Chapter 21 #2
“Or to justify the hours I’ve been logging.”
“Kate.”
I looked up.
“You’re allowed to tell me something without turning it into an argument,” Diane said.
The strap was still wedged under the caster. Diane nudged the base of the chair with the toe of her pump, freeing the leather. She didn't pick up the bag for me.
I pulled myself up into the chair. The laminate table was cool beneath my wrists.
“I need ten minutes,” I said.
“Take them.”
“And then I want you to take the proposal to the committee.”
“And then I will.”
Diane stepped out into the hallway and pulled the door shut behind her.
I didn't try to force the crying to stop before the ten minutes were up. When the timer went off, I swiped it silent, wiped my face with a tissue, and called Priya.
“I’m in the north conference room,” I said. “Can you come?”
“On my way.”
“You don't need to bring anything.”
“I was just about to ask.”
“I know.”
Priya walked in two minutes later with empty hands. She took the chair Diane had vacated and glanced at the closed folder on the table.
“Did they turn you down?”
“Not yet.”
“Then what happened?”
I slid my phone across the wood, screen facing up.
Priya didn't touch the device. She read the calendar notification, and her eyes dropped straight to my knuckles.
“Oh,” she said.
The syllable cracked right down the middle.
For a long stretch, the only sound was the low hum of the ventilation and the squeak of a cart rolling down the hallway.
Priya rubbed her thumb over a faint scratch in the table.
I’d known the date on the calendar would hurt.
What I hadn't prepared for was the entire version of the day it brought with it: the cold gel, a monitor angled toward us, Cole’s hand around mine.
“I thought if it hurt this much, it meant I’d been lying,” I said.
Priya turned her head.
“About what?”
“About it not fitting into my life. About the relief. I thought I had to arrange one feeling after another until they made sense together.”
“That sounds exhausting, even for your standards.”
A wet, unsteady laugh escaped me. Priya nudged the tissue box toward the center of the table without pulling one out for me.
I took two.
“I’m grieving this pregnancy,” I said. “I’m grieving that it ended, and I’m grieving the day we don't get to have today. And in April, I also knew I wasn't ready to be a mother.”
My throat closed up again. I waited. Priya let the silence hold.
“And now I know that I want to protect the possibility,” I said. “Someday, I want to be able to choose it.”
The sound of my own voice held me motionless.
The word want hung in the air between us. Until then, I had scattered my desires across hypothetical futures so none of them could claim me.
“Good,” Priya said.
“‘Good’?”
“Yeah. It’s an allowed word, Kate. I didn't bring a banner.”
“I’m disappointed in you.”
“I can find glitter in fifteen minutes, but we’ll be vacuuming it out of the carpet until December.”
I blew my nose. The scratchy paper scraped against my skin.
“I want to wait,” I said. “And if I ever try someday, it will be a shared decision. Not a way to get Cole back.”
“Obviously.”
“The decision I was making in April is still valid.”
“Yes.”
“And the outcome won't have any guarantees either.”
Priya pulled a tissue for herself.
“That sounds like the most honest assessment you’ve made all week.”
I looked down at the proposal on the table. The words “presence review” showed through the translucent cover.
“I asked Halcyon for ten full weeks on the ground in New York, and then one week per month back in Seattle, contingent on the milestones. Nine months total, no automatic extension.”
“Is that what you want?”
The question came without hidden advice.
“Yes.”
“Then I hope the committee takes the deal.”
“They might vote it down.”
“They might.”
She didn't tell me everything would work out. She stayed until I could take a full breath without that burning ache in my throat. Then she went back to her desk, and I went back to my office.
At seventeen past three, Diane called my direct line.
“The committee accepted the ten-week residency,” she said. “After that, three weeks in New York and one week in Seattle, provided the first three regional circuits pass the live referral audit. Any contract extension will require a written agreement executed at the eight-month mark.”
I stood up behind my desk.
“What did they demand in exchange?”
“An additional on-site review if two clinics run into failures in the same month, and a weekly report throughout the hybrid phase.”
“The report will be every other week,” I said. “Failures already trigger an immediate escalation protocol; a weekly report just duplicates work.”
Diane took a second to reply. I could practically hear the quiet satisfaction on the other end of the line.
“I’ll tell them you’ll provide a weekly summary for the first hybrid month, and shift to every other week after that.”
“That works.”
“The revised offer letter will be in your inbox before four. And, Kate...”
I waited.
“Thank you for telling me,” she said.
I looked at the closed door of my office.
“Thank you for not using it to make the decision for me.”
The revised letter arrived at three thirty-eight.
I read every line, including the appendices.
The start date remained August 5. My authority over hiring and the budget remained intact.
Seattle was now in the document as a one-week operational base per month after week ten—not as a personal concession or a tolerated visit.
I signed my name at twelve minutes past four.
The sharp edge of the desk pressed into my palm. The exhaustion had settled behind my eyes.
I’d asked for what I needed. They’d answered. I had chosen.
* * *
The corner pharmacy had three shades of dark red and a salesclerk who considered it her personal mission to explain the nuance between Deep Wine and Midnight Plum.
“That one,” I said, pointing to the bottle that matched the color I’d worn back in March.
“Deep Wine?”
“The one without glitter.”
At home, I pushed open the kitchen window. In drifted the warm air, the scent of damp asphalt after the street had been watered, and four crooked notes from the downstairs neighbor’s trumpet. I set the bottle of polish beside the signed letter and poured a glass of water.
My mother called while I was removing the last traces of chipped clear polish.
“I just wanted to know how the decision went,” she said.
“I accepted New York.”
Linda shouted something away from the receiver. Greg’s voice answered from another room down the hall.
“Sorry,” she said, coming back on the line. “That was domestic celebration. Are you happy?”
I looked down at my bare nails.
“Yeah. Exhausted, too.”
“Those two can coexist.”
The line didn't try to lecture me. It was an observation we’d both paid for.
“I renegotiated the structure,” I said. “Ten weeks there. Then one week a month in Seattle if we hit our operational milestones.”
“Because of Cole?”
It was the second time today someone had asked, and this time the answer didn't require any self-correction.
“For me. Cole is part of what I want, but I don't know if I still get to have that.”
Linda took a beat before replying.
“Are you going to find out?”
“Yeah.”
I wrapped up the call before I could pin a deadline on the choice, and started on my left hand.
The first stroke went on uneven along the cuticle. I almost removed it. Instead, I swirled the brush inside the bottle, wiped the excess along the rim, and smoothed a second coat over the nail.
The dark burgundy deepened as it dried.
I rested my hands flat on the table so they wouldn't smudge. Cole’s toothbrush was still in the cup in the bathroom. The white envelope sat on top of the nightstand. The signed New York letter rested right in front of me.
Once the lacquer lost its tack, I picked up my phone.
I typed: I accepted New York. I changed the terms before I signed. I want to tell you about it.
I deleted it.
I started over.
Kate: I want to talk to you. Tomorrow, six-thirty, at Green Lake. If you want to, too.
I read the text once. Not three times.
I hit send.