Chapter 33
The Vulnerability
Robyn
Nate and I walk downtown with ice cream melting faster than we can keep up in the humid heat of mid-summer Bend.
My scoop threatens to fall over while his looks unfairly perfect.
We’re talking about a video he sent me last night—some hyper-realistic, architectural monstrosity that turned out to be cake.
“Did you see how they put those two little wooden levers? They gave the cake load-bearing beams, Robyn,” he insists. “Amazing.”
His tongue dips out and swirls around the cone, gathering vanilla on it before wrapping his lips around it and sucking.
He clears his throat. “Chocolate’s dripping down your thumb.”
I lick from my wrist to my thumb, releasing my digit with a pop under his watchful gaze.
He smirks, cognac eyes bright beneath the shade of his lashes.
His hair’s twisted into a loose bun, wisps escaping at his temples.
His beard catches flecks of light, auburn all over.
I’d never known his facial hair was also reddish until last month in Seattle.
He hadn’t let it grow that much when we were together.
“You said something similar about the brutalist library disguised as gingerbread,” I counter. “And about that cake aiming to pose as that architect you like.”
“Those were morally wrong cakes.”
I laugh and bump my shoulder with his. He leans into his cone and licks along the edge, slow and unapologetic, but I refuse to give into it. Laughing and walking with this version of Nate is easy. Pretending my body doesn’t catalog every detail of him—not so much.
Then I see her. Mrs. Matthews stands outside the bookstore, a canvas tote looped over her arm, hair pulled back neatly.
Her hair’s that mature color between gray and golden, and her glasses hang from a silver chain around her neck.
Just the way she had them at Mr. Matthews’s last scheduled appointment. The world tilts.
I stop short. My mouth opens on instinct, apology already forming, but she lifts a hand before I can say a word.
“Don’t,” she says, her eyes are clear. Steady. “Save it.”
I swallow. Nate stills beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat of him, but this is my burden to face and carry.
“Who do we have here, dear?” she asks, eyes sparkling with curiosity.
“This is my friend, Nate.”
Nate’s posture tightens as he shakes her hand. The designation isn’t a lie, but it’s not the whole truth. Fear and all, I don’t want it to be the whole truth, at least.
I shake my head and try to focus on apologizing, explaining I did everything I could, and she must see it on my face because she adds, “You caught the thing that could be caught. You gave us months we wouldn’t have had otherwise.” Her voice firms. “You’re a damn good doctor, Dr. Hollis.”
Something in my chest loosens, then aches. I nod because I don’t trust myself to speak. She squeezes my arm once, turns, and walks away as if she didn’t just turn my week inside out.
I felt this responsibility to improve protocols so we could serve patients better. And I still want to … but maybe it isn’t on me. Maybe half clinic, half research wouldn’t be such a bad idea.
I exhale slowly, and we start walking again, quieter now that the ice cream’s gone. The afternoon hums on.
At the corner, he glances at his phone. “I’m past my lunch break, I should head out.
The construction site on Hamby Road’s a mess, and the foreman’s an idiot, so it’s on me to fix it.
” He rubs his forearm. “You gonna be okay?” He stares attentively, but he doesn’t doubt my nod or smile.
He used to prod, now he trusts. “See you soon?”
“No later than Wednesday. Reading club. In person,” I remind him.
“Yep.”
He turns and takes a step away from me, only to pivot right back.
“Actually,” he says from a few feet away, “my mom’s visiting this weekend.” He scratches the back of his head. “She knows we’re not together.” He snickers. “But she wants you there for brunch. You know she has a thing for Saturdays at eleven a.m.”
I still while smoothing the strap of my bag, flicking my eyes up to meet Nate’s. There’s a teasing glint in them. I love Rebecca.
“No funny business, right?”
Nate chuckles, shaking his head as he looks down. “With Mom? I’d say you can count on it?”
I huff out a laugh. “I’ll be there,” I say excitedly despite my better judgment.
A smile spreads across his face, teeth showing and beard highlighting the fullness of his bottom lip. He steps closer and dips down, pressing a kiss to my cheek. His lips are warm against my skin. The thick beard tickles, and my skin lights up anyway, a flush blooming I can’t control. I love it.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, pulling back.
“It’s okay.” It is, but it is also too much too fast. Maybe we’re more turtles than people at this point.
I watch him go, shoulders easy, steps unhurried. Our eyes meet for a second when he looks my way over the driver’s door as he slides into the car. I stand there a moment longer than necessary, the echo of him still warm against my skin.
It’s Saturday brunch, the café is warm and loud, sunlight spilling through the tall windows, the smell of toasted bread and maple syrup thick in the air.
Rebecca’s had her fill of egg white omelet with a side of French toast. Although, the second Nate disappears toward the restroom, I know she hasn’t had her fill of poking and prodding into where my head is at.
Once the server refills our coffee, she attacks, stirring cream into her mug.
“So … how are you actually doing?”
I wrap both hands around my mug, letting the heat soak into my fingers. “I’m okay.”
Her eyebrow lifts. Right. She’s worked with teens for ages; she knows a deflection.
I sigh. “I don’t really know yet,” I admit.
She nods, unperturbed by the nonanswer. “That seems fair.”
The clatter of dishes fills the pause between us, and she leans back slightly in her chair.
“I’m glad you came today. Even if things between you two are … complicated.”
“That’s an understatement.”
She smiles faintly.
I glance down at the table. “I really admire you as a mother.” I flick my eyes up to her. “I know we talk a lot of shop, but … my family wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
Rebecca tilts her head. “No?”
I shake my head.
“My dad lives overseas. We’re not … talkers.” I trace the edge of my napkin with one finger. “If something goes wrong, you figure it out on your own and keep working without a hitch. It’s what Dad did when Mom passed.”
She hums. “That explains a lot.”
I look up. “What do you mean?”
“You’re very good at holding yourself together. Even when you shouldn’t be.”
“You should always be able to hold it together,” I counter.
“Maybe,” she says, bringing the mug to her lips. “You should also be able to count on the people closest to you.” She flicks her blue gaze to mine and waits.
The memory of getting ready for rounds one day and finding a video of my boyfriend kissing someone else still stings. But what I can’t get over are the signals I overlooked. And the ones I may miss again.
My fingers curl around the mug.
“You’re scared.” Her expression softens. “That he’ll hurt you again.”
I shake my head. “That too.” I exhale slowly. “But mostly that I won’t see it coming.” The words sound small out loud. “In my family … we say you have to trust yourself. I was raised to run on my own judgment and instincts.
“And now I can’t shake that they’re just … faulty.”
Silence stretches between us for a moment.
Then she reaches across the table and rests her hand lightly over mine. Her palm is warm.
“Robyn, what have you learned in all of this?”
My brows pull together slightly. “What do you mean?”
“You went through a breakup that, it sounds like, shook you to your core. Understandably so.” Rebecca’s voice gruffs out as if she’s getting angry at Nate. “You must have learned something.”
“That’s not very comforting.”
“It’s not meant to be,” she says, with a small smile. “I don’t coddle.”
“I don’t want to live waiting for cracks,” I say.
She squeezes my hand once before pulling hers back.
“Then don’t,” she states. She takes a sip of her coffee. “I’ve watched my son. Back at my party … you guys weren’t ready,” she adds. “But I’ve watched you today.”
I tilt my head slightly.
Her mouth curves in a quiet smile. “You two are different with each other now.”
I can’t tell Rebecca I rage-fucked her son … can I? A familiar warmth flickers in my chest, followed immediately by a ripple of nerves because different doesn’t mean safe.
The bathroom door opens across the room, and Nate steps back into the café, scanning the tables until his eyes land on us. He reaches the table a few seconds later.
“Did I miss anything?” he asks.
Rebecca and I exchange a glance.
“Nothing important,” she says.
As Nate slides back into his chair beside me, his knee brushing mine under the table, my brain fires serotonin, rewarding his closeness. And I realize something: I may not trust the ground yet, but I’m starting to trust Nate.
It’s been a week and a half since my conversation with Rebecca, and no matter how slow we’re going, I can’t shake this feeling that the other shoe’s about to drop.
I glance at the phone against the tile while I rinse a plate, suds creeping toward my wrists. Julian’s on speaker, lounging somewhere by the way he’s breathing into the speaker.
“You’re overthinking it,” he says. “Just give the give the guy a break and fuck him. He’s got to have the bluest balls in the Pacific Northwest.”
I snort but also blush. What happened between Nate and I in Seattle … I want to keep it between Nate and I. “Look who’s talking.”
“That’s right,” he says cheerfully. “Mine are the bluest in the Midwest.”
I’m smiling when my phone buzzes again. The hospital’s calling. Weird. “Hold on—hospital’s on the other line.”
“Are you on call?”
“No. I’ll call you back.”
I swipe. “Hello?”
“Is this Robyn Hollis? We have a Nathan Leighton in the ER. You’re listed as his emergency contact. There’s been an accident at a construction site.”
The plate slips and clatters into the sink. Water keeps running, but my heart stops.