Page 6 of Parallel

“Teen Titans?” I ask. “Or Teen Drama Island?”

“Teen Titans,” she replies.

I walk over and watch for a few seconds. “And your favorite is the goth one.”

Darcy tilts her head. “What does goth mean?”

I take the seat beside her and point at the screen. “You know how Raven never smiles and is always wearing all black and looking unhappy? That’s goth.”

“I want to be goth when I grow up too,” she says.

When she grows up. My chest aches, but she’s watching my reaction so I force myself to smile as I rise. “Don’t tell your mother I gave you that idea.”

I go to the nurses’ station next to make sure there’s nothing pressing to be dealt with. The waiting room is packed, which means I’ll be here this evening too. Not a great day to get by on four hours of sleep.

I turn away, but as I do my eyes catch on a couple standing by the elevator. There’s something so familiar about the woman, even from behind—about the set of her shoulders, in the way she gathers her long brown hair into a ponytail before letting it fall. I feel a pull toward her I can’t explain, and the fact that she’s clearly with the guy beside her matters not at all.

“Mr. Jensen’s family has called for you twice,” says Bev, one of the nurses, thrusting a piece of paper into my hand. “The nursing home wants you to up his meds.”

I look back at the elevator but the woman is gone. For a moment I just look blankly at the space where she stood, feeling as if I’ve lost something.

“You okay, Dr. Reilly?” Bev asks.

I wince. I’m acting like a nutjob today. “Sleep deprivation,” I tell her.

Yes, that’s probably all it is.

4

QUINN

I dream that night about so many things, some big and some small. Nick’s flat in Marylebone, which became our flat in Marylebone. Grocery shopping. Trying to make the perfect gin fizz. Sitting with Nick at some pub on a night in late autumn, getting pleasantly smashed, happy in a way I’ve never been before and didn’t even know existed until the day we met.

“Show me,” he says, nodding at my laptop bag. In the three months we’ve been together, there’s not been a single project I’ve completed for my graduate program that he hasn’t demanded to see.

“It’s just a basic building design. There’s no way you actually want to see it,” I argue.

“Of course I do,” he says, sliding his drink toward me. I take a sip and flinch. I’ll never get used to the taste of whiskey. “And then I want you to start throwing out terms like spaciality and cantilevers.”

My mouth tips upward despite my every effort to look stern. “You’re making fun of me.”

“I’m not,” he says, placing his palm on my cheek. “I love watching you talk about architecture. Your whole face lights up. And it amazes me that you can do all this.”

I laugh. “You can save human lives, but you’re impressed I can draw a building?”

“But I don’t create things,” he says. “And I love that you’re so fascinated by it.”

“You’ll be just as fascinated next year.” During this, the first year of his residency, he’s all over the place—like the neurology rotation that led to our first meeting. Next year is when he’ll get to focus on cardiology, his chosen specialty.

He takes a sip of his drink. “I hope so. I thought with my dad’s heart problem, it would feel more meaningful, but right now I’m not sure.”

“Are you worried it’ll be depressing?”

“There are worse specialties. Like oncology. You know why they nail coffins shut?”

I prepare myself. Doctor humor tends to be on the macabre side.

He grins. “To keep oncologists from trying to resuscitate the corpse.”