Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Quinton
I survived the weekend without further incident. No additional arrests, no surprise visits from Julien, no apocalyptic phone calls informing me that my employment had been terminated and my body would be found somewhere in the Connecticut River.
Small victories.
I walked into the clinic conference room to find Gabriel, Fitz, Nathan, and Hayden already assembled, looking like extras from a zombie movie.
Gabriel had a spectacular bruise blooming across his left cheekbone.
Nathan’s knuckles were wrapped in gauze.
Hayden looked like he’d aged ten years overnight.
And Fitz—because of course Fitz—looked annoyingly chipper despite the split lip and what appeared to be a hickey on his neck.
“Morning, lads!” Fitz said cheerfully. “Lovely day for a crisis management meeting, isn’t it?”
“It’s 8:45 in the morning,” Hayden said flatly. “I haven’t had enough coffee for this.”
“I haven’t had enough whiskey for this,” Nathan muttered.
I sat down at the head of the table—Julien’s usual spot, which felt vaguely treasonous—and looked around at my fellow idiots.
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s assess the damage. We were arrested Friday night. Bailed out Saturday morning. Julien is still on vacation until—” I checked my phone. “Wednesday. That gives us two days to figure out how to break the news without getting fired, murdered, or both.”
“I vote for neither,” Gabriel said.
“Seconded,” Hayden added.
Vivian, who’d arrived moments after me and was sitting to my right, rolled her eyes. “You’re all being dramatic. Julien’s not going to care about a bar fight.”
Five pairs of eyes turned to stare at her.
“Are we talking about the same Julien?” Nathan asked. “Julien Darcy? Neurosurgeon? Control freak? The man who color-codes his socks?”
“He’s my brother,” Vivian said. “I know him better than any of you. He’s not going to—”
“He’s going to eviscerate us,” Hayden interrupted. “Professionally and possibly literally.”
“Hayden’s right,” I said. “Julien’s going to lose his mind when he finds out we got arrested for brawling in a sports bar like a bunch of frat boys.”
“Speak for yourself,” Fitz said, examining his nails. “I was defending Vivian’s honor. Very chivalrous, actually.”
“You started a bar fight,” Gabriel said.
“I escalated a bar fight. Quinton started it.”
“I punched one guy!” I protested.
“And that guy happened to be dating Vivian,” Nathan pointed out. “Which brings us to the other problem.” He gestured between Vivian and me. “How exactly are we supposed to explain to Julien that you two are”—he made a vague hand gesture—“involved without him having a complete meltdown?”
“We’re not just involved,” Vivian said, reaching over to take my hand. “We’re together. Officially.”
Oh God. Hearing her say it out loud, in front of everyone, in Julien’s conference room, while we were actively strategizing how to avoid his wrath, made it feel simultaneously more real and more terrifying.
“That’s lovely,” Fitz said. “Truly. Very romantic. But Julien is going to murder Quinton.”
“He’s not going to murder anyone,” Vivian insisted.
“He might murder Quinton a little bit,” Gabriel said diplomatically.
“I’m sitting right here,” I said.
“We know,” Nathan said. “We’re planning your funeral.”
“I want an open casket,” Fitz said. “So everyone can see how handsome I look in black.”
“This isn’t about you,” Hayden snapped.
“Everything is about me,” Fitz said. “It’s just a fact of life.”
I dropped my head into my hands. “We’re doomed.”
“We’re not doomed,” Vivian said, squeezing my hand. “You’re all catastrophizing. Julien is a reasonable person—”
The door opened, and we all froze.
For one heart-stopping moment, I was absolutely certain Julien had returned early from his vacation, discovered everything, and was about to end my life in front of witnesses.
But it wasn’t Julien.
It was Winnie.
And she was holding a newspaper.
“Good morning, doctors,” she said brightly. “I thought you might want to see this.”
She walked over to the table and set the newspaper down in front of me.
I looked down and my soul actually left my body.
NEW HAVEN JOURNAL
FRONT PAGE
HEADLINE: “brAWL AT THE RUSTY NAIL: LOCAL DOCTORS ARRESTED IN BAR FIGHT”
And there—right there, in full color, taking up half the front page—was a photograph.
Of us.
All five of us.
Mid-brawl.
“Oh my God,” Gabriel breathed.
“Oh my God,” Nathan echoed.
Hayden made a sound like a dying animal.
Fitz leaned forward, squinting at the photo. Then his face split into the biggest grin I had ever seen. “They got my good side!” he exclaimed, pointing at the image. “Look at that! Perfectly lit. Excellent angle. I look fantastic.”
“Are you kidding me right now?” Nathan exploded, jabbing his finger at the photo. “Your good side? QUINTON’S BIG FAT HEAD IS BLOCKING ME ENTIRELY.”
I looked at the photo.
He wasn’t wrong. I was front and center, mid-punch, my face contorted in what could only be described as “rage-fueled determination.” And directly behind me, completely obscured except for one arm and part of a shoulder, was Nathan.
“My head is not that big,” I said weakly.
“YOUR HEAD IS ENORMOUS,” Nathan shouted. “I’M COMPLETELY INVISIBLE. I could be anyone. I could be a coat rack.”
“To be fair,” Fitz said, still grinning, “you do have the posture of a coat rack.”
“FITZ, I SWEAR TO GOD!”
“Gentlemen,” Gabriel said, his voice strained. “Can we focus on the bigger problem? We’re on the front page of the newspaper.”
“The photographer really captured my essence,” Fitz mused, tilting his head. “Roguish yet refined. Dangerous yet debonair.”
“You look like a drunk idiot,” Hayden said.
“A handsome drunk idiot.”
Hayden stood up abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. “That’s it. I’m done. I quit.”
“You can’t quit,” Gabriel said.
“Watch me.” Hayden headed for the door. “I’m forty-eight years old. I’ve dedicated my entire life to medicine. I’ve earned a peaceful retirement. I’m going to move to Florida, buy a boat, and never speak to any of you again.”
“You get seasick,” I pointed out.
“I’LL TAKE DRAMAMINE!”
“Hayden—”
“No,” he pointed at the newspaper. “I am not explaining to Julien Darcy why my face is on the front page of the New Haven Journal because we got arrested for brawling in a sports bar like a bunch of degenerates.”
“Technically,” Fitz said, “we were arrested for disorderly conduct and—”
“I don’t care about the technicalities!”
Vivian was staring at the newspaper, her face pale. “This is... bad.”
“Bad?” Nathan repeated. “BAD? This is a catastrophe. This is a career-ending, reputation-destroying, Julien-will-murder-us-all catastrophe.”
“It’s not that bad,” Fitz said.
“IT’S THE FRONT PAGE!”
“At least they spelled our names right,” Fitz said cheerfully.
I scanned the article, my stomach sinking with every word.
“Five local doctors from Clinically Approved, New Haven’s fastest-growing medical clinic, were arrested Friday night following an altercation at The Rusty Nail sports bar.
Witnesses report the fight began when Dr. Quinton Wesley, 32, allegedly punched another patron.
The situation escalated quickly, involving all five doctors and resulting in significant property damage.
Dr. Fitzpatrick Lovejoy, 36, was reportedly heard singing ‘God Save the Queen’ while being escorted out by police... ”
“Oh my God,” I said. “They quoted you singing.”
“It’s a good song,” Fitz said defensively.
“You were being arrested.”
“And I maintained my dignity throughout.”
“You were singing.”
“Beautifully, according to witnesses.”
Gabriel put his head in his hands. “We’re never going to live this down.”
“My mother is going to see this,” Nathan said, his voice rising. “My mother. She reads the New Haven Journal every morning with her coffee. She’s going to call me. She’s going to yell. She’s going to tell all her friends at book club that her son got arrested for bar fighting.”
“At least you’re not the one who punched someone,” I muttered.
“At least people can see your face in the photo!”
“Can we please focus?” Gabriel said, looking at me. “Quinton, you need to control this situation.”
“How?” I asked. “How am I supposed to control this? We’re on the front page of the newspaper. There’s photographic evidence. We were literally arrested.”
“You’re the one covering the clinic,” Gabriel said. “You’re in charge. You need to... I don’t know, spin this somehow.”
“Spin it?” I repeated. “How do you spin ‘five doctors arrested for bar brawling’?”
“Team building exercise?” Fitz suggested.
“FITZ!”
“What? We did bond. Very effectively.”
Hayden was pacing now, muttering to himself. “Retirement. Florida. Boat. Peace and quiet. No more idiots. No more arrests. No more—”
“Oh!” Winnie said suddenly, her face brightening. “I almost forgot to mention. The New Haven Journal is Julien’s favorite newspaper.”
We all froze.
“What?” Gabriel said slowly.
“The New Haven Journal,” Winnie repeated cheerfully. “Julien reads it every single day. First thing in the morning, with his coffee. He says it’s the most reliable source of local news in Connecticut.”
The color drained from Nathan’s face.
Gabriel looked like he might throw up.
Hayden stopped pacing and stared at Winnie with an expression of pure horror.
Fitz’s grin faltered.
And I—I was pretty sure I stopped breathing.
“Every day?” I managed.
“Every. Single. Day,” Winnie enunciated. “He’s very particular about it. He even has it delivered to his house, so he doesn’t miss an issue.”
“Oh my God,” Gabriel said.
“We’re dead,” Nathan said. “We’re actually dead.”
“I’m moving to Florida,” Hayden announced. “Today. Right now. I’m leaving.”
“You can’t leave,” I said, my voice strangled. “We need to—we need to figure out—”
“Figure out what?” Hayden demanded. “How to explain to Julien that we made the front page of his favorite newspaper because we got arrested for fighting in a bar? There’s no explanation. There’s no spin. We’re screwed.”
“He’s on vacation until Wednesday,” Vivian said, though she sounded less certain now. “Maybe he won’t see it. Maybe he’s too busy with the triplets to read the paper.”
“Julien always reads the paper,” Winnie said. “Even on vacation. He says it’s part of his morning routine.”
“Of course he does,” I muttered.
“So we have—what?” Nathan said, checking his watch. “Maybe twelve hours before he sees this and comes back early to murder us all?”
“He’s not going to murder anyone,” Vivian said, but even she didn’t sound convinced anymore.
“He’s going to murder Quinton,” Fitz said. “Definitely Quinton.”
“Why me?” I protested.
“Because you punched Vivian’s boyfriend,” Fitz said. “And because you’re sleeping with Vivian. And because you’re the one in charge of the clinic while he’s gone. You’re basically a walking target.”
“Thanks for that.”
“Just being honest, mate.”
Hayden headed for the door. “I’m out. I’m done. I’m retiring. Effective immediately.”
“Hayden,” Gabriel groaned.
“No. I’ve spent thirty years building a respectable medical career. I’m not throwing it away because you idiots can’t go to a bar without starting a riot.”
He reached for the door handle just as the door slammed open.
Hayden jumped back with a yelp, and there... standing in the doorway, backlit by the fluorescent lights of the hallway, dressed in an immaculate navy suit with a perfectly knotted tie and not a single hair out of place, was Julien Darcy.
His face was calm.
Too calm.
The kind of calm that preceded volcanic eruptions and natural disasters.
His eyes swept over the room, taking in the newspaper on the table, our bruised faces, our guilty expressions, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet.
Dangerously quiet.
“Everyone out,” he said. “Now.”
Nobody moved.
Nobody breathed.
“Now,” Julien repeated firmly, as my so-called best friends and the love of my life ran from the room as if their asses were on fire.
And I realized with absolute certainty that I was about to die.