Chapter 2 #2
Rebecca’s and Nate’s faces break into that same uneven grin that deepens the crease at the corner of their mouths.
His mom taps her knuckles on the table. “But what, sweetie?”
“I don’t know,” I add, exhaling. “I missed something. I—”
Rebecca covers my hand with hers, and Nate slides closer to me, wrapping his arm over my shoulders. “You’re doing something really hard. And you’re still in training, sweetheart.”
I nod. “Maybe I’m not cut out for this.”
“And why wouldn’t you be?” Rebecca asks, as if the suggestion were a personal affront.
“It’s a great opportunity, and I have six months left. It’s about to pick up even more—probably closer to eighty hours. More weekends. And I’m already strugg—”
“You’re learning,” Rebecca says. “You’re meant to struggle.”
Nate nods, smiling, but the curve tugging at his lips is a fraction too tight. His arm and thigh tense, as if he’s holding himself in rather than me.
“I am really proud that you’re persisting,” he says, squeezing my shoulder. “You’re rocking this diagnostic thingy, babe.”
“Nate, I’m worried that—”
“You don’t have to worry. You’re amazing. Everything’s going to be okay,” he states, his eyes catching brown under the light.
I tap the table, counting the possibilities, the smooth coldness of the wood beneath my nails calming me. I want to be the best neurologist I can be, learn and train as much as I can so I can see things others miss and save patients others would have let slip through the cracks …
If it was just my professional future on the line, I’d risk moving to the middle of nowhere, trading city noise for the endless hum of cornfields, and losing state-of-the-art equipment and top-notch consultants for a standard county hospital. The type of facility that failed my mom.
It isn’t just me, though. My stomach twists at the thought. It’s Nate’s too—I’m not willing to give him up. I can’t risk him having to leave the Windy City of big architectural dreams.
My fears sit at the tip of my tongue—unable to form words, and I find myself saying, “You’re right.”
“We’re so close, sweetheart.”
Pressing his thumb into the muscle at the top of my shoulder, grounding but restrained, he asks what I mean exactly by the program picking up even more, and his knee bounces under the table.
“So …” Rebecca faces her son, changing the subject before I’m able to answer. “What else is new?”
“Tessa’s finally moving into town in a month. I’ve been helping her run errands before she gets back. You know, getting stuff for her, being at her apartment for furniture delivery, and all of that. I’m heading to her place later tonight. I need to build a media center for her.”
The words later tonight are an unexpected stimulus. Nate usually stays at his place or hangs with Andrzej when I have a night shift.
“Oh,” I say.
And I’m so thrown I almost miss how his mom clicks her tongue before checking the time. “I should get going,” she says.
Nate shoots up to get the bill at the hostess counter before his mom can argue. Once we’re out, I hug Rebecca, and Nate asks me to give them a minute. Her arm in his, they walk side by side to the car at the far corner down the street. He opens the door for her and kisses her cheek.
When he comes back, smiling, he asks, “Ready for this baking business?”
I smile back. Maybe I’m imagining things.
The fondant won’t hold. It keeps slipping under my fingers, softening no matter how carefully I try to press it into place.
I’ve tried water, even the edible glue, but the seams keep splitting and the edges are peeling back.
The curve of the three-tier cake sags again, one side giving out.
It looks more like the Tower of Pisa than the tower we wanted.
“This is architectural blasphemy,” Nate mutters, stepping back to look at it.
The moment his hands leave the other side, a chunk slides free and drops onto the island with a thick, sticky thwack.
I huff, but it turns into a laugh when I realize he’s given up on saving it.
Instead, he’s moving behind me, hands still tacky, sliding past my waist to steady what’s left of my side.
He presses his chest into my back, and I savor the warmth and steadiness of him.
He dips his head, brushing his nose into my hair like he can’t help himself.
Our cake is doomed, and his touch does nothing to save it, but his hands settle something I didn’t realize was off balance.
I pull my hands away, and the rest of the fondant collapses in slow defeat. What’s left of the tower leans awkwardly, layers bulging, edges uneven, more suggestion than structure now.
“You’re the one who insisted on the Aqua Tower,” I say, glancing over my shoulder. “We could’ve done one of the pyramids.”
“We would’ve messed that up too.”
I scoff, but I’m smiling. “That’s not the point.”
His laugh hums low against me, muffled into my hair, and for a second, I just stay there, leaning back into him, letting the warmth of his body anchor me. His hands rest at my waist now, not fixing anything, just holding me.
“I’m also down to keep trying for the rest of our lives,” he says without any flourish, just pure certainty.
His posture speaks with the quiet confidence of someone who’s already seen that future, like it’s something he can build if he just keeps showing up the right way. And for me, it’s hard to swallow around the lump in my throat because I want that future.
I turn in his arms. Since last Christmas, when he got me that ridiculous baking kit, we’ve made it a point to have these disastrous baking sessions.
It used to be every other week, then it was every month.
Now, it takes a second or two for me to remember the last time we did this, and all I can picture is a lopsided pumpkin that barely held its shape.
It’s late January. I guess we’re well past having them every month. It’s been a long time since Halloween.
I slide my hands up Nate’s arms, feeling the familiarity of his taut muscles, until I settle them behind his neck. I pull him down just enough to press a kiss to his lips. “It’s been a while since our last disaster,” I murmur. “I’m sorry things have been so hectic.”
“That’s okay, sweetheart,” he says, easy, reassuring. “We’re almost at the end of the line. Then it’s you and me. Same, but better.”
I smile, but it lingers more on my lips than it settles in my chest.
He’s been dropping hints like that lately.
“When we move in” or “when we’re married.
” Or even “once we’ve retired.” But I’m noticing how he tenses when my schedule changes and how his brow furrows when I tell him I’m working yet another weekend.
I wonder, not for the first time, if he says it as much for himself as he does for me.
His kitchen stretches around us, all clean lines and open space.
The U-shaped counters wrap wide and generous, enough workspace that only people who actually know what they’re doing in the kitchen need—which Nate does unless it’s baking.
The island in the center is dusted in powdered sugar and streaked with icing, tools scattered everywhere like we’ve been at this for hours.
Beyond it, the windows run nearly floor to ceiling, late afternoon light spilling in and catching on the steel appliances, the glass bowls, the faint sheen of flour in the air.
I turn back to the disaster in front of me, trying to fix the edge again, smoothing the fondant over a curve that refuses to cooperate. It tears slightly under my thumb.
“Shit.”
“Here,” Nate says, placing his hands over mine.
He doesn’t take over, just steadies. His fingers press lightly at my wrists, guiding the angle, adjusting the pressure. His chest brushes my back when he leans in, solid and warm, and suddenly, I’m very aware of how close he is.
“Gentler,” he murmurs, near my ear.
I try. I really do. The whole side caves in. We both go still for half a second, staring at it. Then I laugh, breathless and a little helpless.
“It’s worse,” I say.
Nate digs two fingers into the cake and scoops out a piece, popping it in his mouth. He hums. “I don’t know. Taste is better than other times, I’d say we’re improving.”
I hold his gaze for a minute before breaking out in a heap of laughter that racks not just my body but also his, then a matching laugh bubbles out of him.
“I love you,” I whisper. “Even if your architectural sight doesn’t translate to baking.”
“Depends on your perspective.”
“Your perspective is wrong.”
His mouth twitches. “My kitchen.”
“Your kitchen is currently a crime scene.”
I gesture vaguely at the counters, the mess, the leaning, slightly tragic version of a Chicago landmark sitting between us.
He glances around, then back at me. “Worth it.”
Something in the way he says it lands in my chest. That small shift, the quiet settling of something warm and unexpected. His hands are still at my waist, not guiding. Holding me in because I belong there.
I don’t realize I’ve leaned in until my forehead brushes his nose. There’s powdered sugar on his shirt. A streak of icing near his collarbone. I reach up without thinking and swipe at it with my thumb, but it only smears.
“You’re making it worse,” he says, but he doesn’t move away.
“Shut up,” I murmur, softer now.
His gaze drops to my mouth, and he glides his palm higher up my back.
I close the distance between us. The kiss is soft, mostly nips and pecks.
His mouth is warm and familiar in an addictive way that makes my chest ache.
I wrap my fist around his shirt, bunching the fabric between my fingers, pulling him closer as he deepens the kiss.
The counter digs into my hip when he leans into me, but I don’t care.
He pecks my lips and looks into my eyes. “I can’t with the kitchen like this, Robyn. Worth making the mess, not leaving it.” It comes out husky but also amused.
“Then let’s do some cleaning.” I wink. “We can pick this up later,” I say. Nate wouldn’t be Nate without his cleaning obsession.
We get into the rhythm of it, picking up dirty bowls, washing measuring cups, and wiping counters. As we clean, we fall into a casual conversation. It’s right and it’s us.
Until my work phone goes off with an insistent, sharp ping. I glance at the clock. I still have two more hours before I even have to leave for my shift, and I’m not on call. But the ping keeps going.
Nate stops, his chest rising and falling quicker with every breath. The phone keeps ringing.
“Just check what’s up,” he says.
The call is brief. She’s a patient we’ve discussed in the diagnostics program—recurring dizzy spells, no clear cause, no pattern that holds. They want a consult when I come in a few hours. Except I don’t want to wait three hours, I want to be there now.
“I have to go,” I say as soon as I hang up, wiping my hands on a dish towel before dropping it on the counter. Stepping around the island, I scan for my bag, my phone, anything I’ve misplaced in the mess we made.
“What do you mean?” Nate asks. “You’re not even on call.”
“I know.” I grab my bag from the chair, pushing a strand of hair behind my ear, already halfway to the hallway before I stop and turn back to him. “Nate—someone’s been having dizzy spells. They still can’t figure out why.”
He straightens a little, his expression shifting, the easy warmth from a minute ago cooling into something tighter. His frown smooths out, but I see the clench in his jaw, the way it sets.
“You’ll be there in a bit anyway,” he says. “You don’t have to rush out.”
I shake my head, reaching for my keys, the metal clinking too loud in the quiet kitchen. “It’s not just that. She’s been seen multiple times. No answers.” I hesitate, words catching at the back of my throat. “It’s too much like—”
He lifts a hand. “Just go,” he says.
The words are flat, but not dismissive. Controlled.
I hover there for a second, my bag slipping against my shoulder as I adjust the strap. “I can come back after my shift. We can—”
He turns away before I finish, grabbing the sponge by the sink and squeezing it under the running water tighter than necessary.
“I was planning on getting that media center built for Tessa,” he says, not looking at me. “I’ll just do it when I’m done cleaning. It’s going to be a pain to build.”
“I could help you with it?”
He shakes his head. “You’re already exhausted. And you have an even longer shift now.”
“We can talk it out.”
“Robyn, there’s nothing to talk about. We support each other.” He turns around and cups my cheek.
I lick my lips. “Are you excited to have your bestie back in town?”
He grins. “It’ll be good to have another close friend around.” He flips his wrist, checking the time. “You better go.” His hand trails to my shoulder, giving it a squeeze that doesn’t feel right. “I’ll miss you tonight.”
I touch his arm. “Nate, these last few months have been brutal, if you feel—”
He smiles softly. “There’s really no need, sweetheart. This training’s good for you, so it’s good for us.” He pecks my lips. “No doubt in my mind.”
“So, should I come to your place after my shift?” I hesitate, unsure in a way I never feel around him.
“Sure, just not to clean.” He winks. “Now you really gotta run.”
I nod. Maybe he doesn’t doubt it, but in closing the door of his apartment behind me … doubt creeps up that maybe this training opportunity comes with a cost I didn’t anticipate.