Chapter 7 #2
He looked up. Faint blue shadows bruised the skin beneath his left eyebrow, and a red collar chafing marked his collarbone. He looked like he’d aged five years since we sat down in the clinic waiting room, even though that was physically impossible.
“We can drink bad tea until you have to head to work.”
“That’s not a very solid plan.”
“It’s what I’ve got.”
On any other day, the delivery would have been charming. Today, it pressed a dull ache behind my sternum.
“There’s a date,” I said.
Cole glanced down at the envelope. “December second.”
“The doctor said it’s an estimate.”
“Yeah.”
“We don’t have to start saying it out loud like it’s...” I trailed off. The word baby felt too massive for the table. The word future was even worse. “Like it decides anything.”
Cole rested his palms flat on his thighs. He didn’t try to reach across the table.
“It doesn’t decide anything for us.”
“But it changes the questions.”
“Yeah.”
His answer didn’t bring relief. It just gave me room to admit I didn’t have any.
I slid one of the glossy prints from the envelope. The paper was heavier than I’d imagined. At the top, my name, the date, and a string of measurements were stamped in gray. In the center sat an irregular dark shape that seemed far too small to justify rearranging an entire life around.
Cole tilted his head, holding back until I angled the print so he could see it.
“There it is,” he said softly.
“It looks like an ink smudge.”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t say it looks like a flanker.”
“Wasn’t going to.”
“You were thinking it.”
“No. I was thinking it’s already making an awful lot of noise for something so small.”
The space where an insult normally lived filled with something else entirely. I had to set the print back on the table before my fingers creased the glossy paper.
Cole caught the movement and stayed still.
“Want me to walk you up to Halcyon?” he asked after a moment.
“No need.”
“All right.”
“I need to do this part alone.”
Cole nodded. He finally took a sip of his coffee, now completely cold.
“Then I’m heading to training. I’ll text you later, if that’s okay.”
“Yeah.”
The word came out softer than I’d intended. He didn’t call attention to the slip.
As we stood, Cole pulled on his jacket and tossed cash onto the table. I protested out of pure reflex.
“I can pay for my punitive peppermint tea.”
“I know. Today, it’s on me.”
He didn’t let it turn into a debate. He waited. I looked at the change on the counter, the envelope tucked under my fingers, the wet street beyond the glass.
“Fine,” I said.
Cole held the door open for me. On the sidewalk, the air smelled of rain on concrete and the diesel exhaust of a pulling-away bus. Before heading toward the parking garage, he stopped at a careful distance.
“Kate.”
“What?”
His eyes dropped to the envelope pressed against my wool coat, then lifted back to my face.
“I’m glad you called me.”
I had no script for that. I gave him a brief nod and turned toward my car before gratitude could morph into something I couldn’t afford to say on a sidewalk in First Hill.
* * *
The 22nd-floor boardroom had the blinds drawn and the wall display filled with blue spreadsheet columns.
I arrived at 11:06, my hair hurriedly pinned back and the white envelope stashed in the zippered compartment of my tote bag.
The HVAC blew dry air across the mahogany table.
Sasha was already seated across from Diane, scanning a printed ledger with a stainless-steel ruler between her fingers.
“Good timing,” Diane said, her voice even. “The New York team joins in two minutes.”
“I’m here.”
That was my most functional voice. I used it.
Sasha slid a folder across to me. “The client support model doesn’t account for the interpreter costs we approved this morning. If we leave it as is, the deck sells the board a program that doesn’t exist.”
I flipped open the folder. The cells were highlighted in yellow. My brain identified the error and latched onto it with embarrassing gratitude.
“You’re right. We’ll reallocate the media spend to discharge staffing. Tessa can get angry at real data.”
“Her native language,” Sasha said.
The screen flickered, revealing three faces in a white Manhattan conference room.
Diane handled introductions. I walked them through partner clinics, medical interpreters, and what happened after a patient left the hospital with a bag of prescriptions.
My hands didn’t shake. Only once did my thumb brush the clasp of my watch, reminding me of the white envelope resting against my ribs.
When the call wrapped, Diane disconnected and leaned against the edge of the table.
“The Sentinels pilot looks solid. Keep driving it. But there’s another item.”
Sasha stopped turning pages.
Diane brought up a timeline running from May through August. Every two weeks, a three-day block was shaded in dark blue. New York.
“The board approved accelerating our IPO readiness roadmap,” Diane said. “Operations needs an executive who can actually defend our systems, not just deliver a polished slide deck. I want that to be you.”
The blue blocks laid claim to my summer as if they already owned it. Friday red-eyes to Manhattan. Early Monday flights back to Seattle. Vendor reviews. Technical due diligence. Sessions with securities attorneys whose entire livelihood depended on finding structural cracks before the market did.
“How frequent?” I asked.
“Twice a month, realistically. More as we approach the filing window. It’s not permanent, but it will be grueling.”
My watch clasp clicked beneath my sleeve. I didn’t remember touching it.
December second flashed across my mind, bearing zero obvious connection to May, June, or July. That was the trouble with dates. They began cross-referencing each other without anyone’s permission.
“I can handle it,” I said.
Diane studied me. Not with warmth. With calculation—which was what I expected from her, and usually what I knew best how to navigate.
“I don’t need an immediate sign-off. I need you to understand that if you accept, there will be weeks where your schedule gives you zero breathing room.”
“My schedule has never given me breathing room.”
Sasha gave a dry, quiet laugh, then sobered. “There’s also room to delegate. Not every operational review has to pass through your hands.”
The comment ruffled me before I could recognize that it wasn’t an attack. Sasha knew the work. She’d saved the interpreter budget fifteen minutes ago. Diane wasn’t pitting us against each other for a title; she was watching us evaluate a role that didn’t fully exist yet.