Chapter 46
Forty-six
Liz
The Sunday morning light slips through the blinds before I’m ready for it. I roll onto my back and blink up at the ceiling, waiting for the pieces of last night to settle in the right places.
It doesn’t come in a rush. It comes in layers.
The meeting. Evie’s voice cracking in front of the valley.
Ric standing alone in the middle of chaos.
The way he looked at me in the parking lot like he didn’t know how to breathe.
And then the knock on my door hours later, soft enough to be hesitant, steady enough to mean something.
As I walk to the kitchen, my gaze drifts to the little table near the couch.
The empty paper cup sits exactly where he left it.
I didn’t move it last night. I didn’t want to.
The faint scent of bergamot still lingers when I reach for it, the steam long gone but the memory warm.
Emotion moves through my chest. It feels like holding a moment I wasn’t expecting to get back.
I set the cup down and draw in a slow breath, letting myself feel it. Last night didn’t fix everything, but it shifted something.
I pad into the kitchen. The floor is cool under my feet as I move through my morning routine, filling the coffeepot and reaching for my favorite mug, the one with the tiny lavender sprigs painted near the rim.
The coffee maker clicks and sizzles as the coffee fills the pot.
I lean against the counter and wrap my arms around myself.
I’m tired but not in the drained, brittle way I’ve grown used to since things with Ric fell apart.
This tired feels softer. Earned. Like something inside me finally stopped bracing.
The coffee finishes, and I fill my mug. The warmth rises into my face, pulling me back to the moment he stood in my doorway with the cups in his hands.
He looked nervous in a way he never lets himself look.
And when he spoke, the honesty in his voice was a revelation, more effective than any explanation he could have offered months ago.
“You weren’t imagining the distance. I put it there. ”
I close my eyes. I can finally absorb this without being pulled under. He didn’t ask for forgiveness or try to soften what he’d done. He told me the truth because he understood that silence had been what caused the damage.
The coffee cools enough for me to sip it, and I take the mug to the couch and pull my knees up, the blanket draped over the back falling across my lap.
I breathe into the quiet, and the truth of the matter slowly comes into focus.
I wanted him to come, even if I hadn’t been ready to admit it.
And he did. Not out of obligation, or pressure, or habit, but because he chose to.
I lean back against the cushions and let out a breath. I feel like I’m waking up a version of myself I haven’t been in a long time, someone who isn’t bracing for disappointment, someone who can sit in a quiet morning and let herself want something again.
I’m not ready to run toward him. But I’m ready not to run away.
I’m halfway through my second cup of coffee when I hear footsteps on the porch followed by a quick knock. Not polite. Not tentative. It says the person on the other side has already let themselves in emotionally, even if the door’s still closed.
I open it, and Trinity stands holding a paper bag that smells like fresh pastries. Her hair is in a messy bun, and she’s wearing sunglasses, even though it’s barely nine in the morning.
She lifts the bag, as if it explains everything. “This seemed like a morning for carbs.”
I step aside, and she breezes past me the way she always does, immediately comfortable in my house. She sets the bag on the counter and pulls out two cinnamon twists, pushing one toward me.
She studies my face over a bite of pastry. “So. Want to tell me why I woke up at seven feeling like the valley had shifted on its axis?”
I give her a look. “You’re not psychic.”
“No. But I have very good emotional Wi-Fi where you’re concerned.” She squints at me. “You seem calmer than you should after last night. That’s either a miracle or a man.”
I take a slow breath. “Ric came over.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Ric? We’re back to calling him Ric?”
“It wasn’t what you’re thinking.”
“I’m not thinking anything,” she says, even though she absolutely is. “I’m just listening with my entire face.”
I lean against the counter. “He showed up with a London Fog and apologized. And he didn’t try to rush or smooth things over. He just talked—honestly.”
Trinity’s chewing slows. “And how did that feel?”
“Unexpected.” I pause. “Good and scary. Better than I was prepared for.”
She nods, as if she’s fitting this new information into a map of me she’s been updating for years. “Did he take responsibility? Real responsibility? Or the pretty version men use when they think partial accountability counts as emotional growth.”
“He took responsibility,” I say. “Fully.”
She lets out a quiet whistle. “About time.”
I don’t disagree.
I walk over to the couch, and she follows with her pastry. She sits sideways, one knee tucked up. “Liz,” she says gently. “You’ve been stuck since Hawaii. Scared to want or ask for anything. And honestly, I get it. You were left in the dark for way too long.”
I nod. “Last night didn’t fix everything, but it changed something. That and witnessing firsthand what happened at Black Bear yesterday. I don’t know what trying again looks like yet, but I’m not shutting the door.”
Trinity smiles, soft and proud. “Good. You don’t have to leap. You just have to be honest with yourself.”
A small silence settles between us as we sip our coffee and eat pastries.
Then she nudges my foot with hers. “You deserve someone who shows up without you having to send a smoke signal. If he keeps doing that, maybe there’s something real left to build on.”
“I’m not making any promises,” I say.
“I’m not asking you to.” Her smile widens. “But I like that you’re open to seeing where it goes. That’s new.”
I let out a breath. “I won’t bend my life around someone again.”
“Good,” she says. “Hold that. Make him meet you where you are.”
I nod because I know she’s right. I also know this version of me wouldn’t settle for anything less.
Trinity retrieves the bag and extracts another pastry. “Also, if he hurts you again, I’m egging Evie’s house. I’m just putting that on the table.”
Despite everything, a laugh escapes me. “Please don’t.”
“Oh, I won’t.” She grins. “Not unless necessary.”
But by the time I walk to the hospital lot for work, Monday morning has picked up speed, and my stomach feels a little fluttery as I approach the building.
A cluster of staff stands near the side entrance, talking in low voices.
I catch pieces of their conversation as I walk by.
Nothing loud. Nothing pointed. Just a community trying to make sense of the weekend’s explosion.
Inside, the energy shifts again. It’s busy, but with an edge. People glance up from clipboards and computer screens, eyes lingering half a second too long. Not at me specifically, but at anyone who walks by, as if everyone is trying to read everyone else’s reaction.
I head for my office, hugging my planner to my chest. Misty appears at the doorway before I even reach my desk. Her hair is frizzed on one side like she got ready in the dark.
“Oh good,” she says. “I was about to text you. It’s already been a morning.”
“That’s what I figured.”
She closes the door behind us. “You saw the news?”
“Which part?”
“All of it. Evelyn Dempsey went off the rails this weekend.”
I let out a soft breath and nod. “I was there.”
Misty’s expression softens. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” I’m grateful that feels close to the truth.
She leaves me with a small nod, and I sit at my desk. The chaos outside doesn’t feel personal, and that’s new. I’m not bracing for blame. I’m not holding my breath.
A few minutes later, I go to Hudson’s office for our Monday meeting. When I arrive, he’s standing by the window, reading something on his tablet. He looks up as I walk in.
“There she is,” he says. “I hoped you weren’t hiding under your desk.”
“I thought about it.”
He huffs out a laugh. “I saw you in some of the photos and the news on Saturday. You handled yourself well. That level of public meltdown would rattle most people.”
“Yes, I was invited to the party, but the outcome was definitely unexpected.”
“It was.” He sets the tablet down. “Still, I’m glad you were there.
For Alaric’s sake.” He lets that hang between us for a moment.
“The board isn’t going to involve the hospital in vineyard politics,” he continues.
“But it’s a small town, and gossip runs faster than the speed of sound.
I appreciated how calm Alaric stayed. That matters. ”
I nod my thanks, wondering what exactly Hudson thinks he has pieced together, and we settle down to business.
Mostly, Hudson relays the board’s feedback on the staffing plan.
They’re pleased with the direction we’re taking, but every conversation lands in the same place.
There simply aren’t enough people. The medical shortage is real, and it impacts everything.
We break down numbers in a few areas and brainstorm a bit about ways we can be creative, but ultimately, it’s just a long slog ahead. We vow to keep at it, and when we’ve wrapped up, he gives me a reassuring smile before dismissing me with a wave.
Back in the hallway, I feel a little steadier. People pass by with charts and coffee cups, calling out updates and delegating tasks. There’s work to be done. I need to focus. I walk through it, my pace even, my heart quiet.
When I reach my office again, my phone buzzes. I set my planner down and pick it up, expecting a message from Misty or a calendar alert.
It’s a text.
Alaric: How are you today?