Chapter Sixteen
“This may be the best work trip I’ve ever been on,” Rhys says, the sun dipping beneath the horizon in the distance, casting the whitewashed buildings and blue domes of Pyrgos Village in amber and violet. “Beautiful setting and…” he winks, “meeting new friends.”
After spending a few days catching up on paperwork and conducting my first teleconferences with patients back in the city, I decided to venture off the cruise to see Santorini today.
The girls were adamant I should have some fun outside of working and we’re already a little over a week into the cruise.
On our group call last night, they grilled me. Relentlessly.
“Are European men hotter?” Alexis asks.
“Why do you care? You are married…to my brother.” Taylor tsks, her snark coming off in waves.
“I have eyes too! And while Ethan fulfills all my needs—”
“Stopping you right there,” Lana interrupts. “I don’t need to know how our brother fulfills your needs. And since I’m the only single lady here, I’ll ask. Olivia…are European men hotter?”
At my silence, Lana adds, “You better not tell me you haven’t left the boat. I sent you there to get some R and R and get laid.”
“I thought it was to do you a favor because your cruise was falling apart without me.”
“Burn! Muahahaha.” Taylor snorts.
“Oh my God, woman. You have needs too. A man can work out those kinks—”
Images of her infuriating brother barge into my mind, and I shake my head. Nope. Not going there. No kinks and no Rex. “Fine. You win. I’ll go out so I don’t rot in my office, okay?”
Lana narrows her eyes. “You’re mocking me. And is that a blush I see? Something happened, huh? Did you meet a hot Greek god with a sexy accent who gave you orgasms all night long?”
Sexier than a mythological god.
I groan as Rex’s handsome face flashes behind my eyelids. “There’s no one. It’s boring.” Liar, liar, pants on fire. “And oh look, the reception is b-bad. G-Guess we w-will need to ch-chat when you get here, L-Lana.”
“Don’t you dare! Your image is crystal clear, and we have top of the line satellite reception on the ship. I’m not falling for it. Olivia, don’t hang up—”
I hang up.
“Olivia?” Rhys stops. “Something on your mind?”
I falter and strain a smile. “Sorry. I haven’t taken a vacation in years. I don’t think I can turn my mind off. You travel a lot for work?”
Sneaking a glance at him, I take in his dark hair and chiseled bone structure. He really is good looking. I think back to Lana’s suggestion for me to have a fling.
Rhys would be a good candidate—smart, charming, a doctor like me, so he understands the work hours and dedication I have for my job.
Mentally stable is a plus.
Olivia, we really need to work on your standards. Especially if being mentally stable is optional.
But still, I tick off the checkboxes on my invisible checklist. I should be attracted to Rhys.
He’s everything I could possibly want. Sure, my parents would be disappointed I wasn’t bringing a Mandarin-speaking guy home who’d know our culture right off the bat—small things like bringing food when you first visit someone’s home or taking off your shoes in the foyer before venturing inside—but I’m sure they’d get over it quickly if it was Rhys. He’s a catch by all standards.
“Other than a few Doctors without Borders trips and a concierge doctor stint I did two years ago, who has time to travel? But this cruise is a good reminder. We can’t save lives if we don’t take care of ourselves.
Mental health included. What the heck? Why am I talking out of my ass to a psychiatrist about mental health?
” He grins, his brown eyes lighting up his face.
But I find myself thinking about a pair of quicksilver eyes, hollowed with pain. The man who’s a walking definition of mentally unstable.
My heart skips several beats.
Dammit.
Needing to do something with my hands, I pull out a bag of Mom’s almond cookies from my purse. I still have half a tin left in my stateroom.
I really don’t want to eat them. Well, why are you forcing yourself to eat them then? That’s what you’d tell your patients.
Ugh. Doctors make the worst patients.
Rhys looks at the cookies, his brows arching up.
I grin and hand them to him. “Have at it. Homemade cookies.”
“Never say no to free food.” He takes them and smiles.
He does have a nice smile.
But not as nice as someone you aren’t supposed to think about.
As if I conjured the infuriating devil himself, I hear the teasing rasp of his laughter. I inwardly groan, unable to stop myself from searching for him.
It isn’t hard to locate him. Rex stands out the way celebrities draw your attention when they walk down the red carpet.
He’s with Bree and idling in the distance, dressed in khaki shorts and a white linen shirt, sleeves rolled up, revealing muscular, tanned arms. His dark hair is windswept, with an errant lock falling over his forehead, begging me to brush it off his face.
He pops something into his mouth—a pill? I frown, thinking back to the headlines I showed him on the jet, the allegations of illicit drugs.
He crouches down, beaming at a robust older lady with graying hair who’s shoving a loaf of bread at him. The woman flushes when he murmurs something to her. Bree throws her head back in laughter and clasps his shoulder like he’s the most hilarious person on the planet.
My stomach sours. The regular heart-stealing comedian.
A stocky man snaps photos of them and my mind makes the connection. The paparazzi are here as well. This is a show.
“The playboy prince conquers the hearts of women—young and old.” I can practically see the headlines.
It’s all fake. Don’t they see it? This lighthearted, devil-may-care attitude is as fake as the gorgeous Bree’s tan.
Olivia, that isn’t nice at all! I cringe, wanting to bang my head against the bright blue shutters affixed to the pebbly walls nearby.
Bree is perfectly nice—shy even, but then, so am I.
We haven’t exchanged anything more than hellos, but she’s nothing like the women I’d expect to capture Rex’s attention—socialites and models giving off snobby airs.
Like they told me before, I don’t sense romantic or intimate vibes between them when there’s no one else around.
But then they act lovey-dovey in public.
It’s strange.
“You know what this is, Olive,” Mia taunts in my head. “You’re jealous.”
“Shut up. You only get to say that if you were here,” I mutter under my breath.
“Sorry, were you talking to me?” Rhys asks as we close in on the bakery stand where Rex is still speaking with the owner in Greek, no less.
Why does he have to know a sexy foreign language too?
God isn’t playing fair.
He’s pointing at the various loaves, then the jars of olives and spices, his hands waving in the air.
He’s clearly interested in the topic. The old woman responds, motioning to her ingredients, like she’s showing him how to cook.
Then, he does something I don’t expect. He takes out a small notebook and pen from his pocket and jots down notes.
His lips curve into a wide smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
He’s happy. It’s genuine. Whatever the topic is, it’s something he’s passionate about.
What is he writing down?
I’m only interested because he’s my patient, that’s all. Detached observation with zero emotions, all for the sake of treating him.
“Keep telling yourself that.” Mia snickers.
I shove her imaginary comments away. Before this trip, I kept myself busy with work, filling my schedule with patients and conferences, so much I’d barely hear her voice in my head. And when she showed up occasionally, I knew it was because I missed her.
Being an identical twin was a unique bond few could understand.
Among the seven billion-plus people on earth, there was someone who looked and sounded exactly like me, someone who shared my DNA and sometimes, even my thoughts.
The world may be a loud place favoring extroverts, and introverts like me slunk into the background.
But I never had to try to be understood by my twin.
She just knew.
Sure, she was the sun to my shadow. No one noticed me when she was in the room.
But she saw me. Mom told me when we were born, we’d hold each other’s hands in the bassinet, sleeping face-to-face like we couldn’t bear to be separated.
And now she’s gone.
“God, it’s so beautiful out here, isn’t it?” Rhys sighs happily and bumps my shoulder.
Smile. Flirt back. Here’s a man who notices me and wants to know me better. I should be excited.
“Yeah, Olive. I’m so disappointed in you,” Mia quips in my head again.
Shut. Up. You don’t get to be disappointed in me.
Ever since I boarded the cruise, she’s been in my head all the time.
I’ve spent years studying the brain and emotions. I know you never really get over the loss of a loved one.
This is grief.
It ebbs and flows like the currents rippling the ocean.
There’s no time limit to grief. It can be a few months, a few years, or a few decades.
But this trip is putting it at the forefront.
Everything I’m doing now—talking to a handsome doctor, strolling through winding alleys, admiring the hanging flower baskets, iconic blue doors against white-walled homes—is things I was supposed to do with her.
Process the pain, push through to move through. That’s what I’d tell my patients.
Why is it so hard? And why wasn’t I brave enough to face it until now?
Releasing an exhale, I unhook the Leica around my neck to adjust the aperture and shutter speed before taking a few shots of vendors hawking their wares, two little boys chasing a Jack Russell Terrier, a priest in flowing black robes crossing the plaza.
Mia would’ve wanted to be in the center of these photos, grinning at the camera while stuffing her mouth full of olive-oil dipped bread, striking a pose in a spot she spent ten minutes choosing for the perfect lighting.
But I love these quiet moments. These regular vignettes of people living their lives, unassuming yet unflinchingly honest.