Chapter 11
The first smile of the day stuck to my face when Diane announced the board had approved the roadmap.
It wasn't bad news. The conference room screen displayed the rollout calendar with its blue blocks, referral arrows, and the budget Sasha and I had spent three weeks defending.
Water glasses sat beside every folder, a carafe of burnt-smelling coffee sat on the credenza, and rain streaked across the twenty-second-floor windows.
Priya sat in the back with her laptop open.
Diane stood by the monitor, one hand buried in the pocket of her gray trousers.
“The board wants us to start in June,” Diane said. “That means the initial hires and clinic agreements need to be locked down before May fifteenth.”
I smiled again. That was number two.
“They will be.”
Sasha looked at me from across the table. She was wearing a dark green dress with a pencil slid through her topknot. A sheet of dense notes lay in front of her, even though she knew the figures better than anyone in the room.
“As long as we don't turn the medical interpreter program into a footnote,” she said. “The network falls apart if follow-up only happens in English.”
“We won't,” Diane said. “Kate, walk us through the hiring sequence.”
Smile number three was for the room. There weren't any left for me, so I stopped counting.
I stood up. The table edge caught my knee as I stepped out, the dull jolt grounding me back in the room.
I had my index cards arranged in front of my laptop: community coordinators, phone support, data-sharing agreements.
I’d written them the night before after two and a half hours of sleep, right when my radiator started clanking and before the neighbor began his trumpet scales.
“The first twelve contracts aren't getting distributed by volume,” I said. “We’re prioritizing neighborhoods with existing partners capable of taking forty-eight-hour referrals. If we hire before locking down those care pathways, we’re building a phone directory, not a network of care.”
The CFO, whom I only ever saw in meetings where every dollar had to be defended twice, tilted his head.
“What if we don't hit the clinic quota by May?”
“We scale back the rollout, not the model. I’d rather launch with eight fully functional sites than announce fifteen and lose patients between systems.”
The answer came out clean. My voice didn't waver. Not even when a flush of heat crept up my neck to my temples, sticking the silk of my blouse to my back.
Diane nodded.
“That’s what I wanted to hear.”
Noted. Good enough for the room.
The rest of the meeting filled up with questions I actually knew how to answer.
Training dates. Software licenses. Who was signing off on the first draft of the hospital agreements.
Every answer was a locked door, and I held the right key.
I clung to that machinery with a gratitude so fierce it nearly brought tears to my eyes.
I didn't cry.
When we wrapped up, the CFO closed his folder and glanced at Diane.
“Vice President Mercer has a steady hand for this.”
“She does,” Diane said.
My fourth smile was easier. It lasted just long enough. Nobody noticed that, beneath the table, my thumb was dug into the clasp of my watch hard enough to leave a mark in my skin.
Chairs scraped back. Priya gathered her cables. Sasha walked over, a stack of printouts pressed against her chest.
“Page sixteen needs another pass on the timeline,” she told me quietly. “Two May milestones overlap.”
“I’ll look at it this afternoon.”
“You don't have to do it alone. I can take the vendor contracts if you want.”
The offer was entirely reasonable. Which was exactly why it grated.
“No need.”
Sasha’s expression didn't shift. She simply handed over the pages.
“I’ll email you my notes, then. No need to reply today.”
She walked away before I could apologize for a sharpness I hadn't even let into my voice. I tapped the printouts against the wood to align the edges. One, two, three neat taps against the table. When I finished, they were still just sheets of paper. Not a lifeline. Not a way out.
Diane waited for Priya to leave before shutting the door.
The click of the latch had me stiffening before I could school my shoulders.
“You’re not in trouble,” she said.
“That’s usually what people say right before explaining why you are.”
Diane’s mouth twitched, stopping well short of a smile.
“You’re doing great work. The board sees it too. But you’ve spent the last two weeks coming in before everyone else and leaving after nearly everyone’s gone. You slipped out of a meeting with Manhattan on Thursday without a word. Yesterday you revised a budget deck at two in the morning.”
“The budget was wrong.”
“I don't doubt it was.”
Rain tapped against the glass in a thin, steady patter. Diane pulled out the chair across from me and sat down. It wasn't an assertion of authority. It was worse: she looked like she was trying to talk to me like a human being instead of an entry on a project schedule.
“When I asked you to lead this, I didn't ask you to prove you could do it without a body, without limits on your time, or without letting anyone cover for you for a single day. I need to know you can handle the exposure coming down the line.”
The HVAC draft blew across my forearms. I felt hot and cold at the same time, an absurd physical rebellion refusing to pick a single signal.
“I can handle it.”
Diane studied me for a beat.
“Good. Then don't make me guess when you’re hitting a wall.”
It wasn't a cruel remark. It came with an implicit guarantee: if I said I needed two days off, she’d find someone else to sign the invoices.
If I said I couldn't travel, she’d reschedule the meeting.
The trouble was, I’d have to say it. And to say it, I’d have to admit there was something to manage—something more than a rough week and too little sleep.
“It won't happen again,” I said.
Diane didn't look convinced, but she let it go.
“We need your final version of the New York timeline by three. You don't have to draft it right this second. Get some lunch first.”
“Of course.”
She stood up. Reaching the door, she added:
“Kate, the job doesn't belong to you any less just because someone sees you’re tired.”
I waited until she was gone. Then I stared at the dark conference room monitor until my face stopped resembling someone capable of holding one more conversation.
* * *
The twenty-second-floor restroom had four stalls, two sinks, and a wide mirror that made it impossible to hide if anyone walked in.
I picked the stall at the far end, bolted the latch, and dropped the lid before sitting down.
The lock was cheap brushed chrome. I slid it back and forth twice.
On the third try, my fingers refused to cooperate.
I wasn't bleeding. That was what I’d been repeating to myself ever since the follow-up at First Hill, as if the bleeding stopping was some official clearance.
Dr. Mehta had said the fatigue and mood crashes might linger.
She’d used more clinical phrasing that I hadn't written down because it didn't fit into any useful spreadsheet cell.
Nobody had warned me that a morning could start with a room full of executives nodding at my strategy and end with my pulse hammering in my throat in front of a paper towel dispenser.
I unzipped my bag, pulled out my phone, and found a text from Priya.
Priya: *I’m downstairs. Can I bring you something that doesn't come out of a vending machine?*
Cole’s name sat three threads down. After Thursday’s appointment, I’d texted him that I was physically fine and needed a few days. He’d replied: *Take your time. I’m here.* He hadn't pushed.
The screen blurred. I thought a notification had popped up. Then a tear splashed against the glass.
I pressed my palms to my face. The first sob tore out dry and harsh, impossible to mistake for allergies.
I clamped a hand over my mouth, but it kept coming anyway.
I bent over my knees. The floor was gray tile, stained with water marks around the base of the toilet; I locked my eyes onto a line of grout until it split in two through my tears.
I wasn't crying because of what Diane had said, or the New York timeline waiting on me at three. I was crying because I’d bought a new moisturizer and the citrus scent had made me sick to my stomach that morning.
Because on Sunday I’d stopped needing the heavy pads the clinic recommended, yet two unopened packs still sat on my bathroom shelf.
Because my grandmother’s watch was biting into my wrist, and I couldn't unfasten the clasp without thinking of April eighth, when Cole had waited until I was ready to give him my hand.
The phone buzzed again.
Priya: *Kate?*
I didn't answer. The guilt of making her worry slotted into a clean, practical compartment in my brain.
It was easier to manage than anything else.
When my legs finally held me, I turned on the faucet.
Cold water ran over my wrists. I splashed my face, dried the edges of my phone with a paper towel, and typed:
Me: *Sorry. Felt off. Coming down now.*
Priya: *Don't apologize. In the elevator.*
The restroom door swung open before I could text back.
Priya walked in holding a crinkled brown paper bag in one hand and two iced teas in the other.
She was wearing white sneakers, wide-leg trousers, and a crisp blue button-down that made it look as if she hadn't spent the last three hours buried in a spreadsheet.
She stopped when she saw me. She didn't ask if I was okay. It was one of the many reasons she was still my best friend.
“I brought veggie fried rice,” she said. “The place downstairs promised it has zero personality.”
A laugh hitched out of me like a hiccup. I hated myself a little for it. Priya set the bag on the counter beside the sinks and put down the teas.
“You don't have to eat it right now.”
“Diane thinks I should have lunch.”