3. He Clarifies The Assignment
HE CLARIFIES THE ASSIGNMENT
KENT
If the hospital has a smell, it’s the same everywhere: phenolic scrub, sweat buried under deodorant, a brittle floral fog from air freshener nobody asked for.
At the end of every shift, the odor leaches into my skin, clings to the collar of my starched shirt and the roots of my hair.
It follows me, even now, as I unlock the door to the house—my house, though it’s too big for me, a mausoleum by any other name—and step into the foyer.
A shiver runs up my spine as the furnace kicks on, stirring the lemon-polished air with a faint, mechanical sigh.
I pause, letting my eyes adjust to the filtered light.
The marble is clean, footprints erased by the cleaning crew, not a throw pillow out of place.
A half-hearted attempt at a home, but it works, or it used to, when Jeannine was still around to oversee the pantomime of family.
Now it’s just me, and the expectation of her—though that, too, is fading.
Except tonight, there’s a new presence. I hear it before I see her: the creak and settle of a body shifting somewhere upstairs, likely in the library.
I hang my overcoat on the polished banister, and the scent of the hospital rises, sharp and medicinal, from the lining.
I force myself to exhale through my nose, try to let the domestic atmosphere swallow it up.
But nothing erases the ache in my chest as I take the stairs to the second level, and sure enough, when I peer into the library, she’s there.
Mary Kate, legs folded under her in a chair that once belonged to my grandfather, is bathed in the last long streaks of amber light.
Her hair is the color of wheat fields on the tail end of summer, shot through with platinum and gold, and it spills over the armrest in loose, accidental waves.
She’s reading, of course—she’s always reading—one finger crooked under a line of text as if she’s tracing the secret contours of a map.
I know that book. Rick Steves, Rome edition, the spine obliterated by years of hope.
She’s never been, although it’s clear my stepdaughter hopes to, one day.
She sits beside a stack of Italian-language books, some of which look like they’re for school.
Mary Kate looks up, and I catch her at the precise instant when she registers my presence. Her eyes are blue. Not the shallow blue of her mother’s, but deep—lit up by the low sun, almost liquid. For a moment, neither of us moves, as if we’re frozen in a tableau. Then I clear my throat.
“Hi,” I say. My voice is lower than I intend, rough at the edges.
Mary Kate sits up straighter, uncurls her legs, and sets the guidebook across her knees.
Her sweatshirt rides up, exposing a paler band of skin at her waist, and I have to look away for a second to keep my expression neutral.
I move to the wet bar, pour myself a finger of rye, though I don’t drink it. The ritual helps.
She’s the first to speak. “You’re back early.”
I nod, watching the way she smooths her hair behind one ear, the strands golden and gleaming. “Rounds finished early. I have two surgeries tomorrow, so I wanted to get a head start on prep.” I lean back against the mahogany bookshelf, the wood digging into my spine. “Did you get settled in okay?”
Mary Kate smiles, and my heartrate accelerates in response. “Yeah. The room’s just like I remember. I think the bed’s actually more comfortable than the one in my apartment.”
“I’d hope so,” I chuckle. “That mattress cost more than my first car.”
She laughs. The sound is high and soft, but there’s an undertow of something less innocent. She catches herself, glances down at the book, and taps it with her index finger. “I was just, um—studying. For my final.”
“Italian?”
She nods, the tips of her ears going pink. “It’s stupid, but I keep messing up the pronouns. I can conjugate the verbs, but I get all twisted up in the gender stuff. I feel like I sound like a kindergartener half the time.”
I take a measured sip of rye, let the burn coil down my throat, and try to keep my eyes on her face.
“But you’re trying, and that’s what counts.
” I step away from the bar, set the glass on the desk, and pretend to scan the titles on my bookshelves.
The tomes are arranged by continent, then by author’s last name.
I know them all by heart, but the distraction helps.
Mary Kate swings her feet to the floor, stands, and crosses to the window.
She presses a palm to the glass, as if she can touch the dusk gathering outside.
The light refracts through her hair, making a halo.
“Have you ever been?” she asks, voice so quiet it’s nearly lost in the cavernous hush of the house.
“To Italy?” I ask.
She nods, tracing a circle on the frosted pane.
“No,” I say. “I always thought I’d go with—” The word fails me. Jeannine, or someone like her. A wife, a daughter. A life that never happened. “—with family,” I finish, lamely.
Mary Kate turns, the motion slow and deliberate.
She’s barefoot, toenails painted the same pale pink as her lips, and the hem of her leggings rides high on her calves.
She looks young, almost impossibly so, but there’s nothing innocent about the way she studies me.
I feel the tension flicker between us, old and new, familiar and yet utterly wrong. My pulse ticks faster.
She holds up the guidebook, thumbing to a dog-eared spread of cobblestone piazzas.
“I want to see this someday,” she says, and she reads the caption aloud: “Trastevere at dusk, the air thick with cigarette smoke and orange blossom. Lovers in every doorway.” She giggles, shakes her head. “Sounds like bullshit, right?”
I can’t help it—I smile. “You’d hate the crowds.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Probably. But the food would be worth it.”
For a beat, we just stand there, caught in the golden hour glow, the room thick with unsaid things. The only sound is the faint hiss of the radiator and the far-off warble of a bird outside, some winter holdover singing against the odds.
I break the spell. “You hungry? I can order something in.”
Mary Kate shrugs, a flash of collarbone at the neck of her sweatshirt. “Maybe later. I’m too wired to eat right now.”
I nod, push away from the shelf, and cross to the bay window. The Persian rug muffles my footsteps, but she tracks me anyway, her eyes never quite leaving my face. I stop a few feet away, close enough to smell her shampoo—a sensual floral, with an aftershock of vanilla.
“You know,” I say, “I remember your senior year of high school, you couldn’t wait to leave. You were so excited to get to college.”
She laughs again, but this time it’s darker, almost self-mocking. “Yeah, well. A lot’s changed.”
I want to ask what that means, but I already know. We both do. I settle for a question that’s safer: “Did you enjoy school? You’re almost done now.”
Mary Kate shrugs again, but there’s a tremor in her voice. “A little. Mostly I just—” She trails off, then shakes her head. “Never mind.”
I wait, but she doesn’t finish. Instead, she glances up at me through her lashes, a look that would shatter most men.
My jaw tightens, and I force myself to exhale slowly, quietly.
I want to reach out, touch her hair, feel the heat of her scalp under my palm.
The urge is so strong it’s almost chemical.
I cross my arms, digging my fingers into my biceps, a gesture I use to anchor myself during trying times. “What test are you studying for?”
She brightens, grateful for the change of subject. “Oh, it’s nothing. Just travel Italian. Basically, if you can order at a restaurant and not offend anyone, you pass.”
I arch an eyebrow. “And you’re failing at that?”
Mary Kate grins, all teeth and mischief. “I could maybe order a coffee. But if I tried to get a hotel room, I’d probably end up at a strip club by accident.”
I let out a bark of laughter. “That sounds like something your mother would do.”
She covers her mouth, eyes wide. “Oh god, it totally is.”
The moment is light, easy, almost normal, and I savor it. But even in the softness, the hunger remains. I wonder if she feels it too, the raw livewire running under every word.
She sets the guidebook on the sill, flips to a page with a bright color photo of a Roman fountain. “Did you know,” she says, “that if you throw a coin in here, you’re guaranteed to come back?” She looks at me, eyes wide, voice pitched high. “Isn’t that kind of a scam?”
I tilt my head, feigning thoughtfulness. “You think the Italians would lie?”
She puts on an exaggerated accent. “In Italia, everyone lies.” She laughs, shoulders shaking, and for a second the innocence is real, untarnished by memory or longing. I want to trap that laugh, hold it in a jar, keep it safe from whatever’s coming.
She sits back down, curling into the chair again, and the leather creaks under her. I watch the way she tucks her legs, the way the light paints her hair and skin. The silence grows again, but it’s not empty—there’s a charge to it, like the second before a summer storm.
I clear my throat. “If you want, I can run through some vocabulary with you. Medical Italian, even. Once upon a time, I used to watch a lot of foreign films, and picked up some of the language. It might be useful.”
Mary Kate perks up, blue eyes shining. “You’d do that?”
I nod, then force a smile. “Sure. I’ll even quiz you.”
She bites her lip, and the flush returns to her cheeks. “You’re on.”
I let myself watch her for a moment longer, cataloguing every detail: the curve of her jaw, the faint spray of freckles on her cheekbones, the way her lips part when she’s thinking. I’m not a good man, not in this moment, but I can’t bring myself to care.