Chapter 8
June
Stephanie Stevens.
Or was it Stephanie Soon now?
The name felt foreign after all these years, and for a moment I could only stare.
Strawberry-blond hair caught the fluorescent glow, an unexpected flash among the passing blur of darker heads.
She seemed taller than I remembered, or maybe time had exaggerated the difference.
A white coat hung perfectly over her lean frame, blue scrubs visible underneath.
No doubt about it—this was her world now. She was a doctor here.
For a heartbeat, I froze, torn between disbelief and a bubbling sense of joy that bordered on relief. The universe had a funny way of throwing old ghosts at you when you least expected it. I hadn’t seen a familiar face in months, and now—this.
“Oh my God, Stephy, is it really you?” I blurted before I could stop myself.
She turned, her eyes widening, and her lips lifting into that same bright expression I remembered from our early years.
There was a new fullness to her cheeks, and the gentle curve of her belly explained the added weight she carried so effortlessly.
She radiated a glow—part quiet happiness, part tiredness of someone carrying both a life and a workload on her shoulders.
“Yes, it’s me.” Stephanie’s words came out softer than I remembered. We hugged out of instinct, though her belly curved between us, turning our usual tight embrace into something careful and tender. Still, the warmth didn’t fade.
“I know, I know.” A teasing twist touched her mouth. “Two months left—well, eight and a half weeks. It feels endless.”
“Congratulations,” I said sincerely, still marveling at how life had changed for both of us.
“You work here?”
“Yes. OB-GYN.”
Of course she did. It made sense. Back in med school, Stephanie was always torn between following her father’s legacy in cardiac surgery or listening to her heart—which, ironically, led her to women’s health.
It came back to me now that she said she wanted to help bring life into the world. She’d found her calling after all.
“That’s amazing,” I smiled. “How’s Steven?” The question slipped out before I could stop it.
A small, awkward pause settled between us. The last time we joked about Steven was over his last name—Stevens. If he had ever taken hers, he’d have been Steven Stevens. She’d beamed then, insisting it was fate.
“He’s fine. Same old.” The reply was brisk, her gaze flicking to her phone. “Want to grab a drink? I have a thirty-minute break.”
“Sure.”
We made our way toward a vending machine tucked near the staff lounge. I watched her move through the motions—tap, swipe, beep—the machine humming to life as it brewed our coffees.
No barista, no small talk, no forced smiles. Just a sleek piece of technology doing exactly what it was told. I almost envied the simplicity.
Maybe I should get one of these for the clinic, I thought absently. It would save time—and awkward chit-chat. America probably had dozens of better versions by now.
Stephanie handed me a warm takeaway cup, and we walked through a back corridor until we reached the rear of the center.
The air here felt different—quiet, detached from the chaos of emergency sirens and echoing footsteps.
A few luxury cars gleamed under the filtered sunlight that poured in from the high windows.
“Your hiding spot?” I wondered aloud, smiling faintly.
“Yes.” She raised her decaf with a playful tilt. “Cheers.”
“Cheers.” The word slipped from my lips automatically, but my mind had already drifted back to another time—another place.
As students, we carved out a small sanctuary behind the library—ivy-covered walls, a hush that softened the whole world.
Whenever the pressure built or heartbreak threatened to swallowed us, that’s where we went.
Sometimes we filled the hours with conversation.
Sometimes we sat in comfortable silence, shoulder to shoulder.
Simpler days… before everything tangled itself into knots.
“What are you doing here, by the way?” Stephanie leaned back slightly as she sipped her decaf latte. Her tone was casual, but her eyes carried a spark of curiosity.
“A friend of mine’s in the emergency ward,” I said. “Spike in temperature, possible infection. They’re doing imaging work and checking for any allergic reactions.”
Her lips twitched—not in amusement, but in something colder, edged with bitterness. So different from the expressions we shared in the past.
My brows knitted. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She exhaled, shoulders dropping as she leaned closer.
“It’s how they make money here, June. Especially places like this…
everything is built around profit. Every screening, every extra procedure—it all adds up.
We have targets to hit, or…” She took a moment, her gaze shifting toward the row of parked cars.
“Or we’re penalized. Sometimes, they just don’t renew your contract. ”
I stopped mid-breath, processing her words. ”Wait—quota?”
The word felt foreign in my mouth. It wasn’t supposed to belong in medicine.
“Well.” Stephanie raised her eyebrows at me, and instantly I knew what she meant.
That small gesture—the subtle tilt, the half-smirk hiding behind her lips—pulled me back years in time.
We once had this uncanny connection, one that went beyond words.
We could read each other’s thoughts, finish each other’s sentences, or sometimes just share a single look across the library and know exactly what the other was thinking. I wondered if we still had that.
“You mean.” I leaned forward, lowering my tone, “you have to do a certain number of scans and screenings every year? Even when patients don’t actually need them?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Yeah. They charge for every procedure. The doctors… we’re the ones who have to suggest them, of course. Emphasize the possible illnesses, plant that seed of worry. Make it sound like we’re doing it out of caution.”
I swallowed hard, stunned. “And people just buy into that?”
“In a way.” She lifted a shoulder, her tone more weary than defensive. “Most patients know what they’re signing up for. But when a medical plan is footing the bill, they stop caring. It’s easier to say yes than to ask questions.”
“Wouldn’t that affect their policy? Their premium, I mean.” A small frown tugged at my brow as I tried to make sense of it. “Or maybe coverage works differently here…”
“That…” Her fingers tapped lightly against her cup, “I honestly don’t know. I just do what I’m told.”
A slight tilt of the head gave away my amusement. “You? Doing what you’re told?” I raised an eyebrow. “That doesn’t sound like the Stephanie I knew back then.”
She let out an exaggerated sigh. “I was shocked too, believe me. But Steven warned me—either play along or stay home. He even went out of his way to hire this old nurse for me. She’s experienced, sure, but she practically runs my office.
She sticks fluorescent notes all over my patients’ files—‘Recommend MRI,’ ‘Add allergy panel,’ ‘Repeat bloodwork.’ Some days I think she could just replace me entirely. ”
A smile crept in before I could stop it.
It reminded me of Siti, my assistant back at the clinic, who also had a thing for sticky notes—though hers were more like quiet nudges than corporate orders.
Patient nervous—offer candy. Remind husband not to faint.
That sort of thing. At least her writing had warmth behind it.
“And staying home wasn’t an option?” The question slipped out, even though the answer was obvious.
Stephanie was never the domestic type. Still, people change.
The last time I’d seen her was at her wedding, and back then, she had appeared so radiant and sure.
Maybe marriage had softened her. Maybe motherhood had changed her mind.
She jerked her head in a hard no. “Can you imagine me as a stay-at-home mom? I’d be bored to death.
I know some people love it, and that’s great for them, but me?
I need movement. I need to be out there.
I’m happiest surrounded by white walls, stainless steel trays, and that crisp sterile bite in the air you only get in a medical ward. ”
My mouth tugged upward. “Germ-free?”
“Hey,” she pointed her finger at me, pretending to be offended. “Sue me for being addicted to antiseptic.”
Her words made me chuckle. But I also couldn’t help thinking how ironic it sounded.
We both knew that truly sanitized environments didn’t exist outside of surgical theaters.
Even then, microbes had a way of sneaking in.
Research had shown that over-sanitization could actually weaken the immune system. But I didn’t say it.
“So,” I began, “these additional procedures they push us to get… they’re not really necessary, are they?”
Deep down, I already knew the answer. But asking her made it feel real. Made it harder to ignore.
“No,” she confessed in a hushed tone. “But you didn’t hear that from me.”
Before I could respond, she gave me a sudden, playful shove. My body tilted sideways, almost losing balance. I’d forgotten how physical she could be, even with a pregnant belly leading the way. Beneath that maternal glow was still the same fiery, impulsive friend I’d known.
“But you should’ve guessed that already.” Her mouth lifted, though the expression never reached her eyes. Then she continued, “Anything you want to tell me?”
I hesitated, then sat down on a low plastic crate near the wall, ignoring the layer of grime on its surface. She should’ve been the one sitting, not me, but standing suddenly felt like too much effort. My body was tired; my mind, heavier still.
“A lot’s on my mind,” I admitted.
She arched an eyebrow. “Who was that?”
The last lukewarm sip bought me a few precious seconds to think. The bitter taste coated my tongue, anchoring me to the present while my thoughts scattered everywhere else.
“So… here’s the thing…” I murmured.