Chapter 13
GILLIAN
I stared at my laptop screen until the contract language blurred. The words made perfect sense individually—merger, acquisition, indemnification, termination—but strung together they might as well have been Sanskrit. I’d read the same paragraph five times.
With a frustrated sigh, I pushed back from Doc’s kitchen table. Sunlight streamed through the windows, mocking my inability to focus. I should be plowing through this work. Sunday was my chance to catch up on everything I’d neglected while running the bar.
Instead, my mind kept replaying last night in vivid detail.
Diego’s arms around me as we swayed to Elvis, the weight of his hands settled at the small of my back like they’d never left.
The heat of his body pressed against mine, solid and warm and achingly familiar.
The way his hand had cradled my face before he kissed me, thumb brushing across my cheekbone with a tenderness that made my chest tight.
And God, that kiss—soft at first, questioning, then deeper when I’d melted against him like I had no choice in the matter.
I touched my lips, still remembering the ghost of his mouth on mine, the slight roughness of his five o’clock shadow that had scraped against my skin.
My fingertips traced where his had been, as if I could somehow capture the sensation and hold on to it.
It wasn’t fair that he could still do this to me—turn my insides to liquid with just one kiss, make my pulse race like I was twenty-two again and drunk on possibility.
I’d had relationships since Diego. Perfectly adequate, occasionally satisfying relationships with men who checked all the appropriate boxes on paper.
Successful men. Ambitious men. Men my parents would approve of.
None of them had made me feel like I was simultaneously falling and flying, like the ground had disappeared beneath my feet and I didn’t care if I ever found it again.
None had left me wanting more with an intensity that bordered on physical pain, an ache that settled deep in my bones and refused to leave.
“It’s just nostalgia,” I muttered, getting up to pour more coffee, my legs unsteady as I crossed the kitchen. The mug trembled slightly in my hands. “First love syndrome. Rose-colored glasses and all that.”
But I knew that was a lie, had known it the moment his lips touched mine and my entire world had shifted back into focus.
I’d recognized the truth I’d been avoiding for four years, the one I’d buried under case files and billable hours and safe, sensible choices: No one had ever measured up to Diego Rivera.
No one had even come close. And despite all my carefully constructed reasons for leaving, despite the partnership track and the corner office and everything I was working so hard to achieve—I was still in love with him.
The contract on my screen pinged with a comment from a colleague. I should respond. I should work. I’d already wasted half the morning lost in memories.
Instead, I leaned against the counter, letting the truth wash over me.
I still had feelings for him. Deep, complicated, terrifying feelings that meant I’d have my heart ripped out all over again when I left Huckleberry Creek in a week.
“Damn it.” I set down my mug with more force than necessary. Coffee sloshed over the rim.
I knew what walking away from Diego was like. I remembered the physical ache of it, the way I’d cried myself to sleep those first few months of law school. The way I’d buried myself in coursework to avoid thinking about what I’d left behind.
My choice had made sense at the time. Follow the path I’d been groomed for since childhood. Don’t disappoint my parents. Don’t throw away opportunities that people would kill for. Don’t give my father another reason to criticize Doc’s choices.
And now I was staring down the barrel of doing it all again.
Only this time, I knew exactly what I was giving up.
This wasn’t some abstract concept of opportunity cost. This was Diego’s smile across the bar.
His quiet strength when I broke down. The way he made space for me to be both strong and vulnerable.
The sensation of his hands in my hair, his breath against my neck.
Being back here, it was impossible not to think about what my life would have been like if I’d chosen him and Huckleberry Creek instead of what was expected of me.
Would we still be together? What the hell would I have done with my life?
Would I still be working at the bar? My parents would have fucking hated that, and I’d never have heard the end of it.
Doc would’ve taken flack for being a bad influence.
Those were all reasons I’d made the choice I had.
But was the life I’d built since then actually worth the sacrifice of what might have been?
I paced the kitchen, coffee forgotten. The mental math wasn’t adding up anymore.
On one side: the potential for a prestigious job, financial security, the validation of my parents, and the culmination of years of education and sacrifice.
On the other: Diego’s smile. The warmth of a community that knew me. Work that left me tired but satisfied rather than drained and empty. And the possibility—just the possibility—of building something real with the one person who’d truly seen me.
A wild, irrational thought surfaced: I don’t have to leave.
I could... what? Stay? Tend bar for the rest of my life? Throw away years of grueling work, student loans, and sacrifice for a man?
But even as I formed the arguments against it, another voice whispered: Would it really be so terrible?
I’d felt more alive in one week at Doc’s than I had in months at the firm. I’d connected with people beyond transactional relationships. I’d laughed—really laughed—for the first time in ages.
And then there was Diego. The possibility of exploring what was still between us. Of building something real with the one person who’d always seen me clearly.
My phone rang, its corporate ringtone slicing through my thoughts like a scalpel. Braced for another work crisis, I checked the screen.
It wasn’t my boss. It was Martin Greeley, managing partner at Hadley-Ross.
I drew a steadying breath before answering. “Good morning, Mr. Greeley.”
“Gillian! Hope I’m not catching you at a bad time.” His voice boomed with its usual forced joviality. “How’s your grandfather doing?”
“Better, thank you for asking. Still adjusting to the doctor’s orders.”
“Excellent, excellent.” His disinterest in the actual answer was palpable. “Listen, I won’t beat around the bush. The partnership committee met yesterday, and your name came up.”
My pulse quickened. This was it—the conversation I’d been working toward since I’d joined the firm.
“I’ve been impressed with your work on the Anderson merger,” he continued. “The entire team has. Particularly your ability to deliver under... less than ideal circumstances.”
I sank into a chair. “Thank you, Mr. Greeley.”
“We’re prepared to offer you the junior partnership track, starting when you return.
” His voice took on the practiced cadence of someone delivering good news.
“Of course, we’ll need you back in the office no later than next Monday to begin the transition.
Richardson is prepping the Westridge acquisition, and we want you to take point. ”
Everything I’d worked for, dangled right in front of me. The brass ring. The validation. The proof that walking away from Diego had been the right choice.
So why did it seem like I was being offered a beautifully wrapped box of nothing?
“Gillian? Are you there?”
“Yes, sorry.” I straightened in my chair. “I’m just... processing. This is wonderful news.”
“We think so too. You’re exactly the kind of talent we want to cultivate at Hadley-Ross.” He paused, his tone shifting slightly. “I know family obligations are important, but I trust you understand we need all hands on deck for Westridge. It’s a $4.2 billion deal.”
The subtext was clear: my dedication would be measured by how quickly I abandoned my family crisis and returned to work.
“I understand completely,” I replied automatically. “I appreciate the opportunity and the confidence you’ve shown in me.”
More pleasantries followed before we disconnected. I set my phone down carefully, as if it might explode.
Junior partner. The title I’d been chasing since I’d started law school. The validation I’d sought when I walked away from Diego, from Huckleberry Creek, from a different vision of myself.
I should be elated. Calling my parents. Ordering champagne. Planning my triumphant return to Chicago.
Instead, I stared at my silent phone, numb. No sense of joy. No pride. Not even relief.
Instead was only the suffocating weight of a future stretching out before me—more eighty-hour weeks, more cancelled plans, more meaningless acquisitions and mergers that ultimately served no purpose except making rich people richer.
Including me. That was the bargain, right? Sacrifice your time, your relationships, your sense of self—and in return, you get money, status, and the hollow satisfaction of meeting external expectations.
I pressed my palms against my eyes.
I heard the creak of Doc’s bedroom door before his footsteps shuffled down the hallway. My grandfather appeared in the kitchen doorway, hair mussed from his nap, squinting at me through reading glasses that had slipped halfway down his nose.
He headed for the coffeepot. “You look like someone who’s thinking too hard.”
“That’s probably accurate.” I closed my laptop with more force than necessary.
Doc poured himself a cup and settled into the chair across from me. “What’s got you wound up tighter than Mabel Peterson’s girdle at the Christmas buffet?”
Despite everything, I laughed. “That’s a mental image I didn’t need.”
“Deflection noted.” He sipped his coffee, eyeing me over the rim. “Want to try again?”
I sighed, tracing the edge of my phone with my fingertip. “I just got offered a promotion. Junior partner track at Hadley-Ross.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Well now, that’s something. Congratulations are in order, I suppose?”
“I suppose,” I echoed.
Doc tilted his head, studying me like I was a puzzling set of symptoms. “You don’t look like someone who just got everything they wanted.”
“Everyone keeps saying that. It’s what I’ve been working toward since law school.” The words sounded hollow even to my own ears.
“Interesting how you didn’t answer the question.”
I met his gaze, feeling strangely exposed. “Can I ask you something?”
“Always.” He set his mug down, giving me his full attention.
“Why did you decide to quit medicine?”
Doc leaned back in his chair, his expression softening into something wistful. “Now there’s a question with history behind it.”
“Dad never talks about it. Just says you had a midlife crisis.”
He snorted. “Your father would call a man stopping to admire a sunset a crisis of purpose.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“No, it doesn’t.” He ran his thumb along the rim of his mug, gathering his thoughts. “The simplest version is that I was saving lives but losing myself.”
The words landed with unexpected weight.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“It means I was good at what I did. Damn good. Saved more people than I lost.” His eyes took on a faraway glaze.
“But the longer I did it, the less I recognized the man in the mirror. Always rushing from one emergency to the next. Missing your father’s baseball games.
Forgetting your grandmother’s birthday. Prescribing pills for my own insomnia. ”
“But you were helping people.”
“Was I?” He shrugged. “Or was I just following a path I’d chosen so long ago that I’d forgotten I could step off it?”
I stared at him, wondering if he’d reached across the table and unzipped my chest to examine what was inside.
“The human body isn’t the only thing that can have a stroke, Gillian. Lives can have them too—moments when everything stops flowing the way it should.” He tapped his temple. “Something up here told me if I didn’t make a change, I’d wake up one day with nothing but accomplishments to keep me warm.”
“So you just... walked away? From all that training? All that work?”
“I redirected it.” His smile was gentle. “Traded saving strangers for connecting with my community. Traded prestige for happiness. Some people—your father included—saw that as failure.”
“And was it worth it?” The question came out barely above a whisper.
Doc reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “I haven’t regretted a single day since. Not even this one, with my granddaughter fussing over me like I’m made of glass.”
I laughed, blinking back unexpected tears.
“Now,” he said, settling back in his chair, “want to tell me what’s really got you tied in knots? Because I’m guessing it’s not just about my ancient history or some fancy title in Chicago.”
I opened my mouth to answer, but found I couldn’t form the words. All I could think about was what he’d said.
I was saving lives but losing myself.
The phrase echoed in my head long after our conversation ended, following me through lunch and late into the afternoon. I kept turning it over like a stone in my palm, examining it from different angles, testing its weight.
Had I been losing myself too, without even realizing it?