Page 51 of The Clinch
By lunch,I know exactly who I need to call. I take my break on a bench across from the hospital, still in scrubs, my badge tucked into my pocket. The air smells of cut grass and hot pavement. Somewhere behind me, a siren winds up and fades.
I need to hear Mom and Dad’s voices. If I still want to run after that, I’ll know it’s real.
The phone lights up, and my mother answers first, face filling the frame, her hair in neat micro braids that always make me think of Sunday mornings and shared coffee. Behind her, late-afternoon light slants through tall, old-world windows I’ve seen a hundred times in photos. Beyond them, a quiet park. Ulm is small and calm in a way New York never is.
“There’s my Lil,” she says, flashing that wide, unstoppable smile.
“Hey, Mom.”
My father leans in a second later, glasses low on his nose. He takes one look at me and makes the same assessment he always does.
“You look tired. Good. Means you’re working hard.”
The German work ethic never fails to amuse me and Mom. “That’s one way to put it.”
The usual questions follow—hospital, sleep, running. I answer on autopilot. Everything’s fine. All good.
My mother tilts her head. She’s always been able to smell a lie.
“You always say ‘fine’ when it’s not.”
“I know. I’m working on expanding my vocabulary.”
That earns a grin from both of them.
My father asks about med school—timelines, first year, whether I’m excited.
“Excited,” I repeat, testing the word. “Yeah. I think so.”
They seem pleased. Relieved. Like this part of my life is still unfolding the way it’s supposed to.
With the city humming at a manageable distance, I almost let myself believe it too.
Mom keeps looking at me, waiting for me to name the thing I’m pretending isn’t there. My father glances away—probably at whatever tab he still has open—and then back at me.
“So,” my mother says lightly, dragging the word out, a smile already pulling at her mouth. “Are you calling to tell us some good news?”
Of course. It made the headlines there too. Eden bragged months ago that if Leo wins in the fall, the spotlight goes international. Especially with a German opponent in the mix.
My father shifts closer. “Your mother’s been waiting all morning. She’s very invested.”
“This is not—” I start, then stop. Recalibrate. “It’s not what it looks like.”
Mom hums, unconvinced. “No? Because it looks like you’re engaged to a very large man with excellent posture.”
She tilts her laptop, and I catch the reflection of another screen: my own face, caught in flash, hair done, a dress I barely remember wearing. Leo beside me in a tux. His hand on my bare back.
The caption is in German.
VERLOBT.
Engaged.
Seeing it in German makes it feel more real than it has any right to. Less like gossip. More like a fact stamped onto my forehead.
“That’s…” I start. Stop. Try again. “It’s not real.”
They don’t move. Even through the screen, I feel the conversation change shape.
