Page 124 of The Clinch
He says something else. She smiles again, warm and easy, already turning back to Marco and the balloons. The doctor watches her go for exactly one beat too long before he heads back inside.
She has no idea.
That’s the part that gets me. Not the doctor. Not the look. The fact that she moved through it completely unaware, comfortable in her own skin, belonging to herself the way she always does—and someone noticed, the way people notice things they want.
The way I notice things I want.
I don’t have the right to move over there, to claim her as mine.
What I have is thirty feet of sidewalk and the specific, ugly discipline of a man who knows exactly what he’s feeling and has decided not to do anything about it yet.
She looks back at the hospital once more before turning toward the car.
The fluorescent light. The ambulance bay. The controlled chaos that has been her world for years.
Her expression shifts.
Not quite grief. Not quite relief.
Marco leans toward her, says something into her ear as he spots me, then lifts a hand in a wave.
When Liz sees me, her whole face changes. The tension she carried out of the bay gives a little, just enough to show me she was waiting for somewhere to set it down.
“Hey there, champ,” Marco calls as they get closer. “Please tell me you’ve got one of your friends lined up for a double date.”
Liz’s balloons bob behind her as she steps into me and slides her hand into mine.
It feels like a reflex. I like it.
“Thanks for walking her out,” I tell Marco. “And no. None of my guys are single. Somehow.”
Marco clicks his tongue, theatrically disappointed, then turns back to Liz. “Next week. Dinner and dancing. I’m not letting you disappear into whatever comes after this.”
“Next week,” Liz says easily. Her attention catches on me for a half second. Checking. The ring flashes. She doesn’t hide it.
“Good,” Marco says. Then, to me, with a pointed finger, “Don’t mess it up.”
Liz groans. “Go.”
Marco laughs and heads back toward the doors, and the hospital swallows him again.
I guide her to the car. She doesn’t speak until we’re both inside and the doors shut, muffling the world.
“Last shift,” I say quietly.
She stares through the windshield. “Yeah.”
“How does it feel?”
She’s quiet long enough that I think she won’t answer.
“Like I’m stepping off a cliff,” she says finally, “and hoping I land somewhere that still feels like me.”
Her hand turns the ring once.
“What if I’m not good at this? Med school. What if I was only ever good at the doing, not the learning?”
I settle my hand on her knee. “You’re good at both.”
