Chapter 15 #2
I stop mid-sentence when I recognize someone striding toward the front row. Reed. My brother. Why is he here? We’ve barely discussed the clinic situation, and he wasn’t on any planning calls.
He spots me and nods, then—impossibly—walks directly to Zayn. They exchange words I can’t hear and shake hands. It looks slightly awkward but not hostile. Reed settles into the front row, arms crossed but expression open.
I lean toward Dr. Martinez. “Did you know my brother was coming?”
She gives me an enigmatic smile. “I ran into him at The Daily Grind yesterday. Might have mentioned what was happening tonight.”
Before I can respond, she ascends the gazebo steps and approaches the microphone. The crowd falls silent. The setting sun bathes everything in amber light, stretching long shadows across the grass like reaching fingers.
“Thank you all for coming tonight,” Dr. Martinez says, her voice clear and resonant.
“Some of you know why we’re gathered, but let me provide context for everyone.
First, I want to acknowledge everyone who attended our fundraiser two weeks ago.
Your generosity was extraordinary—we raised sixty-three thousand dollars. ”
She pauses as people nod and smile with pride.
“Unfortunately, that’s not quite sufficient for a down payment on the property. The building is valued at over four hundred thousand, and we’d need at least eighty thousand to qualify for financing.”
A ripple of concerned murmurs runs through the crowd. Mrs. Taylor raises her hand. “So what happens now?”
Dr. Martinez takes a steadying breath. “That’s why I’ve called this meeting.
The building’s new owner intends to demolish it for apartments.
We’re attempting to purchase it ourselves, but we’re running out of time.
Our current strategy is pursuing historic landmark designation to prevent demolition.
” She keeps her explanation simple, but her passion radiates through every word, and it makes everyone listen.
“This isn’t just some old structure,” she continues, her voice catching slightly.
“This is where Mrs. Donovan brought six abandoned kittens she found in her shed. Where Max the golden retriever receives life-saving kidney treatments twice weekly. Where you can call at two in the morning when your companion animal is in crisis, and someone always answers.”
When she finishes, she gestures for Zayn to join her. My stomach does that infuriating flip as he steps forward. He looks so… right up there. Like he belongs. Not showing off, but sure of himself. Like the hometown boy he is, not the big-city lawyer he became.
“We have several legal avenues to pursue,” he says, explaining complex regulations like he’s discussing the weather with neighbors. “Historic designation is our strongest option, but we need to demonstrate the building’s cultural significance to Bellrose’s development.”
He keeps talking, laying out all our choices and when we’d need to do each one. His voice is steady and sure, like he’s done this a hundred times. I can’t help feeling impressed watching him work the crowd. This is the Zayn I remember—the one who fights passionately for what matters.
After he concludes, residents begin sharing their stories.
Mr. Jenkins stands and describes how the clinic diagnosed his daughter’s severe rabbit allergy that was causing respiratory distress.
The school counselor discusses our therapy dog program helping sad and scared children.
One by one, people explain why our clinic is irreplaceable.
I’m listening so intently I almost miss the elderly woman with the cane making her way toward the front. It’s Mrs. Patterson—ninety-two years old with a memory like steel for Bellrose history. Her voice quavers slightly but carries clearly.
“That building sheltered freedom seekers on the Underground Railroad,” she announces, and the crowd goes absolutely silent. “My great-grandfather documented everything in his journals. People hid in the clinic basement during their journey north.”
The crowd erupts in whispers as Mrs. Patterson retrieves a bundle from her oversized purse—yellowed papers bound with string, clearly ancient.
“My family has preserved these for five generations,” she says, holding them aloft.
“Journals, maps, correspondence. They document the concealed spaces and which families provided aid.”
My heart pounds so violently I can feel it pulsing in my throat. This changes everything. Our small-town veterinary clinic isn’t just locally significant—it’s part of American history. Part of the fight for freedom itself.
Zayn accepts the fragile documents from Mrs. Patterson’s trembling hands with reverent care. He scans them rapidly, eyes widening with each page. Then he looks directly at me across the gazebo.
“This is a game-changer,” he calls out, and I don’t look away this time. Something locks into place between us—like we both temporarily forgot our personal drama because this matters infinitely more.
After the meeting dissolves into excited conversations, I hang back and watch Reed approach Zayn at the gazebo’s edge. Reed gestures at the historical documents while Zayn nods seriously. They don’t look uncomfortable anymore—they look like allies working together.
“Your brother offered to help,” Dr. Martinez says, appearing beside me. “He knows someone at the county historical society who can authenticate those documents.”
“Reed and Zayn collaborating,” I murmur. “I didn’t see that coming.”
“People can surprise you,” she says with a knowing look. “Especially when something genuinely important is at stake.”
I continue watching them. Reed claps Zayn’s shoulder—that casual masculine gesture of approval and solidarity. My heart does a complicated skip. The last time I witnessed them standing like that was before everything imploded five years ago, back when Reed considered Zayn family.
As people begin departing, I stack the chairs, my mind churning with possibilities.
About saving the clinic, yes, but also about that dangerous flutter of hope I’ve been desperately suppressing.
Because if Reed can start trusting Zayn again, what does that mean for everything else? What does it mean for us?
The research room at the Bellrose Historical Society is claustrophobic.
Metal shelves units crammed everywhere with archive boxes on all sides and a single oak table in the center.
One ancient desk lamp with a yellowed bulb provides the only light, making dust motes dance in the air whenever we shift position.
It’s nearly nine at night, and we’ve been here for hours looking through old papers that might save the clinic—if I can survive being trapped in this shoebox-sized room with Zayn much longer.
When his sleeve brushes mine as he reaches for another leather-bound ledger, I scoot my chair away yet again, leaving fresh scrape marks on the worn linoleum to join all the others.
“Found something,” he says quietly, like we’re in a library even though we’re completely alone. “This 1857 map shows a network of tunnels connecting our building directly to the harbor.”
I can’t help leaning closer, careful not to let the yellowed paper touch my skin. “So freedom seekers could reach waiting boats?”
He nods, eyes bright with discovery. “Exactly. And look—” he indicates faded ink in the margin, “—it shows twenty-seven people went through in just one month.”
My breath catches. “Twenty-seven people who found freedom through our basement.”
“Our basement,” he echoes softly, and something in his emphasis makes me glance up. He’s watching me instead of the map, wearing an expression I can’t quite decipher. I quickly redirect my attention to the document.
We’ve been working for three hours now, and somehow we’ve found our groove.
I take pictures of each fragile document with my phone for digital proof.
He organizes them by date and writes down how they help our legal case.
We speak minimally but still know what the other person needs, passing materials back and forth like we’ve already done this before.
“Look at this correspondence,” I say, carefully turning a delicate page inside its protective sleeve. “It references a physician named Samuel Wells who provided medical care to ‘travelers’ while they waited for transport.”
“So the building served medical purposes even earlier than our initial documentation suggested.” Zayn makes a notation. “That strengthens our argument for continuous healthcare use throughout its history.”
We both reach for the same document simultaneously. Our fingers collide, and that familiar electricity shoots up my arm. I jerk back so violently I nearly topple the lamp.
“Sorry,” we both say in unison, then lapse into awkward silence.
The door creaks open, and Reed enters carrying a cardboard drink carrier and a paper bag that smells amazing.
“Figured you two might need sustenance,” he says, squeezing into our cramped workspace. “Got turkey sandwiches from The Daily Grind and fresh coffee.”
“You’re a lifesaver,” I say, suddenly realizing how hungry I am. My stomach releases an embarrassingly loud growl as if agreeing.
Reed deposits the food on the table’s only clear surface. He surveys our scattered documents with genuine interest. “Making progress?”
“Significant progress,” Zayn confirms, accepting coffee gratefully. “Mrs. Patterson’s collection was just the foundation. We’re uncovering an entire network of collaboration.”
I observe them conversing, barely believing what I’m witnessing. Three days ago at the town meeting marked their first interaction in five years. Now Reed’s delivering late-night food and Zayn’s engaging him like they never stopped being brothers.
“I contacted some people at county records,” Reed mentions, unwrapping his sandwich. “We can access the original property deeds tomorrow morning. Might uncover more proof there.”
“That would be invaluable,” Zayn says. “The more evidence we compile regarding the building’s Underground Railroad connection, the stronger our preservation case becomes.”
“We?” I question Reed, eyebrow raised. “You’re coming too?”
My brother shrugs, avoiding direct eye contact. “Took the morning off. Three people can cover more ground than two.” He bites into his sandwich, then adds almost casually, “Besides, it’s pretty interesting stuff.”
I glance at Zayn, who’s poorly concealing a smile behind his coffee cup. Watching my brother and my ex-boyfriend falling back into their old friendship feels weird. And terrifying. Like watching ice reform over water I thought would stay broken forever.
Reed lingers about twenty minutes before checking his watch and standing. “I should head out. Early meeting before I join you both at records.” He squeezes my shoulder on his way past. “Don’t stay up too late, Soph.”
The door closes behind Reed, leaving Zayn and me alone again in this cramped space. The wall clock reads 11:47. My eyes burn from deciphering faded nineteenth-century handwriting for hours.
I take a steadying breath. Now or never.
“Did you actually refuse that job offer from Cameron?” I ask, keeping my gaze fixed on the document before me even though the words have stopped making sense.
Zayn’s pen stills. I feel his attention shift entirely to me, but I don’t look up.
“Yes,” he says without hesitation. “My life is here now.”
The certainty in his voice—that unwavering confidence—makes my heart skip a beat for a second. I’ve heard him sound that sure before. Five years ago, when he promised he’d visit during holidays. When he swore nothing would change between us.
“That’s what you said last time,” I whisper before I can stop myself.
Pain flashes across his features. “I know. I was wrong then.” He leans slightly closer, near enough that I can see the subtle gray flecks in his blue eyes. “But I’m not the same person I was at twenty-one, Sophie. Not even close.”
“Three hundred thousand dollars,” I say, my voice breaking slightly. “Plus performance bonuses. Partnership track. That’s… that’s life-changing money.”
“It is,” he agrees without deflection. “And five years ago, I would have accepted immediately. Would have started packing that same night, convinced I was making the smart choice.”
“But not now?” My voice emerges barely above a whisper. I hate how desperately I want to believe him.
“Not now.” He sounds absolutely certain, and it makes my heart stutter. “Not ever again.”
I look down at my hands, at the photographs of people who ran away to find freedom. People who had to choose what mattered most when everything was on the line.
“I want to believe you,” I admit quietly.
“I know.” He keeps his hands carefully to himself, not pressuring me. “And I’ll keep proving it to you, Sophie. For as long as it takes.”
The clock chimes midnight, breaking the moment between us. I stand and begin gathering my stuff, suddenly needing physical and emotional space to process. I return Mrs. Patterson’s irreplaceable Underground Railroad documents to their protective folder.
“We should continue tomorrow,” I say, attempting to sound more composed than I feel. “After the county records office.”
He nods, giving me the distance I need. “I’ll be there.”
Those three simple words linger in the air as we pack up our materials.
They seem to promise both his presence tomorrow and something bigger that I’m still too frightened to trust completely.
My fingers brush the antique map showing escape routes to freedom, where desperate people risked everything for a chance at something better. Something real.