Chapter 31
Adrian
The next morning, Keith and I pull up next to the realtor at the first house, which is close to town, tucked among other homes with barely a stretch of greenery between them.
Too little house, not enough space. As I step inside, the dated interior confirms what I already felt: I don’t want to be this close to town.
After living in the city, I need space to breathe.
But also, the walls are a dull beige, the carpet worn in spots, and though the layout isn’t bad, it feels cramped.
This isn’t it. And if I needed further confirmation, when I head out the back, I step in something squishy. I look down.
Fuck’s sake.
I snap a photo and send it to Amelia.
Me: House one, fail.
“Yeah, not the one,” I mutter, turning back toward the door before Keith can even ask.
Amelia: A shitty one, literally. LOL!
I clean up as the realtor locks up behind us, already pulling out her keys for the next property.
We move on to the second house, a little farther out.
The drive here is better, less traffic, more open sky.
The house itself is more modern, with clean lines and a fresh coat of paint.
The yard is a good size—there’s even a small outdoor living area with a covered patio that could be something special with a little work.
“This one has potential,” I say, stepping onto the patio. I can actually picture myself here, having people over, grilling on weekends.
Keith leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. “What’s missing?”
I exhale, taking in the space. “It doesn’t have that feeling. You know, the one where you walk in and just… know.”
Keith nods. “Like my place.”
I laugh. “Exactly. Sitting on your back deck, looking out. This one could work too, but I’d have to build that outdoor space.”
Keith doesn’t argue. He knows as well as I do that buying a house isn’t just about practicality.
It’s about feeling like you belong there.
We head to the last house, the one farthest out.
The drive is different this time—long, winding, the smooth feel of asphalt stretching out ahead, lined with trees.
I can already picture it… trading in the Mercedes-Benz for a truck, rolling up this driveway, dust kicking up behind me.
As we pull up, the house comes into view.
A brick structure with a pitched roof and double timber doors that look like they’ve weathered decades of seasons yet still stand strong.
The property is wide and open, filled with greenery, bare branches from the winter, not overly landscaped with flower beds or trimmed bushes.
Trees sway in the light breeze, and I suddenly feel something shift inside me.
This is the one.
I take the steps up to the front door with Keith, the wood solid beneath my feet.
The realtor opens the door, and I marvel at the interior.
Inside, the polished wooden floors gleam under the soft afternoon light.
The walls are painted in warm tones, giving the place a lived-in feel without feeling outdated.
It needs a few minor updates, but nothing major.
Nothing that would make me hesitate, only things that would make this house feel more like a home.
“One more bedroom than the last one,” Keith points out as we move through the space. “Something to think about.”
I nod, running my fingers over the doorframe of one of the rooms. If I ever had kids, would this work? The thought flickers through my mind, unexpected but not unwelcome. I never really considered kids until Amelia. I want is this. A home, not just a house.
“Four bedrooms is better,” I say finally. “One for me, one could be an office, and then two for guests if they ever need to crash.”
Keith hums in agreement. “Makes sense.”
The living room is my favorite part. A big fireplace, the kind that makes winter something to look forward to.
I can already see it: carrying wood in the back of my truck, stacking it neatly outside.
The kitchen is simple and practical—nothing fancy—but I don’t need luxury. And then there’s the deck.
I step outside onto the wooden planks overlooking the backyard. In front of me, a view of greenery, endless trees, and distant mountains. No buildings crammed together, no city skyline peeking over the treetops. Just quiet, open space.
I can picture it perfectly: sitting here in the early morning, coffee in hand, the world waking up slowly around me.
I can picture Amelia too, sitting beside me, her hair tucked behind one ear; that little content smile she gets when she thinks no one’s looking.
Shit, I want her to be part of whatever I’m building here.
“What do you think?” Keith asks.
I take one last slow look around before turning to him. “This is great. ” I point to the yard. “The space, the land, the view. It’s exactly what I wanted when I moved here. A different start.”
Keith nods. “Yeah. I think this is the one too.”
I turn to look at the realtor before saying, “I’m putting in an offer.”
“Let’s celebrate, then.” Keith grins.
We drive to the tavern, grabbing a couple of drinks to mark the moment. The place is quiet, just the usual locals enjoying a slow Saturday afternoon. The conversation shifts as we settle in, Keith leaning back in his chair with a satisfied expression.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” he says suddenly. “They’ve almost finished construction of your office.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Once they’re done plastering, you’ll have to come check it out. I haven’t picked out desks or anything yet. I figured you’d want to choose what you like.”
I nod. “Yeah, I’d love that.”
The rest of the afternoon passes easily, the kind of rare, peaceful moment I don’t take for granted anymore. When I finally get home, my phone buzzes just as I step inside.
Amelia: Mom’s getting out of the hospital in a couple days. Would you be interested in coming over for dinner on Friday night? Also, it’s game night. As if you could say no.
I chuckle to myself and text back.
Me: I’d love to. And get ready to lose.
The next morning, I step into the hospital and switch gears. Back to work.
My first patient is a high-profile client, someone Dr. Lowell was handling before I took over for this shift.
A musician, apparently. I didn’t recognize the name at first, but after looking him up, I had to admit, he’s actually pretty good.
Not that it matters right now. What matters is the chest pain he’s experiencing.
I’m in the room with him, reviewing his EKG results and explaining the next steps. Aspirin, nitro-glycerine, but then I don’t finish as his monitor starts alarming. His hands grip the bedrail; he’s sweating, his face going pale. Heart attack.
I’m already moving, hitting the emergency call bell as his vitals plummet on the screen. The emergency alarm blares. Adrenaline spikes as I know exactly what that sound means.
A team rushes in with the crash cart, urgency in their voices.
I signal for meds while we stabilize him. There’s no time to think about his file or the blockage I’d just read about; it’s about acting. He’s still breathing, which is something. We just need to keep him that way until the surgical team gets here.
Once we get him stabilized and the team takes over, my part is done. I watch them wheel him away, then it’s back to the waiting game.
The surgery takes hours.
When it’s completed, I finally exhale, rolling my shoulders as the tension leaves my body. The cardiologist confirms a full bypass was needed, but the prognosis looks good. He’ll make it.
I pause in the middle of the room, looking around at the discarded trash from opening various medications and blankets, I replay the moments of catching his heart attack before it caused irrefutable damage.
I suddenly realize, I didn’t hesitate. Not for a second. No panic. No self-doubt. Just instinct.
When I step back into the hallway, I notice something else, too.
This place feels starkly different from the city hospital.
Things were quieter here, steadier paced compared to the chaos that was New York.
Maybe that’s what spoke to me—the settled feeling that this place has given me—the hospital, the town, Keith.
Amelia. I’ve met people who have shown me that I don’t have to walk on eggshells or strive to be something I’m not.
I even feel that way now with Dr. Patel, Dr. Lowell, and Dr. Wilson as they’ve welcomed me onto their team.
Maybe Amelia’s article helped. Maybe I just stopped letting the past define me. I’m convinced that I have moved past my past, no longer allowing it to dictate my life.
Either way, I know one thing for sure now: I don’t want to leave this town. I don’t want to stop being a doctor. But I owe this change to one person, and right now, I want to give her something back.
I pull out my phone, dialing an old friend.
Evan Lincoln, the owner of Lincoln Media in New York, picks up after two rings. “Well, well, well. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I need a favor.”
After the call, I hang up, wondering if I’ll hear about the offer on the house soon. If not, I’ll take house number two. Build the deck of my dreams, even if it doesn’t have the view to match. But something tells me things are going to work out. Everything is falling into place.