Page 8 of Waiting for You

"Still." She shook her head. "A woman of her caliber deserves more than a wrinkled white shirt with the top buttons open. You should've worn a jacket, at the very least."

"Eliza didn't seem to mind."

"That's only because she's too well-bred to insult you to your face." My mother threw a long-suffering look off-camera at my father. "He wore a plain white shirt to a romantic dinner."

"I heard him," my father grumbled.

"Goodnight to you both."

"A sport coat next time, Xavier!" my mother reminded again.

"Goodnight."

I hit the red button and killed the feed.

Clenching my jaw, I put the car in drive and took the long way home. I cruised past the aging hospital where I'd done my residency and the crumbling brick building that had housed my first clinic before the expansion. I passed a neon-lit 24-hour diner, the same greasy spoon I used to haunt after brutal late-night rotations, still glowing with that same flickering sign in the window. The two worn corner stools I used to claim were probably still there—I'd sat in them in bloody scrubs with my ID badge clipped on.

The city was quiet, washed in the orange glow of streetlamps. Every lit window held a different story, a different life unfolding inside. I'd lived here so long I usually drove through it blind to its pulse.

My house was near the wealthy edge of town, a white architectural statement framed by a manicured garden my mother had picked out without asking me. I'd kept the landscaping because the groundskeepers handled it. I was rarely home in daylight long enough to enjoy the blooms or object to them.

It was a beautiful estate, but I wouldn't miss it—not in any sentimental way.

The next morning I went back to the hospital for a complex surgery on schedule. I kept working hands-on because the operating room still demanded every ounce of my focus. And I needed something in my life that pushed me.

After the procedure, I holed up in my office, buried in patient charts, knocking out administrative tasks and dictating surgical notes.

My desk phone lit up. I glanced at the caller ID, and I grinned.

It was Violet.

"Please tell me I didn't just interrupt something critical," she said in a rush.

"I just stepped out of the OR."

She let out a hard breath. "Thank God! I need a huge favor."

"Name it."

"The rehearsal dinner is on Friday. Please make sure you can make it."

I'd already arranged my surgical schedule for her wedding week. And I'd confirmed my appearance. But Violet had a habit of asking for reassurances—she needed to hear the commitment out loud.

"I'll be there. Your itinerary is my itinerary, Vi. Don't stress about whether I show."

"I can't stop my brain from worrying about it," she said, her voice small.

"I know you can't." I leaned back into my chair. "But I promise you, I'll be sitting at that table."

The line went quiet for a heartbeat. "I miss you, Xav. I can't wait to hug you."

"I miss you too, kiddo."

"Look, there's something else I need to tell you. I'm just giving you the information. You decide how to handle it." She took a jagged breath. "Sloane's going to be at the rehearsal dinner."

"Already figured. She’s your friend. That’s inevitable," I said, ignoring the spike in my pulse.

"I just didn't want you blindsided. That's all. She's my best friend, and you're my brother, and I love you both so much, and I just⁠—"