every time he looked at me.
Behind me, I heard Alex settle the bill, give me space while still watching over me. The gesture felt familiar – like he'd done it before, like he'd always known when to push and when to let me find my own way back.
“I should have told you differently,” he said when he finally joined me outside. “Given you more time to adjust.”
“Would it have made a difference?” I asked, watching city lights reflect off passing cars. “Would any of this make sense no matter how you explained it?”
His smile held gentle understanding. “Probably not. Truth rarely makes sense when it first finds us.”
We walked in silence for a while, each lost in our own thoughts. The city felt different somehow – older, deeper, full of shadows that might hold memories I wasn't ready to face.
“Michael...” I started, then stopped, uncertain how to frame the question.
“Was real,” Alex finished firmly. “Your love for him was real. Is real. Some souls are meant to find each other in every life, but that doesn't make other loves less meaningful.”
Something in my chest loosened at his words – not healing exactly, but the possibility of it. The knowledge that I could hold both past and present, both memory and possibility, without betraying either.
We reached my building as the last light faded.
“Thank you,” I said quietly. “For telling me. Even if I'm not ready to believe all of it.”
“You will.” His certainty should have felt presumptuous but instead felt like promise. “When you're ready. When the memories finish surfacing.”
As I watched him walk away, I touched my wedding ring – a gesture that had become habit. But for the first time, it felt less like an anchor holding me in grief and more like a reminder that love, like time itself, wasn't always linear .
Tomorrow would bring more questions, more half-remembered truths, more moments that felt both strange and familiar. But for now, the night air held possibility rather than just memory.
For now, that was enough.