Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Quinton
By the time I finally reached the break room at the end of the day, exhaustion had taken over.
I was barely functioning, running on whatever energy I had left and hoping that someone, anyone, had restocked the good coffee.
The ER had been absolute chaos—a relentless series of emergencies that included three car accidents, a victim from a kitchen fire, and a man who, for reasons still unclear to me, came in with a fishing lure stuck in his ear.
Don’t ask me how it happened. I certainly didn’t ask him.
All I wanted was a hit of caffeine, some peace and quiet, and maybe a few precious moments where nobody was actively bleeding on me.
Of course, the universe had other plans.
Vivian was already sitting at the table, scrolling through her phone with one hand and eating a banana with the other.
She was still dressed in her scrubs—the dark blue ones that indicated she’d spent her day working on the clinic floor.
Her dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail that looked like it had survived several rough hours.
She appeared tired and frustrated, and it was clear she was just moments away from hurling her phone across the room in frustration.
I should have simply turned around and left.
I should have grabbed my water and retreated to literally anywhere else.
Instead, because I was apparently a glutton for punishment, I walked over to the fridge, pulled out a bottle of water, and sat down across from Vivian. Twisting the cap off, I said, “Hey. How’s your day going?”
Vivian glanced up from her phone, and in that instant, I realized I’d made a terrible mistake. Her gaze was sharp, almost warning me not to press further, but I ignored my instincts and moved forward anyway.
“Oh, you know,” she replied, her tone laced with sarcasm so thick it could strip paint. “Just living the dream. How’s yours?”
“Fishing lure,” I answered simply. “In a guy’s ear.”
“How?” she asked, clearly baffled.
“Didn’t ask,” I replied, not wanting to delve into the details.
“Smart,” Vivian said, taking a bite of her banana. Despite her attempt at casualness, I watched her expression rapidly shift from irritated to furious in the span of three seconds as she continued to glare at her phone.
I should have stopped there. This would have been the perfect moment to make up an excuse about checking on a patient, filing paperwork, or really anything to escape the conversation.
But I didn’t. Instead, I foolishly asked, “What’s wrong?”
The second those words left my mouth, regret washed over me.
Vivian looked up, and in that moment, I could see she was determined to tell me exactly what was bothering her, regardless of whether I wanted to hear it.
Vivian’s irritation was palpable as she spoke, her words laced with a bitterness that seemed reserved for the most egregious offenders. “Men,” she said, her tone sharp enough to cut through steel. “Men are what’s wrong.”
Oh God.
Trying to ease the tension, I asked, “All men? Or specific men?”
Vivian’s frustration did not waver. “Specific men who think they can just—” She paused to collect herself, setting her phone down with a force that hinted at her rising anger.
Then, with a half-eaten banana in hand, she demanded, “Do you know what it’s like to date someone who’s so obsessed with their image that they can’t go five minutes without checking their reflection? ”
I did not, in fact, know what that was like. But her words made me curious about who she was referring to.
“Sounds exhausting,” I said, sipping my water.
Vivian agreed, waving her banana for emphasis.
A piece broke off and sailed across the table, unnoticed.
“It is exhausting,” she insisted. “And the worst part is, he’s so charming when he wants to be.
Genuinely charming. Then he turns around and does something so monumentally stupid that I want to strangle him. ”
My curiosity got the better of me. “What’d he do?” I asked, genuinely interested.
Vivian’s answer came with a dramatic gesture—her hands and the banana flew up. “He forgot we had plans. Again. And when I called him on it, he acted like I was being unreasonable for expecting him to remember that we were supposed to have dinner tonight.”
I chose my words carefully. “That’s pretty inconsiderate.”
Vivian leaned back, crossing her arms and brandishing her banana like a tiny sword. “And the thing is, I know he’s not doing it on purpose. He’s just... scattered. Forgetful. Too focused on work or the gym or whatever else is happening in his life to remember that I exist.”
Although I wanted to ask Vivian who she was talking about, her tone made it clear she wasn’t ready to reveal names. Instead, I said, “That sounds like a him problem, not a you problem.”
Vivian gave a bitter laugh. “Tell that to my heart,” she replied. “It keeps thinking he’ll change.”
She took another angry bite of her banana, and I couldn’t help but worry about whether the fruit would survive her frustration intact.
“Maybe you should—” I hesitated mid-sentence.
Vivian pressed, “Should what?” She raised an eyebrow, speculating, “Break up with him? Trust me, I’ve thought about it.
But then he does something sweet, and I think maybe I’m overreacting, and—” She groaned, burying her head in her hands.
The banana finally gave up and landed on the table. “I hate dating. I hate it so much.”
“You know what? I’ve got a solution,” I said, trying to offer some hope.
She looked up at me, skepticism written across her face. “What kind of solution?”
“Don’t date,” I said, leaning back in my chair with the kind of confidence that suggested I had really thought this through. Which I had. Sort of. “Just... opt out entirely.”
Vivian blinked at me. “Opt out?”
“Yeah. Look at the evidence.” I gestured vaguely in the direction of Julien’s office. “Your brother accidentally got married in Vegas and now has triplets. Gabriel went from single dad to married man in what, less than a month? It’s a trap, Viv. The whole thing is a trap.”
“A trap,” Vivian echoed, amusement creeping into her voice.
“A marriage trap,” I clarified. “You start dating someone, things get serious, and before you know it, you’re married with kids, and you can’t remember the last time you slept through the night. Or your own name. Or what freedom felt like.”
Vivian responded, “That’s a very specific fear.”
“It’s a legitimate fear,” I insisted. “I’ve watched it happen twice now.
Julien used to be the most organized person I knew.
Now he’s got a wife who reads tarot cards and triplets who’ve turned his life into a sleep-deprived nightmare.
Gabriel used to have hobbies. Now he has a five-year-old and a wife, and I’m pretty sure the last book he read was Goodnight Moon. ”
“Gabriel seems happy,” Vivian pointed out.
“That’s what they want you to think,” I replied. “It’s all part of the trap. They lure you in with happiness and companionship, and then BAM—you’re married, there’s a baby, and you’re shopping for minivans.”
Vivian stared at me for a moment that stretched long enough for me to wonder if I’d sprouted a second head.
Then she burst out laughing—not the cute, polite kind you gave your boss, but a full, unrestrained laugh that lit up her whole face, her eyes crinkling and her shoulders shaking as if she’d just heard the punchline to the world’s best joke.
If you didn’t know Vivian, you’d think she was always this easygoing, but you’d be wrong.
She was the ER’s undisputed queen of dry wit and stone-cold logic—my favorite person to argue with and, inconveniently, the sibling of one accidental Vegas groom.
“What?” I asked, already bracing myself for the mockery that was surely loading in her brain. My voice came out more defensive than I wanted, which—of course—only made her smile widen.
“You,” she managed between fading laughs, “you sound exactly like Fitz.”
That stung more than I cared to admit—a punch to my ego by association.
Fitz: my best mate, emergency room Casanova, serial charmer, and walking cautionary tale.
If there was a romantic disaster waiting to happen, Fitz was probably already inviting it for drinks.
I liked to think I was at least trying for dignity.
“I do NOT sound like Fitz,” I protested, sitting up straighter—like posture could save me from the comparison. “Fitz is actively trying to sleep with half of New Haven. I’m trying to avoid the entire concept of romantic entanglement. We are not the same.”
The words left my mouth with a sharpness that surprised me.
Was I really that different, or just telling myself I was?
For a split second, I caught myself wondering if all these so-called principles were just armor—if maybe I was hiding behind a wall of “man of principle” bluster because I was, deep down, terrified of being the next guy suckered into the marriage minivan industrial complex.
I shook off the thought, but it lingered, buzzing at the edge of my self-assurance.
Vivian just grinned, tucking her hair behind her ear. “You’re really not that different. Fitz avoids commitment by sleeping around. You’re avoiding commitment by... not sleeping with anyone at all. Same fear, different playbook.”
“It’s a completely different philosophy,” I countered, channeling all the self-righteousness of a man holding a paper shield. “Fitz is a man-whore with a British accent. I’m a man of principle.”
“A man of principle who’s afraid of dating.”
“I’m not afraid of dating. I’m intelligently avoiding a societal construct designed to trap unsuspecting men into domestic servitude.” The line sounded brilliant in my head; out loud, it sounded... well, maybe a touch desperate.
Vivian grabbed her phone, thumbs moving with mock-fervor. “Note to self: Quinton has lost his mind. Possible causes: too much ER exposure, contact high from Fitz’s cologne, or a legitimate psychological break.”
“I haven’t lost my mind,” I said, trying to sound more certain than I felt. “I’m the only sane person in this entire clinic.”
“Hayden would disagree.”
Of course she brought up Hayden—the resident grownup in our ragtag hospital crew. If there was a crisis, Hayden fixed it; if there was a childish spat, Hayden refereed. She probably kept a secret stash of gold stars for good behavior.
“Hayden thinks the rest of us are children. That doesn’t count.”
“Fair point.” Vivian set her phone down, amusement still practically vibrating off her. “So what’s your grand plan? Just... never date anyone ever again?”
“For at least a year,” I said, with the conviction of a man trying to convince himself. “Maybe longer. I’m going to focus on my career, my hobbies, my personal growth—”
“Your personal growth,” Vivian echoed, deadpan, like she was annotating the transcript of my midlife crisis.
“Yes. My personal growth,” I repeated, a little too loudly. “I’m going to become the best version of myself without the distraction of romantic entanglements.” Even I could hear the edge of desperation now—but if you said something enough times, it became true. Right?
“That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“It’s strategic.”
“It’s sad,” Vivian countered, but there was fondness behind the jab. “And also, you’re going to crack. Everyone cracks eventually.”
“I’m not going to crack.” Honestly, I wished I sounded as sure as I did in my head.
“You will absolutely crack,” Vivian said, grabbing her phone in the manner of a woman marking a future victory. “Give it six months. A year, tops. You’ll meet someone, fall head over heels, and completely forget about your whole ‘marriage trap’ theory.”
“That’s not going to happen.” I tried for nonchalance. It probably landed somewhere closer to hopeful denial.
“It’s definitely going to happen.”
“It’s not.”
“It is.”
“Want to bet on it?” I asked, feeling the spark of competition that had gotten me through med school and most of Fitz’s Sunday trivia smackdowns. I leaned forward, matching her grin with one of my own.
Vivian’s gaze sharpened, interest piqued. “What kind of bet?”
“If I’m still single and commitment-free in a year, you buy me dinner. If I crack, I buy you dinner.” I tried to sound casual, but I was already picturing steak and the smug satisfaction of a man proven right.
Vivian narrowed her eyes. “Define ‘crack.’”
“Any romantic relationship that lasts longer than three dates.”
“Three dates? That’s nothing. Make it five.”
“Four,” I said, splitting the difference like a seasoned negotiator with nothing at stake except my dignity.
“Deal,” she said immediately, hand shooting out to seal our fate. “But I get to pick the restaurant when you lose.”
“When you lose,” I corrected, shaking her hand. “And I’m picking somewhere expensive.”
“Dream big, Wesley,” she said, already sounding like she was making a reservation in her head. “I’m thinking about that new Italian place downtown. The one with the pasta that costs more than my car payment.”
“You’re not going to win.”
“I’m absolutely going to win,” she said, standing with her phone in hand, that knowing smirk firmly in place. “You’re going to meet some gorgeous, intelligent woman who laughs at your terrible jokes, and you’re going to fold like a cheap lawn chair.”
“My jokes aren’t terrible.” They weren’t. Usually.
“Your jokes are aggressively mediocre.”
“You laughed at the fishing lure story.”
“I laughed at the concept of a fishing lure in someone’s ear. Not at your delivery.”
“That’s the same thing.”
“It’s really not.” She paused at the door, her hand on the frame, a smile playing on her lips. “For what it’s worth, Quinton, I think your plan is sweet. Misguided, doomed to fail, and probably a sign that you need a therapist, but... sweet.”
“Thanks,” I said dryly, hoping my poker face hid the uneasy flutter in my chest. “That’s exactly what I was going for.”
“Also, when you inevitably lose this bet? I’m ordering the most expensive wine they have.”
“You’re not going to win.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” she said, vanishing into the hallway with her usual flair, leaving behind nothing but the scent of her coffee, the remains of her banana, and the faint echo of her laughter.
One year. No dating. No marriage traps. No complications.
It was foolproof—unless you counted my track record with plans, which, thankfully, no one ever did.
I glanced at the lonely banana on the table. At least someone else had given up hope today, too.
Yeah. I was definitely going to win this.