Page 78 of Cava with My Colleague

“Not even Berlin.” She holds my gaze. “Because Berlin led to everything else. And all of it . . . all of it led to becoming someone who could stand on that stage in Marseille yesterday and actually mean it when I talked about hope.”

“You did that. Not me.”

“We did that.” She leans forward slightly, one hand on her knee. “Do you remember what you said to me after the first personal presentation? When I finally shared about being sick as a kid?”

I remember every conversation we’ve had, but I shake my head anyway, wanting to hear what stood out to her.

“You said ‘you took my advice.’” Her voice mimics my surprise from that night. “Like you couldn’t believe I’d actually listened to you.”

“You’d spent weeks fighting me on everything.”

“I had. But you were right. About the presentations, about connecting with patients, about . . .” She trails off, looking away. “About a lot of things.”

“Not everything.”

Her eyes snap back to mine. “No?”

“No.” I lean forward too, mirroring her posture. We’re closer now, close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes. “I was wrong about you being unprofessional. Wrong about the lunch thing. Wrong about thinking you couldn’t handle this tour.”

“You were right that I had stage fright.”

“You were brave enough to do it anyway.”

We’re staring at each other now, and I can’t look away. Can’t pretend I don’t notice the way her breath has quickened slightly, the way her eyes drop to my mouth for just a fraction of a second.

“Carlos,” she says, and my name on her lips sounds like a question.

“Yes?”

“Why did you really not want me on this tour?” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “At the beginning. Was it really just about the professionalism thing?”

I should lie. Should give her the easy answer about workplace boundaries and appropriate behavior.

Instead, I tell her the truth.

“You scared me.”

Her eyebrows raise. “I scared you?”

“From the first day I saw you walk into our office, you scared me.” I run a hand through my hair, trying to find the right words. “You were so . . . unapologetic. So comfortable in your own skin. So ready to challenge everything I thought I knew about what’s appropriate or professional or right.”

“And that scared you?”

“Terrified me.” I meet her eyes again. “Because I knew—I think I knew even then—that you were going to upend my nice, settled, uncomplicated life.”

She’s very still, watching me.

“And I was right,” I continue. “You did. You made me question everything. Made me want things I thought I was too old for, too settled for, too⁠—”

“Happy with your life?” she finishes, and there’s no bitterness in it. Just understanding.

“I thought I was.”

“And now?”

The question hangs between us. I could end this conversation, remind us both that she’s leaving.

Instead, I hold her gaze and let her see the truth.