Chapter 29
The Loss
Robyn
I haven’t really spoken to Nate since he held the door open to my building when we got back to Bend.
His eyes lingered on the strap of my travel bag cutting into my shoulder.
He didn’t take the bag the way he would have before, though.
Just nodded and murmured, “Good night,” then watched the glass door close between us before turning toward his own apartment.
I watched his retreating back, his russet-colored hair pulled into a loose bun, until his door closed and the lights in his apartment flicked on.
The next morning, I’m back in the lab, trying to lose myself in this objective process. I assess samples, log measurements, recalibrate equipment. Axonal density. Inflammatory markers. Numbers that behave the way numbers are supposed to—predictable, measurable, uninterested in emotional nuance.
And still, my mind keeps drifting.
Knowing Nate was an idiot doesn’t absolve him. Knowing how bad it got doesn’t retroactively make him wiser or safer. Insight isn’t the same thing as change, and remorse isn’t a guarantee.
I reseal the last sample, wipe down the station, and follow sterile protocol by muscle memory alone. After scrubbing my hands raw, I step into the small side room off the lab. It smells faintly of antiseptic but mostly of cheap, burned drip coffee.
I pull out my phone before I can overthink it, scroll, then hit call.
“Mm-hmm, yeah?” Julian’s voice is thick with sleep on the other side of the phone.
“You have a minute?”
There’s a pause followed by muffled movement. “Hold on.” I imagine him sitting up, rubbing his face. He mumbles something—not to me—and springs creak, then a door clicks shut. “All right,” he says. “I’m awake now.”
“What’s your schedule today?”
“I had a night shift after seeing you off at the airport, put Milo down about twenty minutes ago. Trying to nap while he naps before I head into morning rounds.”
I lean my shoulder into the cool wall. “You’re a really good dad.”
A quiet laugh comes down the line. “I’m a fumbling mess. I have no idea what I’m doing half the time.”
“Isn’t that just … life?”
The silence that follows is weighted, and he doesn’t rush to fill it. “So,” he says, “you’re saying you can be a fumbling mess and still get it right eventually?”
I close my eyes. “I see what you did there.”
“Don’t pretend you didn’t call to talk about your fumbling mess.”
“Would that break your rule?” I ask. “The one where we don’t talk about Nate?”
“This isn’t Encanto,” he states. “I’m not going to betray his confidence. But you’re my friend, and I can help you break things down.”
My grip tightens on the phone. “What do you think?”
He lets out an exasperated huff. “You first, Dr. Sunshine. What do you think?”
I hesitate, then exhale. “We talked.” I stare at the floor tiles. “Did you know he was going to propose?”
“Doesn’t surprise me.”
I tilt my head, tapping on the back of my phone with my nail. “No?”
“Not even a little. I saw the two of you together quite a bit. And I spent time with both of you. With you before everything went to hell. With him after.” He huffs like he’s sitting down. “Nate has always loved you. The sad fucker still does.”
My chest tightens.
“Sometimes, we love people we’re not ready for. That doesn’t make the love fake.”
We sit in his words for a few seconds. It’s at the tip of my tongue to ask what that means to him, but I stay in my lane. “You think he’s ready now?”
“I think the point is moot if you don’t love him anymore.” His voice firms. “And I think there was a version of him you couldn’t love. But there was also a version of him you loved so deeply … So the question is—do you actually know who he is now?”
I swallow.
“Or are you keeping him at arm’s length because you’ve got fears of your own?”
I slide down until I’m sitting on the chair then pull my knees to my chest.
“Love and fear go together, Robyn. You can’t love someone you’re not afraid to lose. I think he understands that now.”
“But what about the next time?” I mutter. “What happens then?”
“That is where the real work starts. The fumbling part. He learns your language. You learn his. Happiness isn’t automatic. Respect isn’t static. Choosing someone is an active thing.” His voice softens. “I’m saying this because I love you. And because I think, deep down, you still love Nate.”
I close my eyes again.
“And to be clear,” he adds, his voice shifting, deeper now, “his failures weren’t your fault. This is not a Julian’s switching sides situation.”
There’s a soft hiss through the phone—leather complaining as he shifts in his chair. I almost see his No bullshit, Robyn expression in front of me.
He exhales, long and measured. “You also lost the forest for the trees. Focused so hard on the future of your relationship that you stopped nurturing it in the present.”
I knew this already, but why does it feel like a world-shattering declaration when coming from Julian? Or maybe they only feel that way because the lab in the next room has gone silent—centrifuge paused, my breath suddenly too loud in my ears.
“And I feel okay telling you this: he’s been working on himself so he doesn’t fail you again.”
I drop my forehead to the cool plastic table in front of me.
“But the real question is—have you? Or have you just been hiding out and licking your wounds?”
We say goodbye as the centrifuge restarts, its hum lowering the thundering against my temple. Machines are steady. Unemotional. Reliable.
With people, there’s no control group. No clean variables. Just choices you make with incomplete data and the hope you didn’t miss something vital.
A knock yanks me out of my thoughts. When I turn my head over my shoulder, Ellie’s leaning in the doorway with that apologetic tilt she gets when she knows what she’s about to say will derail my morning.
Honey-blonde hair, always in a braid, a loose end slipping free over her shoulder. She glances to the hall, then back to me. “Mr. Matthews is down in the ER.” She lowers her voice. “He’s been cleared, but he refuses to leave until you check him.”
I exhale through my nose, already standing. “Of course he does.”
“He keeps saying, ‘She caught it last time.’ Serena’s trying to turn the bed.”
“Which bay?”
“Three.”
I grab my coat and badge. “Let’s go.”
The ER smells sharper than the floors upstairs.
Monitors beep out of sync. Everyone’s running around with a purpose.
I think absentmindedly that it must be particularly stressful to see your doctors so frazzled.
That’s the ER for you—controlled chaos. Serena spots me immediately, blonde hair pulled into a severe bun, clipboard tucked to her chest like a shield.
“Oh, thank God,” she mutters. “Please say the magic words so I can turn this bed.”
I step into the cubicle and draw the curtain behind me.
Mr. Matthews is sitting upright on the gurney, feet dangling, jacket folded neatly beside him.
He looks … fine. Color good. Eyes bright.
Hands steady where they rest on his thighs.
What’s he doing here? Contrary to what his wife says, he’s not dramatic, turning up every time he feels slightly off.
“Dr. Hollis!” he says, breaking into a grin. “I told them you’d come. They’re very kind, but they rush.”
I wash my hands at the sink mounted on the wall, and glove up. “What happened?” I ask.
“Lightheaded earlier. A bit swimmy.” He rotates his wrist, dismissive. “Enough that everything went black and found myself on the floor. But it passed. Completely gone now.”
“When?”
“An hour ago? Maybe two.” He shrugs. “My wife panicked. But when I came to, I was fine, so we weren’t sure. She thinks I didn’t eat enough, but I …”
I don’t smile at that. “It doesn’t sit quite right with you, does it?” I step closer. “Any headache?”
“No.”
“Vision changes?”
“No.”
“Trouble speaking, weakness, numbness?”
He shakes his head after each one, obliging, patient.
His speech is crisp without slur or hesitation.
Vitals scroll on the monitor beside him—heart rate normal, blood pressure acceptable, oxygen saturation steady.
I glance at the ER notes on the tablet. CT unremarkable.
Labs within range. No acute findings. I shine my penlight, run him through a quick neuro exam—tracking my finger, grip strength. Everything answers the way it should.
“You’re neurologically intact,” I say, keeping my voice even. “Whatever caused the dizziness has resolved.”
He watches my face carefully. “So I’m not having another one of those … what did you call it?”
“Infarct,” I say. “There’s no evidence of a new event.”
He exhales, long, even if in small spurts.
I place my hand over his and give a light pat. “I think the missus might have been right this time.”
He nods, visibly relieved. “I just needed you to say it.”
The weight of his trust squeezes my chest, and I run through his chart and newest tests. Nothing that suggests further observation. “You did the right thing coming in. If anything changes—new dizziness, trouble walking, slurred speech—you come back immediately. No waiting.”
“You’re the boss,” he says, earnest.
I hold eye contact a beat longer than necessary. They’re not going to reveal anything a CT wouldn’t show. I have no clinical reason to override the workup. No red flag I can point to. Other than he trusts me, and I don’t want to fail his trust. I sign the discharge.
Mr. Matthews walks out of the ER on his own two legs, smiling as his wife fusses over his coat. I turn back to work, focusing on what my patients need from me rather than the could-have-beens of a relationship I signed a DNR for.
On my way home, I stop at the grocery store for staples because if my dinner’s ramen noodles and a chocolate bar one more time, I’m going to make myself sick.
The dairy aisle smells faintly of sour spilled milk someone half cleaned hours ago.
I’m picking up three different kinds of yogurt when I hear my name.
“Robyn?”