Chapter 37
The Endgame
Robyn
Without discussing it, we’ve spent every free moment we’ve had together, soaking up every second of us before my interview.
I know once I leave the hurt will sink, and even when I come back to grab my things …
it’ll all hurt. Today’s Saturday brunch is just another “last” we’ve added to our collection.
The café is loud with everyone around us overcaffeinated and pretending they’re not still tired from the week. Silverware taps against ceramic plates, and sunlight spills through the tall front windows onto the small square tables pressed together.
Nate sits next to me, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, a mug of coffee cradled loosely in both hands.
His hair is still damp from the shower and falling down his temples and past his ears.
He looks … at ease. When I think I am too, he slides his arm down, hooking his hand under my knee, and drags me closer until my thigh is on his.
We laugh when he prods at my side after I steal some roasted potatoes off his plate.
“Those were clearly on my side,” he says.
It’s something we used to do. Place the food we weren’t willing to share on the side of the plate away from the other.
It meant off-limits. I chuckle skeptically and eat it anyway; he steals a piece of cantaloupe from my off-limits side of the plate.
He smiles around the bite, and for a moment we just look at each other.
He caresses my thigh under the table, slow and absentminded, intimate and not sexual.
We’ve been together but nothing about this week has been about sex—there’s more to us than fucking and napping the way there once was.
Nate talks about the settlement he’s entitled to since the concussion was due to unsafe working conditions.
All he really wants is for that foreman to be fired.
He waves the whole thing away and points up at the crown molding on the ceiling.
The plaster is painted a soft green against the cream walls, and it brings attention to the leaves and ridges around the room.
“See that?” he says.
I follow his finger, then glance back at him. Of course he would rather talk about molding than money. I take a sip of my coffee and glance at the chalkboard menu on the wall.
“Oh,” I say suddenly.
Nate pauses mid-sentence. “What?”
“They do this thing here in October.” I nod toward the board. “A whole fall menu. Pumpkin ricotta pancakes, apple cider mimosas, this ridiculous cinnamon thing they bake in a skillet.”
His mouth tilts. “Sounds amazing.”
“You’re going to love it.” I smile, already picturing it. “We should come when they start it. Time your mom’s visit around it.”
The words come out so easily, I don’t even register the misstep. Because during our first go around, there was never a question that we would be together way beyond a seasonal special.
Nate doesn’t say anything. His smile stays on his lips, tension curling subtly around them. The skin right above his cheekbones, below his lower eyelid, trembles, and he’s quick to smooth it with the pad of his thumb. I would have missed it before—he hates this.
I cup his face in my hands and brush the same area underneath his eyes, the corners damp. Nate’s eyes lift back to mine, softer now.
“Nate—”
“Yeah?” he says quietly.
My brain scrambles, already trying to correct the misstep, but before I can say anything, he takes my hand.
He threads his finger with mine, kisses the back of my palm. “I’ll make sure to bring Mom,” he says.
He stands, tugging gently until I do too.
Plates clink and people talk while Nate pays.
Once outside, he brushes slow circles with his thumb, then leans down and kisses me.
My body recognizes the exact shape of his mouth before my brain has time to process it.
And I rise on my toes, sliding my hand up his chest, while everything narrows to just this—his lips, the warmth of him, the quiet steadiness of his hand at the back of my neck.
And I almost taste what October and November and many forevers with Nate could be like.
Every day this week, at least once an hour, I remembered not that I may be leaving, but that I was leaving him, and I struggled to breathe through the choice.
He’d resent moving there, a place with no thriving architectural firm. I’m living my fear from back then: Nate having to move for me or giving him up. If I asked, he’d follow me. And it’s why I can’t.
The thought lands fully formed and dangerous.
It’s been circling for days, because while we were apart, he’s learned to communicate and made himself a solid partner; and I’ve been living on bypass.
He doesn’t want me becoming smaller for him—he shouldn’t do that for me.
A surge of adrenaline floods my system so quickly I feel the ground shifting, sliding, cracking, and readying itself to swallow me whole again. I tighten my hold on Nate’s shirt.
He pulls back slightly, his forehead resting against mine. “Hey,” he murmurs. Concern edges his voice. “I’m really proud of you.” He rubs slow circles over my knuckles, a tremor betraying him.
I laugh weakly. “You make this sound so easy.”
“It isn’t. It’s really fucking hard.”
And just like that, we both laugh. Why does it hurt so much if it’s the right choice?
I step into him then, pressing my forehead to his chest, and I let myself imagine a version of this where I do ask and we figure it out together.
Still, with his arms around me, all I do is hold on to him so tight I must be trying to imprint him onto my skin.
His hand slides to the back of my neck, thumb pressing gently under my ear, and my heart stutters.
It’s even harder now to not whisper his name and ask him to come with me. But I pull back. “We’ll see each other. December for Milo’s birthday?”
He nods. “I’d like to be there. For Julian and Quinn.”
I nod. “I’d like you there.”
I’d like you everywhere if I were brave enough.
My hotel room near campus is a mess of misplaced clothes I can’t bring myself to fold.
I hate that the moment I close the door, all I can do is shut my eyes—just to feel something other than the urge to cry.
It’s only my third day here, with four more to go, and I’ve had to stop myself from texting him every hour on the hour.
I’m talking circles with Julian to see if that’ll soothe this ache I feel at the absence of Nate. When I left Chicago and even before then, I missed him, but it wasn’t paired with this twisting feeling in my stomach that I’d taken a wrong turn somewhere.
I’m standing over the bed, forcing myself to find a professional outfit for tomorrow.
Julian’s voice hums through my phone, warm and perceptive. “Are you sure you’re doing okay?”
“I’m really excited about this lab.” I slide a stack of clothes to the side, a blouse falls off the pile and unfolds into a pool of rayon. “I think it’s going to help me feel like I’m contributing in the best way. Patient care, research, teaching. All of it.”
There’s a pause. I picture him shifting Milo higher on his shoulder, that reflexive bounce he’s gotten down so naturally. “Robyn … that’s all great. But it’s not what I asked.”
I close the cabinet door more carefully than necessary. “What do you want me to say?”
“Don’t give me the script. I want you to be real. It’s just you and me.” A soft rustle. “Well, and Milo. But still.”
I lean my hip against the counter, the cool stone grounding me. “Are you angry that I’m moving again but not back to Chicago?”
“Why would I be angry?”
“Because we talked about Team Neuro for years. Since we were barely pulling B-pluses in pathology and pretending we weren’t panicking.”
“Speak for yourself. I was never that worried.”
I snicker. “Your neurosurgeon ego’s doing well.”
“Completely earned,” he says, and shuffles again. A soft sigh echoes through the speaker—not his. “Team Neuro was a dream. And I love it. But I’m not unattached anymore. Wherever Milo and Quinn go, that’s where I go. Even if you came back to Chicago, there’s no guarantee I wouldn’t ever leave.”
“So, Team Neuro is dead.”
“No.” He shifts again, lowering his voice. “It’s just not static. Dreams evolve. People evolve. Team Neuro means different cities now, and that’s okay. Our friendship grows with us.”
My throat tightens. I turn away from the bed, toward the kitchenette side of the room, press my palm flat against the fridge door, and blink hard. One tear slips anyway, landing on the stainless steel, and try as I might, a shaky sob escapes me.
“Dr. Sunshine, don’t cry. You’re still Milo’s aunt. And we can play Operation at his first birthday, Team Neuro at its finest.”
“It’s not that,” I say, my voice cracking. “Kells … I think I made a big mistake.”
“With Nate?”
“Of course with Nate,” I snap, swiping at my cheek. “Who else would it be?”
“I don’t know,” he says deadpan. “You could’ve fucked up your makeup. I had to consider the options.”
I huff out a breath, shaky. “Do you think I made a mistake?”
“Honestly?”
I nod even though he can’t see me, gripping the fridge handle, then sliding down until my back is against the cool door. The hum against my ribs is soothing and rattling at the same time. On his end, there’s a brief babble, Milo stirring, and Julian murmurs nonsense sounds until he quiets.
“Yes, I think you made a mistake,” he says finally.
My stomach drops.
“Look,” he continues, careful now. “What I think doesn’t matter as much as what I know. You never got over him. You moved. You dated. You had that deeply confusing friends-with-benefits thing with the guy who was spectacularly bad in bed.”
“Are we still talking about me?” I mutter.
“I’m being serious. You were looking for a way forward without Nate.”
“I don’t want him to leave a job he loves for me.”
“Don’t bullshit me. Sure, distance takes logistics. But you’re not protecting his job, you’re being a coward. You shut him down because you’re scared.”