25. Sam
TWENTY-FIVE
Sam
I open the kitchen door before he can knock.
"You're late for rounds," he says while pulling off his helmet and shaking out his sandy hair.
"Neufeld's covering for me."
"Nice. I was driving by, getting all sentimental about this town, and saw your car. Figured I'd stop by before I head out."
Head out. The words slam me, even though he told me last week, and I knew it would be a quick move.
"Indiana, right?"
"Yep, Indianapolis." He leans against the doorframe, those wire-rimmed glasses catching the morning light.
"That's crazy."
"Trauma surgery fellowship. Pretty good program, actually. It all fell into my lap when I put feelers out."
"Come inside if you have time."
He follows behind, pulling out a stool at the bar.
I put more ice in my juice, not because I need it, but because I need something to do with my hands. "When do you start? "
"Two weeks."
"Hope you like corn fields and snow." I force a smile.
"I ordered a parka from L.L. Bean last night, even though it probably won't snow for another few months." He grins that easy Kip grin.
"A parka," I raise my eyebrows.
"Figured if I'm going to freeze my ass off, might as well look professional doing it."
"Yeah. Parkas scream professional."
The ocean breeze drifts through the open windows, carrying the scent of salt and seaweed. In a few weeks, Kip will be smelling car exhaust and whatever Indianapolis smells like.
"What about you?" He tugs at his earlobe, that nervous habit of his.
The question I've been avoiding. "I don't know, Kip. I'm not as decisive as you."
"Have you applied anywhere yet?"
"I've narrowed it down to two places. Grady Memorial in Atlanta, or maybe MUSC in Charleston."
"Grady's good. It's trauma-heavy, which I know you'd kill. You'd like it there." He pushes his glasses up his nose. "MUSC too, but Charleston's expensive as hell."
"Yeah, I know. I've been spoiled not having to pay rent here. Atlanta's not cheap, either. I'm going to feel that."
The conversation stalls. We both know we're talking around the real stuff, how everything changed after that board meeting, how our entire program got gutted, how we're all scattering like debris after a storm.
Kip doesn't push for details about Cole. He's not Arden. He doesn't dig into feelings and complicated relationships. He just shows up with bad jokes and makes me smile when I need it most.
"Need help carrying anything to your car? Boxes, furniture, that ridiculous collection of medical journals you refuse to throw away?"
"I know all of the boxes everywhere say a different tale, but I haven't started packing yet."
"Sam." His voice gets that gentle tone he uses with scared patients.
I know. I know I need to pack and apply and move on and stop standing at my windows looking for someone who's already gone.
"I will. Soon. Once I decide on where I'll have more of a sense of realness that I am moving."
"Don't ghost me when you leave, okay? I know how you get."
"I don't ghost people."
He gives me a look. "You absolutely ghost people. Remember when you switched your whole schedule sophomore year to avoid running into what's-his-name from orthopedics?"
"That was different."
"Sure it was. Text me when you figure out where you're going. I'll send you care packages. Probably cookies from my grandmother." He puts his helmet back on as he walks out the door.
He kick-starts the Vespa. "Take care of yourself, Sam. Really."
The engine sputters to life, and he's gone down the driveway before I can say goodbye properly.
I stand in the kitchen doorway, listening to the sound fade into morning traffic. Another person moving on. Another piece of my life here is coming to an end.
I slide into the wicker chair across from Arden at our usual spot at Blue Water Café. The umbrella casts a perfect shade over our table, and the harbor stretches out beyond the railing. She already has an iced tea waiting for me, condensation beading on the glass.
"You're a mind reader."
"I'm a crisis manager. Reading situations is literally my job."
"Oh, right."
She pushes the glass toward me. "So, have you made any earth-shattering life decisions since yesterday?"
"I'm actively avoiding making any real decisions today." I take a long sip, the cold tea cutting through the humid afternoon air.
"That's not a sustainable strategy, Sam."
A pelican dives into the water near the dock, emerging with something silver wriggling in its beak. Life goes on, even when you're falling apart.
"I know Grady's the better fit," I say without looking at her.
"Then what's holding you back?"
The question hangs between us like the salt-heavy air. A server weaves between tables, carrying plates that smell like fried grouper and key lime pie. Normal people doing normal things.
"MUSC has perks. Great location, excellent program, the beach."
"Stop. You're listing features like you're buying a car. What do you want?" Arden leans forward, removing any opportunity for me to blow off her difficult questions.
"MUSC feels too much like what I'm leaving behind. Too perfect. Too polished. Too familiar."
"And Grady? "
Grady scares me in the right ways . The thought hits me before I can filter it.
"Grady scares me, too, but I'm not sure why," I admit.
Arden's eyebrows shoot up. "Explain that."
"It's the opposite of everything I've known. Downtown Atlanta, a Level I trauma center, serves patients who can't afford to shop for the perfect doctor. It's messy and loud and?—"
"And not Good Samaritan."
"I think you nailed it, Ar."
"You are still you outside of all this." She gestures toward the harbor, the expensive sailboats, the world we grew up in.
The truth sits heavy in my chest. "I don't know who I am outside of Palm Beach. Outside of being Samuel and Evelyn Taylor's daughter. Outside of carrying on some legacy I never chose."
"So find out."
"What if I'm terrible at it? What if I can't handle the pressure without all the safety nets?"
"Then you fall, and you get back up. That’s what you do."
A breeze picks up, rustling the palm fronds overhead. The pelican has found another fish.
"How long’s it been since you heard from Cole?"
The question takes my breath away, but I try to hide it. "Two weeks"
Arden waits, but I don’t elaborate. There’s nothing left to say.
"How does that make you feel?"
"I'm numb right now with everything. You know, we spent ten days together. He’s been gone now longer than he was here."
I run my finger along the pattern on the vinyl tablecloth, and neither of us speaks for an extended few seconds. "I keep doing the math, like somehow it all makes sense."
"Yeah. Finding order helps me get over the hump sometimes."
I keep waiting to get over that hump.
My glass sits nearly empty, ice cubes melted down to slivers. Arden swirls what's left of her tea, the metal spoon clinking against glass.
"Are you going to sell the house?"
The question catches me off guard. Why is that the first thing everyone asks?
"No."
"Rent it out?"
"No." My voice comes out sharper than I intended.
"Sam—"
"I'm not selling it. I'm not renting it. I'm not letting it go."
She sets her spoon down carefully. "Okay. I'm not suggesting you should. I'm just trying to understand."
The pelican has moved to a different section of the harbor. Even the birds know when to change locations.
"I bought that house with the money Mom left me." The words spill out before I can stop them.
"Yeah, she wanted to help you get started, not make you feel tied down."
"It's a part of her to me. Everything connected to her is changing. I'm not ready to say the house doesn't matter."
"The house does matter."
"I told myself I was buying freedom when I signed those papers. Independence. A place that was mine, not my dad's, not the hospital's legacy. Mine. Now it just feels like something I'm not strong enough to leave behind."
There it is. The truth I've been dancing around .
"That's not weakness, Sam. That's grief."
"Is it?" I look at her directly for the first time since she asked about the house.
"Yes, it is. Losing someone like your mom will ebb and flow for the rest of your life, probably. Follow your gut, be kind to yourself about it. You've had a lot of shit coming at you recently."
"Or is it me being too scared to become the person I thought I wanted to be?"
Arden doesn't answer right away. She watches a yacht motor slowly through the harbor, its wake spreading in white lines behind it.
"Maybe it's both. Maybe that's okay."
The server appears with the check, and we both reach for our wallets without thinking. Normal motions, normal afternoon, while empty boxes begging to be packed fill my house.
"What scares you more? Leaving Palm Beach or staying?"
I don't have to think about that one. "Staying terrifies me. If I stay, I'll never know if I could have made it somewhere else. I'll always wonder if I was brave enough to be just Sam, not my parents' daughter."
"And leaving?"
"Leaving is scary as shit. When I went to college and med school, I was always coming back. Now, that isn't a given. And it scares the shit out of me. Not to mention, Kip's already settled, and I have no idea where I'm going. I'm a fucking train wreck."
"You know you're going to Grady." She doesn't phrase it as a question.
I nod before I realize I'm doing it. "Yeah, I think you're right. I'm going to Grady."
"When did you decide? "
"Just now, I think." I take a breath that feels different somehow.
"Good. You know I love crossing shit off my list. Let's write this lunch off as a business meeting."
"I haven't applied yet. I spoke with the recruiter, and it seems like it's procedural, but I have to do that before I go anywhere."
The knowledge sits in my chest like something solid and real. Scary, but real.
"Well, an opportunity to cross one more thing off. Let's get it done, sister."
I'm sitting on my bedroom floor, surrounded by half-full boxes and the debris of a life I'm trying to pack away.
My old med school sweatshirt lies crumpled next to a box of Mom's scarves that I can't bring myself to seal shut.
The framed diploma leans against the wall, still unwrapped, still waiting for me to hang it somewhere that matters.
Why is this so damn hard?
I fold another pair of scrubs, then another, trying to find some rhythm in the motions. But my hands shake as I reach for Mom's jewelry box. The weight of it in my palms breaks something loose in my chest.
The tears come fast and hot, catching me off guard. Not the dramatic kind you see in movies. But the tight, breathless kind that sneak up when you're trying to hold everything together. I shove the nearest box closed harder than necessary, and the cardboard buckles under my palm.
I press my hand to my forehead and force myself to breathe. In through my nose, out through my mouth. The way Mom taught me when thunderstorms used to scare me as a kid .
A knock at the back door makes me flinch. I scramble to my feet, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand as I pad downstairs.
Through the glass, I see Dad holding what looks like a bag from the deli down the street.
"Figured you hadn't eaten," he says when I open the door.
I hesitate for just a second, long enough for him to notice, then step aside to let him in.
"You didn't have to do that, Dad."
"Packing is the worst kind of torture. You need good food to get through it without ripping your hair out."
"I'm not packing everything, thank goodness. Just what I'm taking."
"Still. It's no fun. And you need to eat."
We move around each other in the kitchen with a practiced rhythm, like we’ve done a dozen times since that phone call, but never quite said what needed to be said.
He sets the sandwiches on the counter while I reach for plates we don’t need. The silence stretches out, not unfamiliar, but heavier since both of our lives imploded with all of this change that has been thrust upon us.
“I can make tea if you want,” I offer.
“Water’s fine. Thank you.”
We settle at the counter, picking at our turkey sandwiches. I don't have an appetite, and he probably just got himself one, so I wouldn't have to eat alone.
Late afternoon light slants through the windows, casting long shadows across the floor.
“When are you leaving?” he asks.
“Tuesday morning. It’s about an eight-and-a-half-hour drive to Atlanta, so I’ll get on the road early.”
He nods. “That’s a long drive. ”
“I’ve done longer. But, yeah, I'm not looking forward to it.”
We fall quiet again. He sips his water. I pull the crust from my sandwich and stack the pieces neatly beside my plate, just for something to do.
After a minute, he exhales. “I shouldn’t have called you like that. It wasn't my place, and I'm sorry.”
I glance over at him, but I don’t say anything yet. My dad never apologizes.
“Also, I shouldn’t have asked Cole what I asked him. You’re not a kid, and I acted like you were.”
The tension in my shoulders tightens, then starts to unwind. It's amazing how a few simple words can unwind a lifetime of pressure.
“I know it was messy, and you weren't wrong that it wasn't appropriate. But that didn’t give you permission to make me feel like I messed up just by being with him. And for the record, it had nothing to do with the vote.”
He looks down at his sandwich. “You’re right.”
"Thank you, Dad."
“I never want to be the voice in your head that makes you doubt yourself. God knows your mother and I already took up too much space there.”
I don’t respond, because he's never spoken truer words. I’m not ready to forgive or forget, not fully. But that last line lodges in my throat.
“Have you heard from him?”
I shake my head. “No. We haven't spoken since that day.”
He doesn’t press. He doesn’t ask anything else, or fill the space with advice or opinions. Just sits with me in the quiet. It’s exactly what I need from him for once.
After he leaves, I stand in the doorway, watching his car disappear down Mariner’s Reach Drive. The silence moves in and quickly swells in his absence.
This house is the last thing I have tying me to the version of myself I always thought I had to be.
And I’m walking away from it.
I grip the doorframe with one hand, like it might hold me up.
But there’s no one left to stop me from falling. For the first time in my life, I'm completely on my own.