Believe
Author: Katie Delahanty
Date: 2000-01-01 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Contemporary Romance; General; Contemporary; Romance; Musicians; Music; New Adult; Fiction; Women
Description: When my cousin Liv whisked me away to South Africa to be maid of honor in her super-secret celebrity wedding, I was about to begin a five-year residency at NYU and was on my way to becoming a plastic surgeon. My plans definitely did not include a rock-star best man sweeping me off my feet. But what happened in South Africa needed to stay there—he’d return to his touring and I’d start my residency, with our fond memories of a whirlwind, fairy-tale week. But now nothing feels right—I’m questioning my once solid plans, and I can’t stop thinking about him. Our lives are so different... Am I ready
Publisher: Entangled Publishing, LLC

Table of Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author

Discover more New Adult titles from Entangled Embrace…

Lessons in Gravity
Summer Girl
The Rule Book
Beyond the Stars

Discover the Brightside series…

In Bloom

Blushing

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2016 by Katie Delahanty. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Entangled Publishing, LLC

2614 South Timberline Road

Suite 109

Fort Collins, CO 80525

Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

Embrace is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

Edited by Karen Grove

Cover design by Brittany Marczak

Cover art from Shutterstock

ISBN 978-1-62266-315-6

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition October 2016

For Dr. Alex. You do it all—and in perfectly chosen heels! Your talent knows no bounds.

My name is Amanda Conrad and I. Am. A. Doctor.

Let me repeat that. A doctor. Doctor Amanda Conrad. That’s me. I almost can’t believe it’s true, that the sleepless nights have culminated in this moment, this feeling, this light shining out of my every pore. It was worth the bloodshot eyes. Everything I’ve worked for, dreamed of—everything I’ve ever wanted—is happening. The world is at my fingertips, and it’s all going according to the plan I mapped out the night of my thirteenth birthday. I knew that if I did the work, stayed true to my path, studied harder, stayed up later—that nothing could stop me—nothing could get in my way. And I was right. The time has finally come…

My

Life

Begins

Now.

Chapter One

Amanda Conrad @BootsMD

I’m sorry, but at least 10% of the time a doctor is looking at a patient thinking “OUCCCCCHHHH!”

Berkeley Dalton @BerkeleyBrtside

@BrightsideBP @BSDrummerTed The band’s all here…just missing the rhythm section. Can’t do it without you. #SeeYouSoon

Mark VanCleer @BrightsideBP

@BerkeleyBrtside We be jammin’ late-night style. On our way!

It’s dark when we arrive at Point of Grace, Berkeley’s grandparents’ vineyard in Stellenbosch, but Paps and Ouma—as we are directed to refer to them—are waiting for us on the front porch of the old colonial farmhouse. Paps holds a mosquito net–covered tray containing dainty cordial glasses filled with cognac. It being winter in South Africa, malaria is not a concern, thus no shots were required prior to our last-minute journey, but it is quickly clear that shots are required to enter the house.

“Wet your whistle,” he says in a heavy South African brogue, his blue eyes sparkling. “Rules of the house: sundowners must be had, even though you missed the sun. And help yourselves to wine and sandwiches in the dining room.”

Accepting my glass, I join my cousin Liv’s friends, Parker and Blair, inside the great room. Taking in the high thatched ceiling held in place with wide wood beams and dotted with slowly turning paddle fans, it’s all I can do not to sink my aching limbs into one of the overstuffed couches next to the fire. Despite the comforts of the private jet we’ve just arrived on, I didn’t have much luck sleeping. My mind was too busy running circles around all that is left to do at home. I’m scheduled to start surgical residency in ten days, and I should be moving from Pittsburgh to New York right now. But how often does your best friend and cousin whisk you away to South Africa for her top-secret wedding to a rock star? And not just any rock star, Berkeley Dalton, lead singer of Berkeley & the Brightside, who also happens to be playing the lead in The Keystone, the most anticipated movie of the year. This wedding is going to be celeb-central, and I’m certain nothing this exciting will ever happen to me again. For once, my new life will have to wait.

“This place is incredible,” Blair says, gesturing toward the glass doors lining the front of the house that open to the porch and the vineyards beyond. “I can’t wait to see the view in the morning.”

“It will be positively exquisite,” Parker says, his gaze traveling over Blair’s shoulder. “And likely even more scrumptious in the afternoon.”

Blair follows his stare straight to last year’s “Sexiest Man Alive,” Tux Nicholas, his perfect profile silhouetted against the fire. “I’m sure everything looks prettier during the magic hour,” she says. “And I suppose we can’t have a certain someone glimpsing you in the wrong light.”

“What can I say?” he replies. “I know my angles, and I need my beauty rest. If I’m not careful, I won’t just turn into a pumpkin, I’ll be squash.”

Taking a sip of cognac, the burning liquid momentarily enlivening my senses, I look past Tux and watch Berkeley introduce Liv to his grandparents, his eyes shining with pride as he presents his bride-to-be. Paps sets down his tray, first embracing his grandson, then pulling Liv into his arms as well. Not wanting to wait, Ouma swats him away, taking her turn with the couple.

“He loves her so much,” I say, riveted by the scene before me. “I can feel their heat from across the room. It’s like he can’t get close enough to her.”

In my periphery, I see Parker and Blair smile at each other.

“They’re electric,” Blair says. “It’s pretty intense sometimes.”

“It’s surreal. Like I’m in a movie.” Lightheaded, I feel the room swirl around me in a colorful fog. “Maybe it’s all the famous faces.”

“Celebs combined with jet lag. It’s quite the cocktail.” Parker swallows his cognac for emphasis. “But isn’t it romantic? Our tiny plane swooping over the runway to clear the zebras before we landed so Berkeley could carry his bride to their wedding? I’ll have to write that into the episode of The One where the groom takes the last three ‘fiancées’ to the island before choosing his wife—not even I can make this stuff up.”

“Isn’t The One a reality show?” I ask.

“You have much to learn, dear.” Parker sighs, then cocks his head to the side, observing me. “Though you do have potential…” He nods, seeming to come to a decision. “If you need help navigating the celeb-infested waters this weekend, I offer my services. I may be a writer for horrendous people by day, but I dabble in ‘Fairy Godfather’ for the deserving by night.”

“Oh, I don’t know, I’m not in the market for love… No time. Maybe you should focus on Tux. I’m sure he would clear the runway for you.” I tease him about their recent affair that accidentally leaked to the press, “outing” Tux.

“Boots. Keep your voice down,” Parker whispers, gripping my arm. “That’s over. It was just one night, and I’m sure he needs this trip to recover from the circus and restore his sanity. Whatever happened between Tux and me should never be spoken of again. See. Much to learn.”

“Isn’t this crazy?” Liv asks, joining us before I can respond. Her face flushed, she links arms with me, and I put my head on her shoulder.

“I can’t believe everyone is here, that Berkeley and I are really getting married.” She looks around the room, swaying a little, and I’m afraid she might pass out. “We have a ton of work to do.”

“Everyone is here to help,” Parker says. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about a thing. We’ve got you covered.”

“It’s going to be beautiful.” I clasp her hand. “And it’ll be less daunting in the morning.”

“Right now we need some sleep,” Blair says. “Then, look out, Africa. Hashtag BerkLivia is in town!”

“Oh, no.” Liv moans. “Do we really need a hashtag?”

“Yes. As your newly appointed publicist, I can confirm you do. At least you will when we officially leak you to the press,” Blair replies. “Do you prefer Hashtag Olkely?”

“No. I do not.” Liv laughs, rubbing her eyes.

“Room assignments!” Jodi, Berkeley’s mom, announces, making us all jump. “I worked these out on the plane. I hope you don’t mind, but we’ll have to double up to accommodate everyone. And house rules: the bride and groom won’t be rooming together until they’ve made it official.” She smiles at her son, batting her eyelashes.

He frowns at her in return but doesn’t put up a fight, and I catch him wink at Liv.

“Too much information!” Berkeley’s dad quips, covering his ears.

“Mom,” his sister, Mia, complains. “It’s the twenty-first century.”

I look around at the pretty faces that comprise Berkeley’s family. Liv is marrying into such a charmed group. She fits right in.

“Berkeley, you’ll be in the barn with Mark and Ted and the rest of the guys when they get here,” Jodi continues, elbowing her husband and ignoring her daughter. “We have plenty of beds out there that are used only during the harvest, so it can be the groomsmen’s dorm. But it’s too cold and too late to set up tonight, so take one of the couches on the third floor.” She turns toward us. “Liv, you and Boots can have my old room at the top of the stairs…”

Knowing my assignment, I fantasize about burrowing under the covers.

“…and Parker and Tux in the bunks down in the wine cellar.” Jodi finishes rattling off the names of everyone who was on the private plane.

Parker pales, audibly gasping. Spine rigid, he grabs Blair’s arm for support.

I sneak a peek at Tux, who appears unaffected by the news. His perfectly bowed lips close in a pleasant smile, his eyes remain fixed on Jodi, without even the hint of a side-eyed glance in our direction.

“Head off to bed whenever you’re ready,” Jodi says. “But feel free to stay here, too. There’s plenty of wine and snacks. The farmhands are bringing in your bags.”

“Are you okay?” Liv whispers to Parker. “You can stay with us if you want. Right, Boots?”

“Of course,” I say. “I can sleep anywhere. I’m used to sleeping jackknifed into the rickety lounge chair in the residents’ room while doctors hash out lab values and CT scan results. Any corner of this house is like the Four Seasons to me.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Parker puffs up his chest. “If he’s okay, I’m okay.”

“Are you sure?” Liv confirms.

“It’s not like he’s going to sneak into my bed in the middle of the night with a stolen bottle of Pinotage and some pumpkin-pie-spice-scented massage oil—instinctually knowing what vanilla and cinnamon does to me, of course—and I’m certainly not going to sneak into his. It’s fine.”

Liv smiles and squeezes his arm. “Okay. In that case, I’m going to head up. It’s been a long couple of days, and I wasn’t sleeping well before we left.”

“Go,” Parker says. “You deserve it.”

“I just want to say good night to Berkeley…” She scans the room for her fiancé, who is in the dining room with his arm around his grandmother.

“I’m going to follow your lead,” I say, grateful for an exit route. “Except for the Berkeley part. I’ll see you up there.”

I’m almost asleep beneath the down comforter when Liv crawls into the giant bed next to me. We really could have fit three of us in here.

“What took you so long?” I mumble, making sure it’s her through half-slit eyes. “Never mind.” I groan, pulling the covers over my head. “I don’t want to know.”

“Not that.” She giggles, playfully swatting me with a pillow, and I wake up a little. “Too many people around. Not that it matters, we practically had sex in front of the entire Keystone crew on the last day of filming. I can’t believe that was only yesterday.”

“What?” Suddenly alert, I sit up. “Bedtime story, please.”

“Not tonight. It’s a long one, and I’m still trying to process everything.” She snuggles under the covers.

“Hollywood has made you mean.” I sink back against the pillows in a huff.

“I’m sorry. I’ll give you the dirty details tomorrow. I’m too tired tonight.”

“Tomorrow then. I’m holding you to it.”

“I promise.” She hooks her pinky with mine to prove it, and we both stare at the ceiling.

“So much has changed,” she says, just as my eyes start to grow heavy again. “I always dreamed of being a costume designer, and now I might become an actress… And can you believe we’re in South Africa? What are we doing here?”

“Getting you hitched, my dear.” I turn my head to face her. “It’s fast. I never knew you were this impulsive.”

“Me neither. Berkeley keeps me on my toes, but I love it.” She rolls onto her side, propping her head up on her hand, her long blond hair cascading over the pillow. “It feels right, like this is how it was meant to be. I know it’s been a whirlwind, and we haven’t known each other long, but I can’t imagine my world without him now—it’s like he is the first piece of a puzzle and everything builds from him, do you know what I mean?”

“Sort of. I feel that way about graduating from medical school, like everything I’ve been doing—all the hard work and sacrifice—has been leading to this moment, and my life starts now. I imagine you could feel that way about a person, too.”

“You definitely can.” She flops back onto her pillow. “I’m too excited to sleep.”

Reaching to the nightstand, I switch off the light. “Let me help you with that. Good night, Gladys,” I say, affecting a British accent.

“Good night, Ovid,” she replies, responding to my use of our old bedtime nicknames from when we were little and pretended to be English orphans. “Sleep tight.”

“Don’t let the bedbugs bite.” I roll onto my side and close my eyes, listening to the creaking old house settle in for the night, backed by rhythmic snoring from another room.

Thus begins new chapters for both of us…maybe that’s how I should start my speech…

My speech. The thought of it jerks me into consciousness as a pit of dread forms in my stomach, knowing that as maid of honor I will be required to perform a toast at the reception. Given the short notice, it’s what I should have been working on during the flight. Normally I would have spent weeks preparing for such a moment, honing the sentences until they conveyed the perfect mix of humor and sentiment, were a reflection of Liv and everything there is to love about her. It’s unlike me to procrastinate, but I haven’t been able to begin. If I could deliver a collection of facts and statistics I’d be fine, but she deserves more, and every time I picture the A-list crowd awaiting my Oscar-acceptance-caliber speech I freeze, certain I’ll never be able to speak from my heart in front of such an audience.

Willing myself to relax, I let my mind wander through memories, hoping my subconscious will kick in and write my speech for me. Remember playing “Annie” in Grandma’s basement…building haunted houses in Liv’s bedroom…the time she had too many drinks and Berkeley rushed to her side to take care of her…

I start to drift off, my spine sinking into the soft mattress and my limbs succumbing to gravity. I wonder what it would be like to be looked at the way Berkeley looks at Liv… Silly. Startling awake, I remind myself that I’m a doctor first. Like my dad said when I was a little girl who wanted to be a ballerina, “You can always be a doctor who dances, but you can never be a dancer who doctors. Pass your boards and you can do anything.”

Priorities straight, I shut my eyes tight.

Chapter Two

Mrs. Bloom @PsychicMom1

Love is in the air, on the breeze, and in the wine…drink it up!

“Thanks for the ride, Paps.” Having driven me down to the clearing in the vineyard where the ceremony will take place tomorrow, he helps me unload the last of the boxes containing the flowers and ribbons meant to adorn the twisted grapevine altar.

“You’re sure you don’t need help?” he asks. “I’m not much for tying bows, but I know a thing or two about making the vines behave.”

“Need? Probably.” Somehow decorating duty has fallen to me, even though I’m the last person who should be trusted with such important artistry. My mom would have been a better choice—she can magically make a pile of weeds look chic—but she’s not arriving with my family until later this evening. Unfortunately, I didn’t inherit any of her skill. I can make an incision that barely leaves a scar, but when it comes to crafts, I have two left hands. “But it’s okay. I know you’re busy. You go get ready for sundowners. I’m looking forward to tonight’s tasting. I’ll need a big glass of wine when I’m done.”

A wide smile travels his lined face straight to his bright blue eyes, and I catch a glimpse of where Berkeley gets his charisma.

“You’re a lady after my own heart. Don’t stay down here too long. It’ll be dark before you know it.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t miss sundowners for anything, not even an invitation to the chief resident’s dinner,” I reply.

He winks and waves, clearly having no idea what I’m talking about, before climbing back into the Jeep and trucking up the hill, leaving me alone with the daunting task at hand.

Standing back, I study the scene in front of me. Where to start? It’s peaceful out here, unseasonably warm, with a slight breeze ruffling the grass. The vineyard behind the arbor that Liv and Berkeley will be married under is dormant for winter, its rows of leafless vines disappearing into valleys beneath sweeping pink skies and snow-capped mountains beyond. Even though the grapes aren’t in season, it’s breathtaking—a landscape portrait ripe with the promise of new life. Unaccustomed to slowing down, I savor the quiet. Not that I should slow down; I have work to do.

Carly—wedding coordinator extraordinaire who is married to Haynes, Berkeley & the Brightside’s manager—gave me specific instructions for decorating the arbor, and I pick up a bolt of tulle, tucking it under my arm. Noticing a stack of chairs laying nearby, I unfold one to stand on. The chair’s legs stick in the mud, the clearing having been recently hosed down to prevent dust tomorrow. Unfurling the netting, careful not to let it drag in the dirt, I toss it over the tops of the vines, winding it around and securing the sides with pink and orange ribbons. Next I tackle the flowers, dotting the vines with puffy pink peonies, orange dahlias, and camellias. As a final touch, Carly wants me to dangle flowers and ribbons from the top of the arbor that will sway in the breeze above the happy couple.

Ribbons in hand, I climb back onto the chair, rising on my tiptoes, straining to reach to tie the bows. But I’m not tall enough. Setting a foot on the back of the chair, I stretch myself longer, and as I do, the chair tips forward. I scramble to save myself, to catch a vine, but my fingers barely graze tulle, and my screech echoes across the vineyard as I tumble, the ground coming at me seemingly in slow motion. I throw my hands out to brace myself before landing with a splash in a puddle. Mud splatters all over my face, but at least my landing is soft.

Gasping, I sit back, looking frantically around to make sure none of my limbs are broken and praying I didn’t mess up the decorations. Once I’m satisfied that everything is intact, I breathe a sigh of relief, laughing to myself as I attempt to wipe the mud off my face.

It’s no use; I’m covered.

Behind me I hear a car approaching and turn to see if maybe Paps has come to my rescue.

A Jeep filled with more chairs comes to a halt, and the driver gets out. Unfortunately, it’s not Paps. Instead, a guy near my age heads toward me.

“Are you okay?” He hurries over and offers a work-gloved hand to help pull me to my feet.

Squinting into the evening sun, I peer up at him. Wearing mud-caked work boots, a thin T-shirt, and faded jeans, he has a ball cap pulled low over his eyes, shading his face. I can’t make out the details of his features, just the silhouette of a strong jaw. He must be one of the farm hands.

“I’m fine,” I say, accepting his hand.

As soon as I’m on my feet, I let go, attempting to clean my hands on my jeans without success. I’m filthy.

“Here.” Walking to the Jeep, he pulls out a roll of paper towels. “These might help.” He returns to me, and I get a better look at him: broad-shouldered with playful blue eyes peeking out from under dark lashes. A faint scruff at his jaw indicates he hasn’t shaved, but it does little to disguise his boyish appeal.

Hello, farm boy.

“Thank you.” Taking the offered towels, I wipe the mud off my face and hands, though I’m pretty sure I’m just smearing dirt everywhere.

“You caught some air.” He smiles, exposing even white teeth.

“You saw it?” My cheeks heat beneath my mud mask, and at the same time I realize he can’t work here. He doesn’t have a South African accent. He must be a guest.

“From a distance. But I’m sure they heard the scream all the way to Cape Town.”

“Wonderful.”

He laughs. “Do you want me to drive you up to the house so you can shower?”

“Yes, but I have to finish this first.” I gesture at the boxes filled with flowers waiting to be hung. “No time for showers. I’ll be in trouble if the bride and groom don’t have peonies dangling over their heads tomorrow. It could ruin everything.”

“It might be worse if they get showered in mud.” He points at my muddy paws. “Let me help you. My hands are clean.” Removing his gloves, he reveals strong, tapered fingers.

“All dry now.” I hold up my palms for him to see the mud caked on them before clapping them together, dousing us in a cloud of dust.

“Clearly.” He pretends to cough. “I’m supposed to be on chair duty, but why don’t you set those up instead, and I’ll tie the flowers.”

“My hero.” I extend my hand. “You’ve got a deal.”

Gripping my fingers, he gives my hand a pump while studying me like he’s trying to figure me out. “You’re Liv’s sister?” he finally asks.

“Cousin,” I reply, surprised he knows Liv, even though I shouldn’t be. She is the bride. “But people ask if we’re sisters all the time.”

“Ah. Good to know you, then, cousin…”

“Amanda.” Dropping his hand, I smile. “And you are?”

“Mark.”

“Nice to meet you, Mark. Are you a guest of the groom’s?”

His mouth twitches at the corners. “I am. Berkeley and I go way back. We’ve been friends since we were kids.” He breaks into a full grin that sends a tingle straight to my toes. “Should we get to work? We don’t want to be late for sundowners.”

Already the shadows are growing long and the sky is streaked with red. The magic hour casts its spell.

“You know how to motivate me,” I reply, attempting to keep my wits about me, to contain the buzzing in my spine. His contagious spirit lifts the weight that normally rests on my shoulders, and for once all I want to do is play.

“Let’s get to it, then.” He heads for the altar, taking the pleasant sensation with him.

His distance instantly creates a void, like someone yanked back a warm blanket on a winter morning, and I watch after him, craving his energy. Few discoveries outside the medical profession have the spark to make my synapses fire on all cylinders, and I wish I could linger in the fireworks a little bit longer. Following his capable hands as he ties the flowers, I imagine his grip is firm. And I wouldn’t mind feeling its pressure…

He catches me looking, and I jump. Attempting to bottle the champagne bubbles in my mind, I reluctantly get to work.

Before long we’re finished, and he returns to my side. We stand back admiring the tulle and flowers swaying gently in the breeze.

“We’re not a bad team.” He nudges me with his elbow.

“It’s beautiful,” I say, happy to again bask in his proximity. “I can’t imagine a prettier backdrop for a prettier couple.”

“Even then, they’ll still steal the show.” He turns to me. “I’d love to stay here with you all night, but I should get back to work. My to-do list isn’t done yet. Can I give you that ride now?”

“Of course. I’d appreciate it.” Surprised by my disappointment that my time with him is done, I lower my eyes. You just met him. Pull it together.

He walks over to the Jeep and, feeling unsteady, I follow. “I wouldn’t want to be the reason you miss sundowners.”

He opens the door for me. “Nuclear winter couldn’t keep me from sundowners.”

I laugh, relieved to know I’ll see him again soon. “Good.” Picking up the now-empty flower boxes, I toss them in the backseat before climbing in.

Getting into the driver’s seat, he starts the car and hits the gas. We bolt forward up the hill, bouncing along a dirt path different from the one Paps brought me in on. “Do you know where you’re going?” I ask, the thought striking that he could be an imposter posing as a wedding guest. Blair warned us to be on guard. Pictures of Berkeley’s wedding are worth millions because, as far as the public is concerned, there is still hope he’ll marry his ex-girlfriend: America’s sweetheart, Christina Carlton. Nobody knows about Liv, but the press has been suspicious lately, and hungry photographers will stop at nothing to break a scandal of that magnitude.

My pulse quickens.

“This isn’t the way Paps brought me. How do I know you’re not secretly paparazzi?” I blurt, scanning the backseat for a camera.

Looking at me sideways, he laughs. “I’m definitely not paparazzi. I’ve been here once or twice—I know my way around this place.”

I study his profile, wanting to believe his happy energy is real. I’m probably overreacting. “Okay. I’m trusting you… You’re sure you’re not wearing a wire?”

We arrive at the house and he pulls to a stop, turning to face me. “Positive, but you’re welcome to pat me down if you need proof.”

Tempting.

He starts to lift his shirt, revealing his taut stomach, and I giggle, holding up my hands to make him stop. “That won’t be necessary. I’m sorry.”

Smiling, he lowers the hem.

“Seriously, I’m not usually such an alarmist. This is all new for me—I’ve never been to a celebrity wedding before—I’m out of my league,” I explain. “Liv means so much to me that I want everything to be perfect for her. I wouldn’t want to be the one to ruin her day.”

“Understood.” He sobers, taking me seriously even though the accusation probably seems ludicrous. “Berkeley and Liv mean a lot to me, too. I promise you’re safe with me.”

“Thank you.”

The air thickens and my heart thumps. Hmmm… I’m not opposed to a fling, farm boy…even if you are paparazzi.

“Now go get cleaned up.” He breaks the quiet. “You’re a mess.”

I try giving him a dirty look but succeed only in smiling through dirt as I get out of the car. “Thanks for the ride. I’ll see you tonight?”

“I’ll make sure you do.”

The promise in his voice makes me catch my breath.

With a wave, he drives off down the trail, and I watch until he disappears, basking in the lingering thrill.

“That’s what you’re wearing?” Parker asks, coming into our room. “Liv, I thought you were a stylist. You can’t let her go out like that.” He looks me up and down, his mirth softening his words. “Don’t you have a dress for your cousin?”

“I like it,” Liv says, adjusting the top of her strapless ivory Chloe dress that was a surprise from Berkeley in her suitcase. “It looks pretty on you.” With her hair tumbling in messy waves over her shoulders she looks like a movie star, and I know what Parker is saying: my red sundress makes me look like I’m going to a junior high dance in comparison.

“It’s pretty, it’s just a little shapeless,” Parker says. “You’ve got a hot little body, Boots, you should show it off.”

“I don’t know about that. I’m used to hiding in my scrubs. Besides, aren’t sack dresses in?”

“That dress is definitely the closest thing to scrubs you could have found.” He tsks as though pitying my fashion sense…or lack thereof. “Maybe I can find an alternative. Do you trust me?”

I look to Liv for confirmation.

“Go for it.” She nods emphatically. “He worked for me.”

Parker grins, taking Liv’s endorsement as my approval. “Give me a few minutes. I’ll be right back.”

Sweeping out of the room, he returns moments later, a killer black dress with lace cutouts and zippers in hand. “Gemma is coming with shoes and accessories. Like a good fashion designer, she packed an entire closet; I knew she would.” He stands back, studying me, muttering under his breath, “Now what are we going to do about the hair? Bangs will make those green eyes pop! I’m thinking long and side-swept.”

“I did just have a mud facial. At least I have that going for me.”

“When did you have time for a facial?” He peers closer at me.

“In the vineyard—never mind.” I don’t feel like explaining the farm boy, preferring to keep him for myself. “Bangs?”

“Yes!” He takes my hand and spins me around. “You are mine. Tonight we go sexy, the devil to Liv’s angel. Tomorrow, sweet. Keep them guessing. The many faces of Boots. God, I love a project, especially one with these bones.”

Liv’s friend and former coworker, Gemma, walks in carrying bright coral heels and a makeup bag. “These are going to be fabulous on you,” she says, brushing jet-black hair out of her eyes, blood-red lips pursed.

Oh, no. What am I getting into? Maybe this isn’t such a good idea. I’m going to fall flat on my face in front of all these glamorous people.

“I don’t know…”

“Boots, you’re going to be living in scrubs for what, the next ten years?” Liv asks. “And you’ve been slaving away for the last four. You deserve a little pampering. It’s okay to take a break. Even Buffy let Faith give her a makeover.”

“Buffy is my idol,” I admit, hedging slightly. I’ve been known to go on Buffy the Vampire Slayer binges after particularly difficult exams. It clears my head.

Liv steps closer. “See, want, take.” She drives the stake into her argument.

“Well said, my little protégé.” Parker eyes her approvingly before turning back to me. “You absolutely deserve the Hollywood treatment, Dr. Boots. You just finished medical school—you should be celebrating.”

“I guess I have been buried under a mound of books…”

The three glamorous faces close in.

“…and one of my advisors recently published an article about the benefits of breaking routine—letting loose actually recharges your brain cells.”

“That’s your assignment, then,” Liv says. “Everything back home will be waiting for you when you get there. While you’re in Africa your job is to have fun. You deserve a last hurrah.”

“You know me too well.” Taking a deep breath, I come to a decision. What happens in Africa, stays in Africa. It will be good for me—I’ll be able to hit the ground running when I get home. Surrendering, I step into the center of the circle. “Go ahead. Have your way with me.”

Chapter Three

Mark VanCleer @BrightsideBP

@BerkeleyBrtside You’ve been holding out on me. Keeping all the blooms for yourself…

Amanda Conrad @BootsMD

In the version of Cinderella starring me, I leave behind my glass Dansko orthotic clog when I flee the hospital at midnight.

Holding on to Liv, I hobble down the steps, afraid my ankles might give out in the four-inch heels.

“These are a lot harder to walk in than Crocs,” I say.

“Oh! Do not mention those horrid shoes in my presence again.” Parker shudders from the bottom of the stairs. “Erase them from your vocabulary; your patients will thank you. Remember, sometimes a strategically placed zipper is a lady’s best friend.”

“Most of the time I forget I’m a lady. And I don’t think any of my patients are looking to unzip me.”

“I just mean from now on give them something pretty to look at. Believe me, it helps with the healing process.”

We reach Parker, and Liv kisses his cheek. “I love you. I’m going to miss you when I move out of the Vicente.”

“Don’t talk about it,” he says. “I don’t know if I want to live in a world where you aren’t my next-door neighbor. You’re going to make my mascara run. Let me just remember you as you are. The two of you.” Standing back, he looks us both over. “The angel and the vixen, the dark and the light, the virgin and the seductress. Gorgeous.”

Parker and Gemma really do work magic; I’ve never looked this hot in my life, and I love the black dress that clings seductively to my body—the smoky eyes—the sex hair. I wonder what Derrick would say if he could see me… Derrick is my “on-again, off-again, nothing serious” back at Mama Rosie’s, my favorite bar to study at in Pittsburgh. I wouldn’t call him my boyfriend—we were never exclusive—but he’s been an occasional distraction for the last year.

I reach for my phone to snap a picture before remembering Blair has us on social media lockdown to protect the bride and groom’s secret. The only camera allowed belongs to the photographer, who is the official photog for Berkeley & the Brightside and therefore trusted. Otherwise, all cameras and cell phones are sequestered in our rooms. Berkeley’s bodyguards, Mando and Goforth, are frisking guests to make sure everyone is in compliance, and I have no desire to get felt up by either of them. It’s probably for the best I can’t send a selfie anyway. I need to make a clean break with Derrick before New York.

Ugh.

The thought of the impending deed takes up uneasy residence in my stomach, and I push him out of my mind as soon as he pops in, wanting to be free to enjoy the evening. Besides, he probably wouldn’t notice any difference in me unless I got Banksy to spray paint a mural across my forehead…and even then…

“Hi, Aunt Emma,” Liv says as my mother appears from behind Parker and gives her a hug.

Spying my father across the room chatting with Uncle Fred—Liv’s dad—I tug on the hem of my dress in an attempt to cover my exposed thighs, knowing the length won’t meet his approval. Tonight the porch doors are open to the vineyards, and a pleasant, blossom-scented breeze drifts through the living room, but seeing my father erases any hope of a tranquil evening. On edge, I help myself to a glass of wine from a nearby tray, hoping that his sense of decorum will obligate him to keep his opinions to himself.

“Congratulations, Liv. We’re so happy for you.” Mom releases Liv and holds her at arm’s length. “You look spectacular. You’ll be the most beautiful bride.”

“Hey, you,” Trent, my older brother, walks up next to me. “Nice shoes. I didn’t know you knew how to walk in those things.”

“I don’t, really. Just trying to fit in with the A-listers,” I exaggerate, tossing a strand of expertly blown-out hair over my shoulder, trying to appear like I’ve been sun-kissed by the hair gods. “So you billed enough hours at your big-time law firm to get away? Mom wasn’t sure you were going to be able to come.”

“Actually? No.” He shuffles his feet. “Don’t tell Dad—I’ll never hear the end of it—but I couldn’t miss this. It’s the party of the century—even if I have to keep it a secret.”

“No bragging rights; it’s a lot to ask,” I agree. “What did you tell work?”

“That my sister was in a horrible accident and I had to donate my spleen.”

“You can live without a spleen, you know. They don’t really get donated.”

He nods and takes a sip of wine. “Guess I should have run that by you first, then, huh?”

“Yep.” Pressing my lips together, I suppress a smile.

“Boots! I almost didn’t recognize you. You’re legit.” My younger brother, Evan, appears and puts his arm around my waist, kissing my cheek. Though he’s about to start college, I still think of him as my baby—he was my live doll when we were little. Hugging him hello, I sigh, knowing it’s only a matter of time before he follows in Trent’s footsteps and declares himself pre-law. An announcement is expected any day now.

Uncle Fred turns to greet someone else, leaving Dad to head our way. I can almost hear his thoughts as he approaches, admonishing that my lipstick is too bright, that I should have chosen angel over vixen. Sure enough, the first thing he says once he’s in speaking distance is, “This is an interesting look.”

He’d never understand the benefits of a strategically placed zipper.

“Honey, have you tried this wine? It’s excellent.” Mom arrives in the nick of time and hands him a glass. “I think you’re going to love it.”

Holding it by the stem, he swirls the wine, tilting it up to the light. “It’s a little lighter than what I normally like.” Taking a small sip, he makes a face.

“Not good? I was sure you’d like it. Let me find you something else, then,” Mom says.

“It’s okay, Emma,” Dad says. “This is fine. It might just need to open up.”

“You’re all set up in the hotel?” I ask, leaning in to hug Mom before she can insist on getting him a drink that will meet his standards.

“We are. It’s lovely. Stellenbosch is an adorable little town. I never would have expected such a clean, modern place in the middle of Africa. But I guess with so many celebrities around they need to have modern conveniences.”

Wincing, I wish she’d keep her voice down and stop looking so awestruck—would realize everyone deserves modern conveniences. I’m relieved when I spot Aunt Kat—Liv’s mom—approaching. She embraces her sister.

Leaning toward Trent, I whisper, “Do you think they have any whiskey in this place? I’m not sure wine is going to cut it. Mom has her ‘dutiful doctor’s wife’ face on.”

“Isn’t this exciting?” Aunt Kat says. “Love is in the air. Can’t you feel the energy? The stars are aligning tonight! Esme just sent me a text. She did a reading for Liv and you’ll never believe what it said—”

“Boots, come here,” Liv interrupts, grabbing my hand. Esme is Aunt Kat’s psychic advisor, and Liv is forever trying to avoid her prophecies. “There’s someone I want you to meet.” She drags me across the room toward Berkeley, who is standing with a group of guys. “The rest of the Brightside got in late last night. I haven’t seen them yet, but I want to introduce you.”

Resisting the urge to throw on the brakes and run—not that I could get very far in these heels—I let her lead me forward. I’ve met Berkeley a couple times, but I still get starstruck around him. And despite Berkeley being the only band member I could pick out of a lineup—I love the Brightside’s music but cared less about memorizing their names than I did about memorizing their anatomy (and I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t noticed Berkeley has quite the solid gluteus maximus)—butterflies wage war in my stomach as we close in on the circle of guys that could incite a stampede in any other city in the world.

Reciting anatomy mnemonics usually calms me, and taking a deep breath, I run through the branches of the internal iliac artery—I Milked Our Insatiable Intern’s Udders Under the Desk. The butterflies settle as we near the band, and I don the stoic face I reserve for uncomfortable situations, like delivering bad news and rectal exams.

Berkeley’s face lights up when he sees Liv, and it’s like she is the sole person in the room. He slips his arm around her waist, kissing her hello and whispering something that makes her blush, before greeting me.

“Hi, Boots.” Letting go of Liv, he hugs me, and I try not to melt against him, certain he contains the star power of the sun.

“Hi.”

He releases me. “Meet my friends. You know Jeff from the flight over, but this is Ted, our drummer.” He introduces me to a sandy-haired guy with friendly eyes and a beard. I shake his hand.

“And this is Mark, our bass player and best man.”

Freezing at the name, my cheeks begin to burn. Slowly, I turn and, as feared, come face-to-face with my farm boy. Of course he’s in the band! The only “nobodies” in the room are the people I’m related to. Gone are the work boots and gloves, and having changed into dark jeans and structured jacket, his shaggy hair looking like he just rolled out of bed, it’s impossible to think I mistook him for anything other than a rock star. Though he doesn’t embody Berkeley’s larger-than-life charisma—he’s more the rock star next door—he’s still a presence.

“This is Boots, Liv’s cousin and maid of honor,” Berkeley says.

“Boots?” Mark cocks his head to the side. “I almost didn’t recognize you without the mud. You clean up nicely.” He grins, setting wings of anticipation aflutter in my stomach. But I squelch them.

“I wish I had some mud to cover up my cheeks right now.” I press a hand to my face. “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you.” Over his shoulder, I spy Parker, who is pretending to be in conversation with Blair and Gemma but is clearly eavesdropping on us.

“Why would you recognize me?” Mark asks. “I don’t think we’ve met before today.”

“Because you’re in the band.”

Parker winces, dropping his face to his hand.

“Wait? You met earlier?” Liv asks, looking back and forth between us. I shake my head at her, knowing what she’s thinking. No chance. I have no intention of hooking up with him now that I know he’s the best man. I was much more comfortable with him being Berkeley’s old friend whom I’d never see again, but now that he has the potential to seep into real life, he’s off-limits. Besides, he’s probably used to girls throwing themselves at him because he’s a rock star. I consider myself above that.

“In the vineyard. Boots was taking a mud bath.”

“I slipped in some mud when I was decorating,” I explain. “Mark saved me, and I’m an idiot for not realizing who he was.” I take a big sip of wine to numb my embarrassment.

“No, you’re not.” Shoving his hands into his pockets, he shrugs. “That’s the beauty of being the bass player. I don’t get recognized that often unless I’m with this guy.” He nods toward Berkeley.

“Not for long,” Berkeley says. “He’s got his own band now.”

“That’s right,” I say, a lightbulb illuminating in my brain. “I saw you play in Pittsburgh.”

Parker chokes on his wine.

“Proof,” Mark says, winking at me.

“No.” I scramble to cover my blunder. “I had to leave early. But I liked what I saw…heard.”

“It’s okay.” He laughs. “I’ll never be as big as this guy. But thank you for seeing part of our show.”

I can tell he’s teasing me, but my insides shudder all the same. “I wanted to stay, but I got called away—”

A waiter interrupts, offering more wine, and I’m thankful everyone’s attention is diverted from Mark and me while their glasses are refilled.

“None for me,” Mark says, holding up a hand to halt the waiter’s progress. “Hey, man,” he addresses Berkeley, “do you have any whiskey in this place?”

My eyes snap to him. “I was wondering the same thing.”

“There’s some down in the wine cellar,” Berkeley says. “You know where.”

Mark offers me his hand. “Care to join me?”

Telling myself I’m doing it for the whiskey, I place one hand in his while passing my wine back to the waiter with the other.

“Stick with me and you’ll be taken care of. I told you I’ve been here before.” Mark leads me across the room toward a heavy wooden door. “We’ll see you in a few,” he says over his shoulder to the group, and I don’t look back as he ushers me inside.

Chapter Four

Parker Mifflin @IsIndulgent

@BootsMD Rule #1: If you don’t know who someone is, assume they are somebody. Breaking the rules clearly runs in the family…@BloomOlivia

Amanda Conrad @BootsMD

@IsIndulgent NO! I LIVE for rules! #ImTheBoringCousin

“This is incredible,” I say when we reach the bottom of the stairs. The space before me opens to reveal stone walls and arched ceilings, a catacomb for wine, softly lit by iron chandeliers glowing overhead. A long wooden table lined with wine barrels posing as stools runs down the center of the room, and I imagine the leisurely dinners that must take place here.

“This cellar is hundreds of years old—as old as the house,” Mark says. “It has lots of secret rooms. Most of them are for storing wine, but there’s one I want you to see.”

He doesn’t let go of my hand, and we walk past arched gateways to treasured barrels and bottles.

“You do seem to know your way around,” I say, certain I would get lost down here.

“We’ve toured in South Africa several times, and Berkeley always makes sure we have a few days off in Stellenbosch.” He turns us left down a dark corridor. “Paps has made me an honorary winemaker at this point. Maybe if the music thing doesn’t work out, I’ll have something to fall back on.”

I laugh. “It seems to me you’ll be okay.”

“You never know in this business. But fortunately for you I’m better at pouring drinks than patiently fermenting them.” We come to a stop in front of a set of heavy wrought-iron gates and, letting go of my hand, he twists the combination on the lock. “This is Berkeley’s addition to the house. He always thought it should have a secret hideout.”

Pushing open the gate, he steps aside, his hand on the small of my back, guiding me forward. “Welcome to the Rose Bar.” He flicks a switch on the wall, and the room before me comes to life.

“The Rose Bar?” I repeat, taking in the vintage claw-foot bar and cracked leather stools. Colored twinkle lights dangle from the ceiling, and Berkeley & the Brightside posters clutter the walls. It’s a total dive. Just like Mama Rosie’s.

“Named after Dear Rose, our first album.” Motioning for me to take a seat, he heads behind the bar and pulls down two glasses.

“Who is Rose?”

Polishing a glass, he raises his eyebrows. “If I told you, I’d have to swear you to a blood oath. I’m not sure we’re at that point in our relationship yet.”

“The night is young.” I grin, running my fingers along the stained wooden bar top, my earlier resolve not to throw myself at him wavering. I’ve always had a thing for dive bartenders, and a rock star dive bartender is almost too much to handle. Almost. “Thank you for bringing me here, it’s great.”

“I’m happy to share it. Somehow it always feels like home down here, which is heaven in the middle of a long tour. Berkeley wants to put a recording studio in next. I think he has visions of us taking a few months off for the next album, but who knows when we’ll have time for that.” Dipping out of sight, he reappears a moment later with a bottle of Pappy Van Winkle’s.

“I’m not sure I deserve that,” I say, settling onto my stool and pointing at the expensive bourbon.

“A girl who knows her whiskey. Impressive.” He smiles, pulling out the stopper. “And sure you do. It’s a special occasion. My best friend gets married only once.”

“I should hope so. Liv deserves the best.”

“She does, and you have nothing to worry about; Berkeley is a man of his word. He’s no fool—he knows what he has. I’ve never seen him this protective of anything.” Turning a glass on its side, he pours the golden liquid until it threatens to overflow before turning it upright.

“Do you mean the whiskey or my cousin?” I accept the glass he slides my way, knowing the liquid it contains would go a long way toward paying off my medical school loans.

“Your cousin.” He laughs. “The whiskey he doesn’t mind sharing.” Filling a glass with water, he dips his pinkie into it, finishing off each of our drams with a single water droplet. “To release the dragon.”

“Be careful what you wish for.” Bringing the glass to my nose, I inhale zesty citrus and vanilla.

“I mean the bourbon dragon—the bouquet.”

“I know.” Peeking up from my glass, I meet his eyes, and the intensity glittering in his catches me off guard. In my periphery, the twinkle lights take on a fuzzy, romantic glow.

No chance! What happens in Africa may stay in Africa, but he’s too close to Liv. And I can’t risk distractions in the real world. Doctor first.

Resisting his pull, I take a small sip of my drink, savoring the buttery liquid. “I really am sorry I didn’t recognize you earlier,” I say, hoping the memory of my embarrassment will bring me to my senses. “You guys sounded amazing at Brillobox. I even bought Fall with Me after the show. I love the whole album.”

“Thank you.” He samples his whiskey. “That means a lot. And no need to apologize. We’re just starting out, and I don’t expect anyone to relate to our songs—or recognize me.”

“You must get recognized constantly, though. The Brightside is huge!”

“Sometimes,” he admits. “By Brightside superfans. But I’m still waiting for the day when I get recognized for my music. I’ve always lived in Berkeley’s shadow, and the Brightside was his dream. I’ve just been along for the ride.” He casually leans against the bar. “Coconut Teaszer is my chance to have something that’s mine—to see if I can make it on my own—and it’s scary sometimes. With the Brightside, it’s easy. The audience is already connected to the songs and has their own history with them. With Coconut Teaszer, we have to win over the room every time.”

“I never thought about that,” I say, marveling at his confidence in confessing his aspirations, that even though to others it must seem he’s “made it,” he’s still striving for more. “You’d think it would be easier, already having your name out there.”

He shakes his head. “It definitely helps, but there’s no clear path. We still need luck and timing on our side. Because we all have ‘day jobs’ in more popular bands, we have the added pressure of overcoming expectations from the fans who want to hear only the hits. And Coconut Teaszer is pretty different—folksier, more Americana—than what we normally play; there’s no guarantee they’re going to like the new stuff.”

His fingers drum on the bar, and I can’t help but admire them. Rhythmic…adept at strumming the perfect note… The eyes may be the windows to the soul, but I’ve always been fascinated by the story a person’s hands tell.

“But when the energy in the room switches, when suddenly the crowd moves from judging you to rooting for you…” He pauses, taking a drink, and I’m drawn in by his obvious drive, his will to succeed, the clarity of his vision. I find myself wanting to inch closer, to experience his hands for myself.

It’s a good thing there’s a bar between us…

“I haven’t felt that in years,” he says. “And now I don’t want to give it up, to be stuck in the shadows.”

Placing both hands on the bar, I confirm the barrier is solid. “Give up being judged for being adored? Sounds terrible.”

He lets out a little laugh. “I guess I never really knew what it was like to move someone with my words until recently. It’s addictive. When you find something that gives you that feeling, you don’t let it go.”

“What’s that feeling?” I ask, though if it’s anything like the giddy possibility swirling inside me that makes me want to leap out of my seat and curl up in his arms, I might understand.

“You know—when everything clicks, when you feel like you can fly, like your heart is so swollen it might burst…” He searches my blank face. “No?”

Close. “I don’t know if I know.”

“Maybe I don’t have the words to do it justice.”

“It’s not you, I’m sure.” I wrinkle my nose.

Falling silent, he stares at me, almost in a daze. “We’ll have to fix that,” he finally says.

My cheeks heat, and I change the subject. “I think you belong in the spotlight.”

Shaking his head, he smiles. “I don’t know about that; you only saw half a show…”

I bury my face in my hands. “Stop! I’m sorry. I got called away for an emergency. I promise I’ll do my best to stay for the whole thing next time.”

“What sort of emergency? What could be more important than rock and roll?” He tops off my glass.

“I was on call that night. I’m a doctor.”

He straightens. “She gets more impressive by the minute. Doctor Boots?”

“No. Boots is a nickname from when Liv and I were little. It’s Dr. Amanda Conrad.” I lower my voice, affecting an accent, making the moniker sound more impressive.

“Sounds very official and important. What’s your specialty, Dr. Conrad? Besides bourbon.”

“Plastics. Well, it will be, I hope. I’m starting my residency in general surgery at NYU when we get back from the wedding, and then, fingers crossed, I’ll be offered a categorical position in plastics next year.”

“Ah, aiming for the big bucks. Are you planning to be surgeon to the stars?”

“Not exactly. But that’s a common misconception.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“No! It’s not that. Besides, three hours ago I accused you of being paparazzi. We’ll call it even.” Pausing, I chew on my thumbnail. Something about what he just revealed makes me want to match him in my honesty. Or maybe it’s the bourbon.

“So why plastics?” he prompts me.

“Well, I guess it all started on my thirteenth birthday. That’s when everything changed.” I sit on my hand so I’ll stop chewing. “I was supposed to have a slumber party, but I had this terrible pain in my right side and felt horrible. I didn’t want to tell anyone for fear the party would be canceled, but eventually I couldn’t take the pain anymore, and my dad took me to the emergency room—he only believed I was sick because I agreed to go instead of having the sleepover. I ended up getting my appendix removed and sleeping over by myself in the hospital.”

“Sounds lonely.”

“It was at first, but then my dad brought me a giant cupcake with pink frosting as a birthday treat. I wasn’t allowed to eat it, of course, because I’d just had surgery, but I thought it was really pretty. I liked looking at it. And he snuck me some frosting—which was shocking because he’s a doctor and never breaks rules. It’s my favorite memory of him.”

“And that’s when you decided to follow in his footsteps?”

“No.” Taking a sip of my whiskey, I shake my head. “That was the night I met Dr. Arlington. She was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen, and not because of her physical attractiveness but because she fixed me—and she could talk ‘science’ with my dad. It was like a foreign language, and I thought she had superpowers. That’s when I decided I wanted to be just like her. After that, I was fascinated by the human body, and I set out to learn that language.”

“So medicine is how you connect with your dad.”

I flush, embarrassed I’ve revealed so much. “Shit, you’re perceptive.”

He laughs, and I join in. As our voices mingle, suddenly I understand how he feels about this place. Having an affinity for bartender-patron therapy sessions and a tendency to bare my soul on the stool, I feel like I’m home, like I’ve known him forever. Forgetting he’s a rock star, I keep talking.

“Seriously, though. I never thought of it that way. I’m sure it’s true on some level—my dad and I have the best talks when we’re reviewing a case or trying to figure out a treatment—but it’s more than that.” I lower my voice. “I’ve never talked about this, but there’s a secret part of me that wishes I could stay home and make cupcakes.”

“Cupcakes?”

“Yeah—really girly cupcakes with swirly pink frosting and glitter sprinkles, like the one my dad gave me that night—and then I could put them up on Pinterest where I could visit them and think, ‘I did that. I made that pretty thing,’ and they’d get shared and I’d feel popular.”

“Cupcakes sound like a delicious profession to me. The world could use a little sugar. You should indulge.”

“Maybe,” I say, surprised he so easily accepts my impractical dream. “But I’m a science girl, and I can’t make cupcakes my life’s work. It would be too frivolous—I have to be meant for more.”

“Baking is a science.”

“True.” A little giggle escapes my lips, the bourbon tickling my senses. Focusing on the colored lights overhead, I try to explain. “My dad would never approve of cupcakes, though. He’d tell me that once I pass my boards I can make all the cupcakes in all the colors I want, but being a doctor comes first.” I return my gaze to Mark. “And that’s why I chose plastics. There is an art to rebuilding someone’s smile, to reconstructing a hand. It’s how I reconcile the urge to live an artistic life within a scientific world. It’s how I can color outside the lines, but still stay in a coloring book.”

A warm smile spreads across his face. “I like that.”

The air thickens with possibility and, feeling like I’ve just given him a direct line to my soul—thank you, bourbon!—I try to lighten the mood. “But nobody should ever trust me with frosting. Try as I might, it always comes out as a deflated, runny mess. And you saw what I almost did to the arbor.”

“You added some dirt. It made it better.” He shrugs. “Sometimes it takes a scar to expose the beauty. I prefer a world full of contrast. It’s much more interesting.”

“I like that.”

“You must have lots of scars.” He grins.

I groan. “Here, you dropped this.” I pretend to pick the line up off the floor. “Does that work on all the girls?”

He laughs. “I’ve never tried that one before. My best material is one of a kind. Like you.”

My face burns, but I try to remain unaffected. “I do have a scar or two… I’ll show you sometime. If you’re lucky.” I thrust my chin forward, up for the challenge if he wants to partake in a verbal sparring match. Or a wrestling match… Having fallen under my bartender’s spell, every ounce of me wants to give him a chance. Just for one night…

“How long have we been down here?” I ask to cut the tension.

“I don’t know.” Setting down his glass, he checks his watch. “Shit. We should go.” He comes around the bar and takes my hand, sliding me off the barstool. There is electricity in his touch, a sharp crackle that sends a wave of energy rushing up my arm.

They would definitely miss us at dinner…

Gently, he reaches up, brushing the hair out of my eyes. “This was fun.”

“It was,” I whisper, my face tilted up to his. “I’d definitely be a regular at this bar if you were the bartender.” Instantly appalled for letting that slip, I attempt to sober myself. “But we should get upstairs.”

He presses his lips together, holding back a smile and taking my other hand in his. We stand like that—frozen, wound tight, his breath hot on my cheek—for what seems like eternity, and I fight for distance. I’m about to fill the silence by jumping on him when he blessedly backs away, releasing the pressure.

“Agreed,” he says.

Still holding me close, he leads me out of the bar.

Chapter Five

Mrs. Bloom @PsychicMom1

It’s official. I should have been born on a winery. The grapes speak to me! #ReadingGrapeLeaves

When we emerge from the cellar, everyone is already seated for dinner at a long, candlelit table on the veranda. Giving my hand a squeeze, Mark lets me go and joins the Brightside, who are seated with the rest of the A-listers, while I take my rightful place at the opposite end of the spectrum, next to my parents and brothers.

His rock-star status reinstated, the fog lifts and I vow to avoid being alone with him again.

“Sorry I’m late,” I whisper, slipping into the seat between Dad and Evan. Trent and Mom are across from us.

“Where have you been?” Dad hisses.

“Exploring the wine cellar. You have to check it out—I’ve never seen anything like it. Dr. Kramer would be super jealous.” It’s unlike me to displease him, and I appeal to his fear of missing out, of needing to keep up, to explain my tardiness.

He nods and turns to the gentleman seated to his left. “This is my daughter, Doctor Conrad, who I was telling you about. She’s about to start residency at NYU. Amanda, this is Berkeley’s uncle John.”

There is no mistaking the pride in his voice, and I shudder, wishing my résumé wasn’t required to make me interesting. “It’s nice to meet you, John. We’re so excited to welcome Berkeley to the family.” I extend my hand.

“Pleasure as well,” John says, the thickness of his South African accent surprising me.

“She’s going to be a plastic surgeon—it’s good to have one of those in the family if Berkeley ever needs a touch-up.” Dad laughs.

Fortunately, John does, too.

“Berkeley will never need a touch-up,” I reply.

“No, I’m sure he won’t.” Dad takes a sip of wine. “This is fantastic, isn’t it, John? Do you think Paps can spare a few bottles? I’ve got to have this in my collection.”

Grateful to John for helping me avoid a public scolding, I look to the head of the table where Paps is standing with his arm around Aunt Kat, the strings of shimmering white lights overhead painting them in a soft-focus glow, his glass raised in a toast. I try to resist, but I can’t help but allow my gaze to travel past Berkeley’s parents, grazing the members of the Brightside, until they land on Mark. And he happens to be looking right at me, too. The corner of his mouth rises in a half smile, prompting a surge of blood to my cheeks. With a start, I return my eyes to Paps.

Everyone at the table quiets in anticipation of his speech.

“I want to welcome you all, and I’ll keep it short so we can get to the food,” he begins. “I have to say how happy I am that we’re here to celebrate Berkeley and Liv. These two can’t help but inspire us. Their love is infectious, and I know the vines will benefit, will grow in abundance, as we all will, by witnessing their union and being in the presence of such a great love.” His voice wavers, and to my surprise, I blink away tears. Having trained myself to keep my wits intact during highly emotional situations, I rarely cry.

Standing next to Paps, Aunt Kat wipes her eyes as well. “They will make the sweetest wine,” she says. “It’s going to be a plentiful harvest.”

“To Liv and Berkeley, may they bear many fruits!” Paps toasts, and a burst of giggles erupts from the Brightside end of the table.

“Better get busy, bro!” Mark elbows Berkeley.

Liv presses her hands to her rosy cheeks, looking to her fiancé in horror, and I bite back a laugh.

Dinner is served family-style. Waiters appear with platters of roast chicken, potatoes tossed with walnuts, heirloom tomatoes drizzled in olive oil pressed on the vineyard, and fresh baked corn bread. More wine is poured.

“Isn’t this beautiful?” Mom says. “Look at these dishes. They’re definitely antique. I wonder if they’re as old as the house.”

“I don’t know.” I’m more interested in subduing my bourbon buzz with the bread than the dishes it arrives on.

Mom sets down the plate. “Does everyone have everything they need?”

“I could use some butter,” Dad says.

She immediately starts looking around for a waiter.

“Actually, the bread isn’t usually served with butter,” John interjects. “Tomorrow, when it’s leftover, we’ll fry it in butter for breakfast.”

“Sounds delicious,” Dad says. “I guess I’ll wait for breakfast, then.”

“Mom,” I say, grateful that she won’t spend all of dinner hunting down butter, “just eat.”

“So, who were you with in the cellar?” Dad asks, slicing his chicken into perfect bites with precise knife skills. “I’m guessing you weren’t down there alone.”

“I thought I saw you with Mark,” Evan says.

I glare at him in a wide-eyed plea for silence.

“Who’s Mark?” Mom asks.

“He’s the bass player for the Brightside,” Trent says.

“You know who the bass player for the Brightside is?” I ask.

“Mark VanCleer. Everyone knows that,” he replies.

I roll my eyes. “I wouldn’t say everyone. Dad probably doesn’t know who he is.”

“Sure I do,” Dad says. “He started that Coconut Teaszer band.”

“How do you know about Coconut Teaszer?” I ask. “You’ve been here all of, what, six hours?”

“I was chatting with the band while you were up morphing yourself into some version of Lady Gag-ah.”

Trent bursts out laughing. “Good one, Dad.”

Frowning, I mutter, “Never mind.”

I hear the clinking of glasses at the other end of the table, and my attention is drawn to Mark, who is tapping a spoon against his glass. I follow his lead to save myself from having to elaborate on my time in the wine cellar, and soon everyone else joins in. Berkeley takes hold of Liv and kisses her to a round of applause.

“Being a rock star seems way more fun than being a lawyer,” Evan says. “I’ve been thinking that maybe I should learn the guitar, be a music major.”

I feel Dad stiffen next to me. “I don’t know if that’s the wisest choice. It’s getting harder and harder to make it in the music industry. In this ever-changing economy, you have to go for the sure thing. People will always need doctors and lawyers.”

“Yeah, I guess so.” Evan’s face falls, and I have the urge to reinstate his hope.

“Do you guys ever think some things aren’t about money, though? Maybe some things you do for love, because you’re passionate about them and can’t live without them.” Again my eyes sweep the length of table until they land on Mark. He seems to be in the middle of telling a hilarious story, his animated expressions commanding the rapt attention of everyone around him: the star of the show. Watching him, heat builds in my chest, and a longing to be on the inside of his jokes overtakes me. Even though he isn’t looking at me, I feel his pull drawing me toward him like his center is craving mine, and it’s all I can do to stay in my seat.

Out of the corner of my eye I see Dad look at me like I need to be committed, and I bring my focus back to my family. Dad dots the corners of his mouth with his napkin before folding it neatly in his lap.

“Everything is about money, sweetheart.”

“Spill it.” Liv bounds into the bedroom, pouncing on me, startling me awake. “I’m dying to know.”

Pretending to sleep, I swat at her, snuggling deeper under the covers, wanting to stay in my dreams—dreams that are based in reality, laced with the heady scent of fire, starring a certain someone. After dinner, the evening ended in a campfire sing-along with members of the Brightside, Coconut Teaszer, and White Lotus taking turns leading songs. Mark was everywhere—playing bongos, strumming a guitar, doing a duet with Berkeley—and I never let him out of my sight, mesmerized by his talents. I know I shouldn’t let my thoughts peruse the halls of possibility, but just for tonight I’m allowing myself to indulge, and I’d like to continue. “I’m sleeping.”

“With one eye open. You always do. This is an emergency, Dr. Conrad.”

“What kind of emergency?” I sit up, fully awake, the word jump-starting my adrenaline.

“The kind where I can’t sleep unless you tell me what happened with you and Mark in the wine cellar.” She flops back on the bed. “Doesn’t that sound romantic?”

“No. It doesn’t. It sounds like a game of Clue,” I reply, relief coursing through my limbs. The tension in my shoulders relaxes, and I lie back down facing her, curling my arm under my head, not wanting to betray my private thoughts by letting her know she nailed them.

“Very funny. So you and Mark were in the wine cellar with some whiskey and…”

“Nothing happened. Now go to sleep. You’re getting married tomorrow. I prescribe beauty rest.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“I don’t believe you.” She rolls onto her side, propping up her head. “Won’t it be fun? I can show you the ropes…how to navigate the press…we can fly around on private jets together, bring our babies along…”

“Whoa. Slow down. We need to get you married first—and who said anything about babies? Your glamorous life isn’t meant for me. I belong in the ER with my blood-spattered scrubs, coffee breath, and scrub cap version of hat hair, not on the red carpet or in the maternity ward.”

“Good luck telling him that. I saw the way he looked at you.”

“You’re imagining things,” I say, though I can’t deny part of me hopes she’s right. The greedy recesses of my brain want to hear every detail of his expression described. Stop it. “He’s a celebrity and I’m a nobody doctor. We’re worlds apart. You’re projecting what you wish would happen.”

“I’m living proof worlds can collide. Besides, even if I am projecting, I think if you believe hard enough, dreams can come true.”

“Then you should start dreaming of my illustrious career as a surgeon. Because that’s what I really want.” Though a night with Mark would be fun… His blue eyes and easy smile pop into my head, tickling me with potential. “Or you could start dreaming in general so you don’t look like a monster on your wedding day.”

She grimaces and drops her head to the pillow, sliding down under the blankets. “Fine. But you have to admit he’s cute. And there’s something there.”

“I don’t have to admit anything, because there’s nothing there.”

“Yes, there is. I felt it. We all felt it.”

“Who is ‘we’?” I ask, unable to resist one juicy tidbit that might make Mark’s interest in me real.

“Parker. Evan.”

“Parker is a bigger romantic than you. He loves a love story. And Evan probably looks up to Mark—he just wants an excuse to hang out with him. Mark has plenty of girls to choose from and is used to being pursued. I’m just another face in the crowd.”

“That’s not true. He’s into you. I know it. And I’m not going to sleep until you at least confess you find him attractive.”

“In that case, if it will save the bride from having bags under her eyes on her wedding day, fine. He’s cute.” I will the muscles in my face to freeze, but the corners of my mouth refuse to stay down, giving me away.

She breaks into a full grin. “Very cute.”

“Okay. Very cute.” I laugh. “But that’s all I’m giving you. Besides, this is your last night as a single girl. We should be talking about you. Are you happy?”

Her eyes shine with that dreamy look again. “So happy. Everything is falling into place. I couldn’t imagine a more perfect scenario.”

“Good. I’m happy for you. Now go to sleep, Olivia Bloom, for tomorrow you shall become Mrs. Berkeley Dalton.” I pull the covers up over her shoulders, tucking her in.

“Olivia Dalton and Boots VanCleer…won’t we be the pair?”

I hit her with a pillow. “I sound like a pet detective. ‘Boots VanCleer here to investigate the murder of Chester the cat,’” I say, doing my best old-movie gangster voice.

“I think Spot did it,” she says.

Making a show of rolling onto my side, I pull the covers up over my head and pointedly say, “Good night, Gladys.”

Chapter Six

Olivia Bloom @BloomOlivia

Everyone looks so pretty! Everything is beautiful today…

“Careful, we don’t want to mess up her hair,” Gemma says, holding the lace gown high over Liv’s head. She and Liv have been sewing almost since the moment we got here, piecing together assorted laces that Mia and Ouma helped them find in the attic. The resulting dress is a sheer fitted sheath lined in nude silk with a sweeping skirt and lace godets.

I rush forward, helping to lower the dress without smudging Liv’s makeup or disturbing the blond tendrils that are pinned to the left side of her head. The dress settles around her ankles with a puff of air, and I fluff out the train while Gemma ties the ribbons that crisscross up the back. Blair comes forward, carrying a mantilla veil made from a sheer lace tablecloth, also birthed from the attic, and pins it into Liv’s hair.

Once we’re done fussing over her, we step back to admire the effect.

With a soft blush on her cheeks, she is angelic, the perfect bride. “You’re stunning,” I say.

“I was thinking the same about all of you.” She smiles, admiring each of us dressed in chiffon gowns that reflect the colors of the African sunset, morphing from dark pink to burnt orange. We are each styled slightly differently, and true to his word, Parker has made sure that my look is especially “sweet” today, keeping my makeup soft and my hair long and loose.

“Tantalizing,” Parker says. “Berkeley’s going to pass out.”

“I’m not sure my brother deserves this,” Mia agrees. “And, Parker, where is the sparkling rosé, already?”

“At your service, m’lady.” He hops over to the dresser where the bottle is chilling in a bucket. “It is absolutely champagne o’clock,” he says, making a show of popping the cork. “Today is going to be a champagne extravaganza!”

“Don’t let Paps hear you call it that. He’ll have your head,” Mia says. “Never mention French wines around here. House rules.”

“Good to know.” He pours a glass. “I’m a rule-abiding citizen, especially when it comes to upsetting the suppliers of the bubbly.”

“Are you nervous?” Gemma asks, fussing with Liv’s veil.

“I’m surprisingly calm,” she says. “Except for being nervous about everyone staring at me. I hope I don’t trip.”

“You’ll be fine,” Blair assures her. “You’re wearing ballet slippers, right?”

“And the mud should be dry by now,” I add. “You won’t slip. Not today.”

“Speaking of mud,” Carly says. “I might sneak down to check on things. Do you mind if I bow out for a few minutes?”

“Of course not,” Liv says. “Go ahead.”

“Wait,” Parker says. “First a toast. A little blush for the bride.” He hands out glasses of the sparkling rosé. “The day has finally come. Our little Liv is all grown up. From the minute I met you, I knew you were meant for great things. You’re infectious. The fairest in the land. And I will always love you.”

Thinking he is done, we raise our glasses, but to our surprise, he continues.

“You are my soul sister. Luminous. And I’ve so enjoyed watching you transform into this effortless beauty. I wish you every happiness. May your dreams come true.” He wipes away a tear. “To Mrs. Olivia Dalton. You deserve it all.”

After checking to make sure he’s finished, we join our glasses to his. “To Liv!”

Knock. Knock. As our glasses clink, there is a quiet tapping on the bedroom door.

“I’ll get it,” I offer, enjoying the dress swishing around my knees as I head to see who it is. Setting down my glass, I brush my hair out of my face and tug on the doorknob.

Mark is on the other side wearing a khaki vest, pinstripe shirt, and orange bow tie. My heart leaps at the sight of him, my traitorous cheeks flushing. Pull yourself together!

“Ah, the maid of honor.” He surveys the length of my body. “You’re beautiful, cupcake.”

My cheeks grow hotter. Doctor face, on! “You’re not so bad yourself, Mr. Best Man,” I reply, pretending his words have no effect on me. “What can I do for you?”

“I have a special delivery from the groom.” He moves to step inside, but I place my hand on his chest, halting his progress. “That’s very nice, but boys aren’t allowed.”

“You can’t make an exception?” He arches an eyebrow, easily looking over my head into the room. He’s not quite as tall as Berkeley, but he’s bigger than me. Most people are.

Standing on my tiptoes, I try to fill the doorway. “I’m sorry. I can’t allow anyone access. Even you.”

“That’s unfortunate.” His eyes level with mine, and the promise reflected in them makes my stomach drop. “Because it would be my privilege…” His gaze dips to my lips.

Dangerous.

“…to deliver it in person.” Taking a step back, he places a hand over his eyes. “But I know better than to tangle with the maid of honor. Please tell the bride I have a delivery from her groom.” He thrusts forward a small box with his other hand.

“I’ll let her know.” Trying to slow my pounding heart, I accept the box.

“Thank you,” he replies. I catch him peeking through his fingers. “I’ll see you at the altar.” He turns to leave but almost runs smack into Aunt Kat, who is blocking his path.

“Oh, it’s you,” she says. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”

“Hi.” Mark drops his hand and stops. He sounds alarmed.

“You haven’t been avoiding me, have you?”

“Is that my mom?” Liv asks from inside the room.

I don’t have a chance to respond as Aunt Kat sweeps Mark into her arms, embracing him in a giant hug.

I didn’t realize they were so well acquainted…

My shocked eyes shoot to Liv.

“Is she hugging him?” she mouths.

I nod my wide-eyed affirmation.

“I knew I’d see you again. See. I told you,” Aunt Kat says, releasing him. “Your time is coming. Saturn is in transit—”

“Great to see you, too,” Mark says. “Just…great… I should get back to Berkeley…” Without another word, he hurries down the hall.

“I’m going to go with him,” Carly says from behind me. “See you in a bit.” I move out of the way as she exits and Aunt Kat enters.

“My beautiful little girl,” she whispers, eyes overflowing at the sight of Liv. She takes her daughter into her arms.

“Mom, how do you know Mark?” Liv asks, hugging her back.

“He was with Berkeley the day I took his picture at Mt. Washington.” Aunt Kat shrugs, releasing Liv. “No accidents, no regrets. It has been written in the stars.” Turning to me, she winks, and I look to Liv for psychic support.

She stares back, shaking her head in sympathy.

“Psychic Mom, you are namaste-a-licious, as usual.” Parker hugs Aunt Kat hello, thwarting any attempt I might make at getting details about her previous run-in with Mark.

I hand Liv the box. “From Berkeley.”

Accepting the package, she moves to the window to open it.

“Oh, it’s lovely.” She sighs, tilting the box toward me so I can admire the delicate silver watch with a moon face and silver stars instead of numbers nestled inside. It’s more of a bracelet than a watch, and it looks old, like maybe it’s from the twenties.

“It’s perfect for you,” I say, noticing that next to the watch are two little notes.

Liv opens the first one, and I can’t resist reading over her shoulder. What I see catches me off guard.

Just wanted to say I’m sorry about Pittsburgh. I didn’t mean to be so abrupt…but you guys have inspired me. You’re the real deal. I’m so happy my best friend has met his match. —Mark

Setting the note aside she reads the other one, and I avert my eyes, feeling like I’m intruding. I wonder what happened in Pittsburgh…

“What is it?” Aunt Kat asks, joining us at the window.

“It’s a watch.” Liv’s voice breaks as she blinks back tears. Hands shaking, she carefully places both notes in the box and hands it to me before slipping the watch onto her wrist.

I scan the note from Berkeley while Aunt Kat helps Liv with the clasp.

My good luck charm—now where it rightfully belongs—where I can keep you both safe. I hope you know you are part of me, my equal. Your successes are mine, your failures are mine, and you can lean on me as much as you need to. We’re in it together. You are the only person who knows all of me; who I feel totally safe with. I love you, Liv, and I can’t wait to make you my wife. —B.

Closing the box, I set it in Liv’s suitcase so she won’t lose it, and so she won’t see my misty eyes. I’m appalled that this is the second time this trip my eyes are welling up.

“Do you have your something old, new, borrowed, blue?” Aunt Kat asks.

“The lace is old, my shoes are new, the watch is borrowed…but I guess I’m missing blue,” Liv says.

“I have just the thing.” Aunt Kat opens her handbag to reveal a blue crystal pendant. “This is blue chalcedony—it’s meant to promote trust and clear your throat chakra. It should help with your vows, but it’s also an essential stone for actors, and I think it will serve you well.” She attaches the charm to the watch.

“Thank you, Mom,” Liv says. “It’s beautiful.”

“As are you. Are you ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.” Liv takes a deep breath and slowly exhales.

“And what about you, Boots?” Aunt Kat asks. “Are you ready?”

“For the wedding?” I ask. “You bet.”

“And what about for your new life? Lots on the horizon for you…”

My guard is up, but thinking of everything that awaits in New York, I reply, “I’m ready for that, too.”

Chapter Seven

Felix Sheridan @TMINewsNow

Berkeley Dalton storms off the #Keystone set and flies away into the night, leaving Christina Carlton in tears. Is this the official fall of #Berkstina?

Berkeley Dalton Fans @BerkLadies

Where in the world is Berkeley Dalton? He might need some consoling… We’re here for you @BerkeleyBrtside! ;) #BerkStalk

Berkeley Dalton @BerkeleyBrtside

I’ve been a lot of places, but I just saw the most beautiful sight I think I’ll ever see. I. Am. The. Luckiest.

Jeff strums an acoustic version of “Holding Out” as Liv steps to the top of the aisle. Her eyes go straight to Berkeley.

From where I stand in front of the arbor, I have a clear view of her face—her tear-filled eyes, the soft blush of her cheeks. She clings to her father’s arm, her slender frame outlined through delicate lace that holds memories both old and now new, her train trailing softly over peaches-and-cream petals. As Blair promised, Liv doesn’t trip. In fact, she moves with grace, a never-before-possessed poise, and for a split second I see her as Berkeley must: an elegant ingénue.

I sneak a glance at him. Eyes shining, he looks at her with longing and pride, protectiveness and disbelief, culminating in an emotion that is foreign to me. If that’s love, I’ve never felt it. I’m not sure I ever will. But my heart swells all the same, filled with the happy energy that radiates from the two of them.

As Liv approaches, his eyes—the eyes millions have begged to notice them—are for her alone.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, squeezing his right pinkie finger when she comes to a stop in front of him.

“You’re beautiful,” she whispers in return, handing me her simple tulip bouquet.

Berkeley takes Liv’s hand, helping guide her forward while her father finds his seat next to Aunt Kat.

The minister from the local church begins the ceremony, his thick South African accent making him difficult to understand, and I watch the scene unfold from a distance despite my physical presence. Everything fades in a blur—the clusters of pink and orange dahlias lining the aisles, the paper umbrellas shielding the guests from the setting sun, the earthy fall notes hinting at fire and vanilla on the breeze that ruffles the veil around Liv’s shoulders—and I am lost in my own world, trying to imagine myself someday standing at an altar.

Do I want this? Marriage…kids… Fear that I might squander my potential creeps up my spine. No. If I lose focus, I might lose myself. I want the pulsating excitement of the ER. Making new discoveries, saving lives, changing the world—that’s what I love. That’s what I’m working so hard for. That’s what gives me that look that Berkeley has. If it’s meant to be, everything else will come later…

“Can I kiss her now?” Berkeley asks, and the guests’ laughter jars me back to reality.

“Almost,” the minister replies. “But first things first. Vows.”

They wrote their own, and they say them together.

“In you, I’ve found the person I can’t stand to be without, my best friend. I am no longer independent; I am part of you. Regardless of where I’m going, or what I’m doing, you will be by my side. I’ll go where you go. I’ll stay where you stay. No matter what, we’re in it together. It’s our adventure, together, forever. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Team Adventure,” Liv whispers, squeezing his hand.

“Team Adventure.” He winks and slips a ring onto her finger.

“Now you may kiss your wife,” the minister says.

Berkeley breaks into a full grin. Gathering Liv into his arms, he kisses her softly at first, and then deeper, dipping her low as the crowd applauds and then gasps when hundreds of orange butterflies are released into the sky, surrounding us in a swirl of wings.

Caught in the sudden beauty of the moment, I chance a peek over Berkeley’s shoulder to Mark, and our eyes meet.

His lips curve into an enticing smile.

The butterflies threaten to carry me away, and for a second Mark is all I can see. Fighting to keep my feet on the ground, I smile back.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Mr. and Mrs. Berkeley Dalton,” the minister announces.

Remembering my job, I thrust the tulips back into Liv’s hand as Berkeley leads her down the aisle.

Stepping forward, Mark takes my arm, his fingertips warm against my bare skin, sending delighted shivers up to my shoulder.

“Lucky me,” he says as we follow Berkeley and Liv. “I’ll have the prettiest date at the bar.”

I thrill to the compliment but refuse to let him be my undoing. “Only because we’ll be the first ones to the bar.”

“Smartest date, too. Race you to the whiskey.”

“I’m one step ahead of you.” Giggling, I pick up my pace, trying to get a foot in front of his, but he holds me tightly to his side, and the rest of the wedding party falls in line behind us—Haynes and Carly, Jeff and Blair, Ted and Mia, Jake and Gemma, and finally Tux and Parker.

“Are you ready for your speech?” Mark asks, the light from a flickering lantern casting playful shadows across his face.

We’re seated next to each other at Liv and Berkeley’s long dinner table in the boma, a tree-lined enclosure surrounding a bonfire. Clay tagines filled with steaming stews have arrived along with platters laden with steaks, pap—Africa’s answer to polenta—and vetkoek, fried dough stuffed with minced meat and vegetables. Chandeliers twinkle in branches overhead, but they are no match for the endless stars above.

Nerves ignited, I pull my blanket tighter, shielding my bare shoulders against the chilly night. I woke up early and wrote my speech this morning, but it’s still not perfect.

“As ready as I can be, but I’m not sure I can do them justice. They’re pretty spectacular.” I watch Liv and Berkeley make their rounds from table to table. “I’ve never seen Liv look so happy.”

“Tell me about it.” He follows my gaze. “How can you compete with that kind of love?”

“You can’t. Why try?” I take a sip of wine.

“At least their story is easy to talk about—their love is real. I’ve been to weddings where it seemed like the couple was getting married because it was time, and they settled for the person they were seeing right then because it was convenient. Then it’s tough to come up with something to say, to construct a true connection. But these two are cake. Did you write out your speech?”

“Of course I did.” I tap my handbag where my notes reside. “Did you?”

“Nah. I’m going to wing it.”

“Seriously?” I can’t imagine showing up completely unrehearsed. “I guess you’re used to being onstage. You have practice winning over a crowd.” As guests have continued to arrive, I’ve gotten more and more anxious about standing up in front of an audience used to attending the Grammy Awards.

“In high school I was voted most likely to talk myself out of jail, so I should be able to get through this just fine.” He flashes me a grin. “Do you want to go first? I wouldn’t want you to have to follow the master.”

“Is that so?” I ask, squelching my fears, my competitive fires stoked at the first hint of a challenge. “Maybe you should go first. I could use an opening act.” I bat my eyelashes.

He laughs. “You asked for it. Let’s get this party started.” Standing, he pats my shoulder before walking confidently to the small stage near the dance floor, where a band is playing under crisscrossed strings of hanging lanterns.

Carly directs Liv and Berkeley to two chairs she has set up near the fire, and Mark grabs the mic, tapping it to get everyone’s attention.

I sit back, watching Berkeley smile up at him. Mark raises his eyebrows in response, an unspoken camaraderie evident between the two of them.

“I’ve been standing next to this guy for a pretty long time,” Mark begins. “In fourth grade I was the new kid in school, and Mrs. Steinbeck made me sit next to him. At first I thought ‘who is this pretty-boy with the weird accent?’ For those of you who don’t know, Berkeley can be pretty shy, and when he’s nervous he sounds like Paps over there. Anyway, I have two older brothers, and I knew a thing or two about being a guy, and I thought, ‘oh man, this kid is so uncool, this intense brooding thing is not working for him. He needs my help. Needs.’ So I took him under my wing…” He grins at Berkeley, who presses his lips together in a smirk. Everyone laughs, but Mark slows them down, pacing himself. “…and taught him how to make a spit ball.” More laughter, but he doesn’t bask in it, still dragging them along. “And when I accidentally nailed Mrs. Steinbeck in the back of the head with one, instead of ratting me out, he took the fall. And that’s when I knew we were going to be friends.” He pauses, and grinning up there in his bow tie and vest, I think I catch a glimpse of that schoolboy.

Okay. So he’s very—very!—cute. Elbows on the table, I cradle my cheek in my hand, watching the master work, getting schooled myself. That is until Liv catches my eye and the knowing sparkle reflected in hers makes me sit up straight and mask my dreamy expression with seriousness.

“Mrs. Steinbeck tried to separate us, but it was no use, we had a connection; I already knew I’d follow this guy anywhere.” He gestures toward Berkeley. “And I did. When he started playing music in high school, I realized my first impression of him was wrong. It turns out the intense, brooding thing does work for him—chicks dig it.” Everyone laughs and, amid the clapping, he says as an aside, “Sorry, Liv.”

“It’s okay.” She giggles.

“And I needed to get in on that,” he continues, louder. “So I begged him to take me under his wing, and he obliged. He taught me to play the bass—even though he’d never played it himself. We learned together, and somehow we managed to start a band. Somewhere along the way it stopped being about the girls, and Berkeley showed me what he inherently knew—it was about the music. About living the melody. He got me hooked, and I’ve been following him around the world ever since.”

He grows serious. “I’m not going to lie, it’s exhausting sometimes. The road seems endless, and there have been moments when I thought it would fall apart. But then Liv came along and infused new life into Berkeley.” He faces her. “Liv. What can I say about Liv?” He pauses. “She was a game changer. Something none of us saw coming, least of all him. We didn’t think it was possible for Berkeley to love anything more than music. His drive was unmatched, he lived and breathed the band… Who was this girl who could throw him off? Could turn his life upside down? She was like a landslide. Paparazzi, headlines, craziness. All the things Berkeley tries to avoid. We were very protective of him, and we couldn’t imagine anyone who could be worth it.”

Liv blushes.

“And then I met her. And I got it.” Smiling, he turns back to the crowd. “Berkeley’s light is blinding, and it takes someone pretty special to shine next to him, let alone outshine him. But Liv does it. Warmth radiates out of her—she’s exactly what he needs—he’s lucky to have found someone who matches him so perfectly. And I won’t let him forget it.” He winks at her, speaking to both of them again. “What the two of you have is inspiration to us all. It is rare and perfect, and it has opened my eyes to what is possible, moved me to step out and try it for myself, to find what I always thought was unattainable. And now I know it’s time to pass my torch, because Berkeley has someone new standing next to him, someone who deserves to be wrapped in his wings, someone who he can follow around the world.”

Carly hands him a glass of sparkling rosé, and he raises it to them. “I love you both. Thank you for making everything possible. To the stars.”

Everyone echoes “to the stars” behind him, applauding and drinking. Electricity shoots up my arm, and the scene before me blurs through (again!) the mist in my eyes.

How the hell am I going to follow that?

I down my champagne. I mean sparkling rosé. House rules. Hopefully everyone is deep into the bubbly so nobody will remember my speech.

Standing, Berkeley hugs Mark, and Liv joins them, the three of them together forming a jolly superstar trio.

When they release him, Mark says into the microphone, “Boots. You’re up!”

Chapter Eight

Parker Mifflin @IsIndulgent

I love being surrounded by love. It makes me want to fall in love… Where are you, Prince Charming? Oh yeah, sitting right next to me. #OffLimits

Dropping my blanket, I rise, legs shaking. My former competitive spirit now resides somewhere at the bottom of my sparkling rosé glass. I walk in slow motion to the dance floor, grateful for the fire’s warmth on my goose-bumped skin.

“Mic drop,” Mark whispers, handing me the microphone, pretending to be smug.

“Not bad, not bad.” I summon every ounce of confidence I have left, channeling my inner doctor, the one who wields miracles—I could definitely use one—so he won’t see I’m shaken. “For resorting to a wing and a prayer.”

“I only needed the wings. I saved the prayers for you, cupcake.” Grinning, he steps aside, giving me the stage.

Taking the mic, knees threatening to buckle, I slowly turn to face the crowd. My gaze falls first on Tux Nicholas before shifting to Mia Dalton, and then Jake, the lead singer from the massively successful band White Lotus, who is credited with giving the Brightside their first gig, and on down the line… What am I doing here? I should imagine them naked, but nudity is what I’ve trained myself to ignore. The one person I refuse to look at is Mark, not wanting his gloating—or nudity—to be my undoing.

Instead I look to Liv, and she nods encouragingly. Knowing I have to do this for her, that I have to do her justice, thaws my tongue. Squaring my shoulders, I take a deep breath and focus hazily on a distant chandelier as the silence stretches to the point of discomfort, and the guests begin to fidget.

Biting my cotton-ball cheek, I force myself to speak. “Hi, I’m Amanda, Liv’s cousin,” I finally say, my voice small. Frozen faces plastered with pleasant masks tilt their heads toward me, straining to hear, examining, judging, rooting, and my urge to put them at ease—and not be passed off as an act they’ve seen before—goes into overdrive. “Mark is a tough act to follow, but I’m going to do my best.” I clear my throat, wanting to pull out my notes. But after Mark’s easy command of the stage, I feel like it would be showing weakness, and I push on without them.

Here goes nothing…

“Even though Liv is younger than me, I’ve always looked up to her, and not just because she’s so statuesque.” No laughter…crickets. Gulp. “But because she has a contagious spirit, a thirst for adventure, and a generous soul.” What should I do with my hands? The left one is just hanging there. Put it on my hip? No…now I look like I’m angry. Pull it together! “She’s the perfect package, everything I strive to be.” Taking a deep breath to slow my pounding heart, I allow myself a glance at Mark. He smiles, pointing with his index and middle finger first at his eyes, then at mine. His message is clear.

Game on.

He saves me.

My throat suddenly up for the challenge, my voice gains strength. “I don’t know if she remembers this, but when we were little, her mom took us to get our star charts done one afternoon during a terrible thunderstorm.” I turn to her. “Remember afterward she took us to Chuck E. Cheese for lunch, and the storm knocked out the power while we were in the cheese maze?”

“That I remember.” She nods. “The rest I’ve blocked out.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t reveal what your chart said.” I turn and address the guests. “Liv hates knowing anything about her future. She believes in making her own luck, and she doesn’t want to be locked into a fate she can’t control, doesn’t want to anticipate the surprises that await. She has faith that everything will be as it should. Her sunny outlook is one of the things I love most about her.”

Liv smiles her relief.

“Anyway, that day in the maze we were terrified to go down the slide into the ball pit because it looked like an endless black hole, but it was the only way out, so we hugged each other tight and went down together.” I pause for effect. “I screamed the entire way, but Liv was brave. Even though she was scared, she didn’t make a sound; she stayed strong while I was melting down. And that’s how it’s always been. She looks fear in the eyes, and even if she doesn’t know what awaits—it could be that she becomes a famous designer, or it could be that she funks things up and falls flat on her face—she leaps anyway.”

Liv presses her hands to her cheeks.

“When she moved to California to become a costume designer, she didn’t know what to expect—she never imagined she’d become a lingerie designer and, now, an actress. She was simply following her dreams, leaving behind what was safe, with no expectations beyond testing herself, trying. She didn’t know if she’d ‘make it,’ or even what ‘making it’ meant, and I don’t know if anyone could have anticipated what would happen—”

“I did!” Aunt Kat calls out, and everyone laughs.

“Except for Psychic Mom, of course. I’m sure she’s already read a palm or two here tonight,” I say, giggling, waiting for the laughs to subside before growing serious again. “But I know Liv didn’t see it coming, didn’t expect that she would meet Berkeley, let alone that he’d fall in love with her. She never saw it coming, but to tell you the truth, maybe the ‘psychic gift’ runs in the family, because I wasn’t surprised. Of course a rock star fell in love with her. Of course Berkeley Dalton, the guy whose songs she made me listen to over and over again because they spoke to her—hit her like no other music could—had been writing to her all along, knowing his words would find her, holding the faith that they would reach the ears meant to hear them.” I pause, letting my words resonate. “Of course he fell in love with her, just like the world is going to fall in love with her.” I wink at Aunt Kat and turn to face the couple. “Now, I don’t know Berkeley very well yet; we’ve just recently met, but clearly he has good taste.” I smile at him, and he nods in good-natured agreement, his expression worthy of the big screen. “And I see the way he looks at her—watches over her—and I know that if they ever got caught in the dark, in a cheese maze, he’d hold her so tight when she went down the slide, she’d feel safe screaming.”

Berkeley tucks Liv close into his side.

“You two are going to make the world a better place. Just knowing a love like this”—I gesture between the two of them—“exists, gives us hope, gives us something to strive for. Thank you for letting us be part of your adventure.”

Raising my glass, I face the guests. “To taking the leap, and to finding the way through the maze to a love like this. Cheers.”

Amidst applause, I hand the microphone to Jake, and the band—made up of musicians from several different bands that alone could sell out stadiums—kicks into action behind him covering “I Can’t Help Falling in Love With You.”

Liv makes her way to me across the now-crowded dance floor and hugs me. “Thank you. I don’t think anyone has ever said anything nicer…”

“I meant it. Love you.”

“Love you.”

Squeezing me, she lets go to make room for Berkeley.

“Thank you.” He takes me in his arms. “I promise I’ll take good care of her.”

“You better.” Stepping back, I smile. “Now dance with your bride.”

Watching as he sweeps her onto the floor, I move out of the way, taking my place on the fringe.

“Nailed it,” Mark says, coming up beside me, standing close enough that his arm brushes mine. “Maybe I’ve met my match…”

“I doubt it,” I reply, looking up at his flawless profile silhouetted against the fiery night. “I concede victory on this one. You were incredible. Maybe someday we’ll have a chance at a rematch?”

“I’m up for a rematch anytime, but don’t discount yourself.” He softly nudges me with his elbow. “You could have a career in motivational speaking. You totally took me back in time—I haven’t thought of Chuck E. Cheese in years—my inner child is dying for a slice of pizza now.”

“But see, that’s proof I’m a terrible motivator. The pizza there is gross!”

“Come on, it’s not that bad. I’ve had worse.”

“I don’t know what you’re used to eating on the road, but the next time you’re in Pittsburgh I will show you what real pizza is.”

“It’s a date.” He grins. “See what happened there? Your speech motivated me to get you to ask me out.”

Raising my eyebrows at him, I keep my expression exasperated but surrender just a little to the fireworks in my belly.

“So, I’m curious, what did your star chart say?” he asks, not giving me a chance at a comeback.

I scrunch up my nose. “You know, I don’t remember. I haven’t thought about it in years. I don’t even know where it is—”

“Hey, stranger, I’ve barely seen you all wedding.” Blair appears at Mark’s side, linking her arm with his. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too.” He leans over and kisses her cheek.

Sensing their easy comradery, I begin to question their past. Blair has always been nice to me, but suddenly my defenses are up as I observe her smooth caramel skin against the orange of her dress—her expertly smudged hazel eyes…the messy knot on top of her head that probably took hours to perfect, a technique I have never had the patience to master—in a new light. She is a confident, sexy kitten. There’s no way I could compete unless he has a secret fetish for baggy and blood-spattered. Not that it matters. It’s not like I want to be alone with him anyway…

“Dance with me,” she says, taking both of his hands and dragging him forward.

“Sure,” he replies, before leaning over to me. “See you around, cupcake?”

“Yeah. See ya.” I fight to keep my doctor face on, knowing his leaving with her shouldn’t bother me. But it’s impossible to deny that it does. My stomach uneasy, I allow myself to fade into the background, watching him wrap her in his arms on the dance floor, the two of them in vivid color, while I, like the other audience members, remain black and white.

Chapter Nine

Amanda Conrad @BootsMD

To taking the leap… To finding the way through the maze… To the cheese…that stands alone. #CallMeBleuCheese

“What is this thing of beauty doing hanging out by herself?” Parker joins me near the bar where I’m watching Trent attempt to flirt with Mia Dalton. She isn’t having any of it, her blue eyes searching for an escape route from my intoxicated brother. High-powered attorney by day, overgrown frat boy by night. I should probably save her. But I don’t want to be stuck with him, either. Fortunately, Evan is willing to be her white knight, and he swoops in, trying to distract Trent and letting me off the hook.

“Why aren’t you dancing?” Parker asks.

“Nobody asked me to.” I pretend I’m not bitter about it. Mark has moved on from Blair to Gemma, and his connection to her seems even more intense. I’m sure he’s had his share of girls on the road… Liv’s friends included, apparently. Whatever fleeting thought I had about the possibility of something being there, I dismiss. He clearly flirts with everyone.

“What about you? Why aren’t you dancing? Tux looks kind of helpless over there. You should have your fortunes read together.”

“Oh.” He follows my gaze to where Tux is listening politely to Aunt Kat. “He’s scrumptious when he’s trapped.”

“You can save him, you know.”

“I could, but I shouldn’t.” He sighs. “Who am I kidding? He had me at ‘y’all.’” Placing his hand on his own cheek, he forces his face back to me. “But I can’t. It’s already been too much pressure. I’m glad he moved to the boys’ dorm.”

“Nothing happened in the cellar?”

“Not a thing.” He frowns. “Between you and me, I don’t know what I was hoping…that he’d come to me in the night and tell me he couldn’t live without me? Foolish, I know, but part of me thought it was possible. Maybe I was wrong about everything, though. I never should have gotten involved. Best to protect my heart. But you, my dear”—he gestures toward the dance floor—“should put everything on the line.”

I follow his stare across the party to Mark. “Do as you say not as you do?”

“Absolutely. When it comes to love, I’m much more successful at pushing my friends into it, and believe me, after the one-two punch of those speeches—” He places his hand over his heart. “He set you up, and you completed him. I think there’s something Liv and Berkeley-esque about the two of you. Besides, didn’t he say in his speech that he was inspired to go out and find a love like that—that he thought it was unattainable until now? He was talking about you.”

I look up at Parker and wrinkle my nose. “Has anyone ever told you, you have an overactive imagination?”

“Me? Never. I write what I know, and I don’t exaggerate. Rule-abiding citizen, remember?”

“Well, let me know if you want to borrow my eyes for a second; yours seem to have a pink filter. Don’t you think he seems preoccupied?” I gesture at Mark and Gemma, heads bowed close.

“Gemma’s a doll, but you have nothing to worry about. I have it on good authority that nothing has happened between them.”

“Whose authority?”

“Hers. She always thought he had a thing for Liv.”

My stomach churns in disgust. “Did he?” I don’t really want to know the answer, but I can’t contain my curiosity, remembering the note he gave her this morning.

Parker shrugs. “How could he not? But I don’t think he ever seriously entertained the possibility. He sees her as a kid sister. You have nothing to worry about.”

“I guess not, but do you know what happened between Mark and Liv in Pittsburgh?”

He thinks for a minute. “I think it was just a weird conversation—more about Mark wishing he had a ‘Liv’ of his own—not Liv herself. Which leaves the door open for you!”

“Parker, there is no chance of me being his ‘Liv.’ I mean, he’d be fun for one night, but I’m not interested in anything long-term. I’m about to start my residency. I don’t have time for distractions.”

“And how is that last hurrah going? I think all that takes is one night…”

“Parker.” There is a warning in my voice.

“Well, aren’t we a pair of pickles marinating in the juices of impossibility.” He sighs, thankfully letting me off the hook.

“Indeed.” I laugh, willing myself to lighten up. Who cares if he had a thing for any of the magazine-cover-worthy girls on the dance floor. He’s human.

“Come, my angel.” Parker takes my elbow and leads me closer to the bar. “Let’s soak up a little more. Amarula cocktail?”

“Yes, please.”

He orders us two of the creamy concoctions, and I pretend my insides don’t do a happy dance when I notice Mark and Gemma separate.

“Your potion, my dear.” Parker returns with our drinks and hands me one. “I can’t believe we’re going on safari tomorrow. How do we rate?”

“Someplace off the charts. It’s surreal,” I say, taking a sip of the sweet beverage. We’re traveling to Kruger National Park before Liv and Berkeley take off to Victoria Falls in Zambia for their real honeymoon. It’s sort of a reverse bachelor/bachelorette party since the wedding was last-minute. The “grown-ups” will remain at Point of Grace, or will be heading home, while the “kids” in the wedding party are on safari. “I never could have dreamed it.”

“It’s going to be spectacular. And with this crew, there is no limit to dreams. The world is at your fingertips. Stick by me. I’ll teach you how to think Hollywood, doc.”

“And I’ll give you a prescription for protecting your heart.” I gesture toward the stage where Tux is now talking to Berkeley.

“Deal.” He nods, but suddenly pretending to be busy sipping his drink, he steps away as I feel a tap on my shoulder. Expecting one of my drunk brothers, I spin around and am surprised to see Mark standing casually with his hands in his pockets.

“Care to dance?” he asks.

“My turn?” I reply, the cocktail taking command of my tongue.

“Your turn?” He cocks his head to the side.

I flush. “It’s just that I noticed you dancing with some of the other girls…”

“Jealous?”

“No. Of course not. You can dance with anyone you want.”

“Darn. I was hoping you’d think I was popular, hard to get,” he says, a hint of a smile on his lips. “You’re the one I wanted to dance with the whole time.”

I purse my lips. “You’re a flirt.”

“Me? No.” He breaks into a full grin. “I mean it. Dance with me.” Taking my hand, he tugs me forward.

I know he’s not serious, but what the heck! This might be my only chance to dance under the African stars…and definitely with a star.

Surrendering, I allow him to lead me forward, handing my drink off to Parker, who blows me a big kiss.

Onstage, Ted and Jeff from the Brightside, and Jason and Sam from Coconut Teaszer are playing a cover of “We’ve Got Tonight.”

Mark’s hand circles my waist, drawing me in close, and I awkwardly wrap an arm around his back. He takes my free hand in his, and I instinctively want to get closer, to nestle my face against his chest, breathing in his subtle scent—woodsy and clean—but I resist, letting the song sink into me, knowing his plans don’t include me, nor mine him. Ignoring the longing to feel his lips on my forehead, I concentrate on his chin, fearing I’ll get caught in his web if I look into his eyes.

“In your speech you said you wanted to find what was unattainable,” I say, wanting to prove to Parker (and myself) he wasn’t referencing me. “What do you want that you can’t have?”

“Lots of things.” We slowly turn in a circle. “But that’s part of the fun, isn’t it? The chase? Don’t stop until you make your dreams come true. And when you do, the next adventure begins.”

“I like your perspective, but that doesn’t tell me what you want.” I’m hyper-aware of how close our faces are, can feel his breath on my cheek. It would be so easy to lean in…

He stays frustratingly neutral and thinks for a minute. “I guess I want what everyone wants. Success. Love. Home… I meant that Berkeley has always been good at showing me what’s possible. He made me believe I could make it in music, and maybe he’s setting the bar for other parts of life, too.” Taking my hand, he twirls me in a slow spin before bringing me back to his chest. “And what do you want, Dr. Conrad?”

“That’s easy. I want to be a doctor, and not just any doctor—I want to be at the top of my class, an authority in my field.”

“You want prestige.”

“I don’t know if it’s prestige—more so validation—to feel like I’ve ‘made it.’”

“And what happens once you’ve ‘made it’? Then what?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t thought that far. It’s a long ways off.”

He nods. “I used to feel that way, too.”

“Then tell me what it’s like on the other side. What does it feel like to accomplish your goals?”

“I don’t know. The dreams keep changing.”

“But you have Grammys. That must mean something.”

Dipping me low, he takes his time answering. “The Grammys are nice, but at the end of the day they’re just a box I can check off my list. The more I accomplish, the more I realize life isn’t chunks of time meant to be suffered through to get to the end goal. There are thousands of shining moments to savor in between. The joy is in the process, the surprises that pop up along the way and throw you off course. At this point I’m more interested in following my heart and seeing what happens. I’ve given up trying to control the timeline. Opportunity finds you when it’s ready, not when you are.”

“So you think there’s a love like Liv and Berkeley’s out there for everyone?”

“I do. But we can’t control when we find that person.”

Just then the song ends, and the guys pick up the pace with a swinging version of “Lust for Life.”

“Oh. This is awesome.” He spins me out, my dress floating wide, and there’s no more time to talk. From there I can do only my giggling best to keep up. Turning, dipping, twisting—he’s a great dancer, and he makes me look good as long as I follow his lead. At the end of the song he leaves me breathless.

“VanCleer, get up here!” Ted’s voice echoes over the dance floor from the stage.

Mark pulls me in close, wrapping me in his arms, and I can feel the firmness of his chest through his shirt. “I hate to cut this short, but I gotta go,” he whispers, his cheek pressed to mine. “But thanks for the dance. Most fun I’ve had all night.” He releases me.

“Thank you,” I murmur, trying to catch my breath, still feeling the warm impression his face left on mine, as I watch him cross to the stage and pick up a guitar.

“Hey, everyone, gather ’round,” he says into the microphone, beckoning the party forward.

I follow the shift in the crowd, clustering around the stage, closer to the fire.

“We wanted to dedicate a song to our bride and groom.” He motions to the rest of the Brightside and Jake who have joined him. “This one’s for Liv and Berkeley,” he says, though he winks at me as he starts to strum his guitar.

Flustered, I keep my focus soft, afraid of fully connecting with him—of what will happen if I dare believe he’s a possibility.

Behind him, the rest of the guys begin to play the opening bars of “I’m a Believer,” and Mark’s eyes are still on me as his lips curve into a tiny smile.

I feel naked—exposed. It’s like he can read my mind.

Then the moment passes and, taking on the front-man role, he shifts his attention to Berkeley, who is swaying side to side with Liv wrapped in his arms, his chin resting on her head. Mark starts to sing about love only being true in fairy tales—meant for others—and the crowd surrounding me dances at his feet. But I stay still, getting the impression he’s singing about himself, uncertain if I’m standing in a dream as I watch the dive-bartender from the cellar reemerge. Having long ago lost his vest and tie, he is a step removed from the typical Brightside rock-star glamour, a stripped-down, acoustic version of a hit. But he’s just my speed. My pounding heart is helpless against his easy command of the stage, his contagious energy. He belongs front and center.

Arriving at the chorus, he motions for everyone to sing along, and their voices come together in raucous unity. They are all preoccupied, focused on serenading Liv and Berkeley, so they probably don’t notice when Mark changes the lyrics and again looks directly at me.

“Then I saw your face…”

My heart stops, and for a second I buy in.

“He’s adorable. It’s so perfect, I can’t even stand it.” Parker comes up behind me, snapping me back to reality.

“It’s a moment to get lost in,” I agree, still basking in the heat from Mark’s stare even though he is back at work charming the crowd.

Parker takes my hand, spinning me around, and grinning, I surrender to Mark’s appeal. Letting go of my inhibitions, I add my voice to the others, singing along at the top of my lungs.

Tonight, I’m a believer. I’m a doctor who dances. I’m a doctor who deserves a last hurrah.

Chapter Ten

Parker Mifflin @IsIndulgent

Lions, Otters, and Cubs. Oh my.

“The first rule of safari,” our driver, Bronson, says, his voice deep and rhythmic, “is don’t get out of the vehicle. These are wild animals, and we want them to think of us as one big creature, not individual snacks.” He stands at the front of the car, dressed in weathered khaki, his shadow looming long in the late-afternoon sun.

I’m sitting next to Parker in the last row of the Land Rover. Blair, Gemma, and Mark are in front of us, and Jeff, his wife, Alexandra, and Ted are in the first row. The others are in Rover B. We look like we belong on a movie set, with everyone dressed like we’re going to a safari costume party, except for Mark, who nixed the safari hat and opted for a Pittsburgh Pirates baseball cap instead.

Interesting… I’m not sure if the hat is in honor of the bride or if he has a deeper connection to the team. I’d ask him, but we haven’t talked since last night. In the sober light of morning, and based on his seating choice, I’m starting to wonder if I imagined his attentiveness—there was plenty of room in the back with me before Parker got in.

“Our goal is to see the ‘Big Five’—that’s elephant, lion, rhino, buffalo, and leopard,” Bronson continues, dragging out the names. “But there are no guarantees. There are no fences on this reserve, and we can’t control where the animals roam. We might see them all, we might not see any. It is luck.” He emphasizes the word “luck,” leaving it to hang in the air.

We’re seeing the big five. We have to. We’re going on three game drives in the two days we’re here—one tonight, one tomorrow morning, and one tomorrow night—so it seems impossible that we wouldn’t find all five when our party consists of some of the luckiest people on the planet.

“This is Ranako, our tracker.” Bronson gestures to our hood ornament, a guy also dressed in khaki, holding a rifle and sitting in a chair mounted on the front of the car. “He will be following the animal trails and hopefully finding the big five for us. We’ll do our best.”

Ranako is the smaller of the two, and I hope he’s a sure shot should the snack thing come into play.

“And last thing. You must promise to do as I say. In the wild anything can happen—this isn’t a zoo. We are here to keep you safe. Do you promise?”

“We promise,” we reply in unison.

“Good.” He smiles, his teeth bright white against his dark skin. “Let’s roll.” Taking his seat, he fires up the Land Rover.

“This is super exciting.” Parker grips my arm.

We pull forward into well-worn trail ruts, and I snuggle deeper into my jacket. Though it was warm today, the temperature is rapidly dropping, and the wind is cold against my cheeks as we pick up speed. I can’t help but notice that Gemma scoots closer to Mark, probably seeking his warmth, as she is wearing only a thin T-shirt. He obliges her, slipping his arm around her shoulders and rubbing her arm.

I bite my cheek. Maybe I’m not the only one looking for a last hurrah. I know Parker said Gemma wasn’t into him, but I’m not so sure, and my competitive spirit flares. If anything, I should be relieved that Mark’s focus isn’t solely directed at me—less danger of strings that way—he should be able to remain as emotionally unconnected as I can should a last hurrah occur. But at the same time, I want to know I’m the only one this weekend.

The Land Rover comes to a stop next to a lake dotted with grazing deer of some sort.

“Im-pa-la,” Bronson enunciates. “Do you see them? These are the McDonalds of the animal kingdom. You can tell from the M on their rear ends. Lion food.”

Shifting my focus to the open plains rolling into blushing skies, I breathe in the peaceful air and exhale thoughts of Mark. We sit, watching the impala lazily eat, chewing thoughtfully, and I hate to think of them scattering in fear, of being the lion’s drive-thru lunch.

“It’s the circle of life…” Mark sings what we are all thinking, igniting giggles.

“Hakuna Mantita,” Parker says. “That’s my motto.”

“I think it’s ‘Matata,’” Blair says.

“Speak for yourself, sweetheart,” Parker says.

She rolls her eyes at him as the Land Rover roars to life, and we’re off again, bumping along the path.

Driving past a lake punctuated with hippos bobbing to the surface for air, we spy giraffes in the distance, and Bronson steps on the gas, heading off the trail toward them. We speed around a bank of tall reeds but slam to a halt as an elephant throws up her trunk, trumpeting a deafening roar and stomping her feet in a thunderous crescendo. Flying forward, we brace ourselves against the black bars we are meant to hold on to—except for Gemma who conveniently (in my opinion) flies into Mark’s arms.

“El-e-phant. Do you see it?” Bronson asks.

I turn and glimpse what the elephant was upset about; by her side is a cowering baby blinking huge eyes at us. My heart swells at the achingly beautiful sight. This is what matters, not last hurrahs. But then I notice how quickly Mark releases Gemma, and relief rushes through me. Of course, anything can—and should—happen in the wild…

“Pretty hard to miss, dude,” Ted says. “We were almost pancakes.”

“We surprised her. She charged us to protect her baby,” Bronson explains.

“They’re unbelievable,” I say as we sit in silence, watching the elephants disappear into the brush.

Bronson starts up the vehicle again, and we cautiously continue toward the giraffes.

“Pancakes sound pretty tasty,” Parker says as we bounce over the uneven landscape. “I’m starving.”

“Cupcakes sound even better,” Mark says over his shoulder.

I smile to myself. Hurrah, on. Hurray!

“It will be time for sun-down-ers soon,” Bronson promises, pulling to a stop. Getting out of the car, he kneels and picks up what looks like a clod of dirt. “Do you see this?” He holds it out so we can examine it. “See the berries and twigs? This is rhino dung. There was a rhino here recently.”

“Ummm…more than recently,” Mark says, leaning as far back in his seat as possible and pointing to the trail.

We all turn to see a white rhino headed straight for the Land Rover. Bronson drops the dung and leaps back inside. Who knew he could move so fast? Once he’s safely behind the wheel, he returns to his stoic self. “Do you see it?”

“No,” Mark says under his breath, snapping a picture of the prehistoric-looking animal a few feet away. “Is it behind the giant rhinoceros?”

I giggle.

The rhino passes us, and Bronson starts the car, making a U-turn to follow it. We inch along behind him, causing him to whip around and grunt when we get too close, which is kind of scary and must be terrifying for Ranako, who is still seated on the hood of the car, but I guess they know what they’re doing. Eventually the rhino gets bored with us and wanders away.

“Sundowners,” Bronson announces, driving into a small clearing with a panoramic view of the giraffes. We get out and stretch while Ranako pours cocktails and sets out platters of cheese and crackers, nuts, and mini meat pies on the back gate of the Land Rover.

Drink in hand, I walk to the edge of the clearing to watch the sun sink behind the silhouetted trees, enjoying a moment to myself.

“It’s a beautiful night.” Mark appears beside me.

“It’s incredible,” I say without looking at him. “I’ve been stuck in the hospital for so long I forget sometimes there’s a whole big world out there. Other than a trip to Haiti with Operation Smile, I haven’t been many places. And even that trip I was working most of the time, assisting with cleft palate repairs in kids.”

“That sounds like important, generous work, but definitely not a vacation.”

“Exactly. It was super inspiring, but relaxing it was not.” I gesture at the landscape. “Have you seen all of this before?”

“Actually, I’ve never been on safari. We have a lot in common. I don’t get to see most of the places we go,” he says, his eyes still on the land. “I’ve been everywhere and nowhere. I took a little vacation when Berkeley cancelled our last tour and got to spend some time in the Philippines and Thailand, but other than that, this is the first break I’ve had in a long time. It’s a good reminder to take more of them, though.”

“I know what you mean. When I get home, it’s full speed ahead. New York, residency, back on the treadmill.”

He turns his full attention to me. “You know, I just moved to New York myself…”

A breeze picks up, grazing my skin, and goose bumps erupt on my arms.

“…if you need a friend. It can be an overwhelming city.”

My heart thumps. So many strings…best make my expectations clear. “Maybe I’ll take you up on that, but to be honest I’m not sure how often I’ll see the light of day.”

He smiles. “You at least need to come to a Coconut Teaszer show, and stay for the whole thing this time. They usually take place under the cover of night, and we need every warm body we can get.”

I laugh. “I’ll try. I might be able to bring a few cold ones with me, too.”

“We’ll take ’em!” His laughter mingles with mine.

Our merriment fades, and the overwhelming quiet of our surroundings settles over us.

“What’s with the hat?” I ask before it gets awkward. “Are you a Pirates fan?”

“I like them,” he replies, “but I guess you could say I’m a fan of everything Pittsburgh.” He nudges me with his elbow, the corner of his mouth twitching.

My stomach drops, and I wait for him to elaborate, or to slip me his room key, but he doesn’t. Instead he takes a bite of a mini pie, chewing thoughtfully.

Scrunching up his nose, he clenches his jaw.

“Not good?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “I was just thinking that Bronson didn’t wash his hands between our dung lesson and sundowners. Mini dung pies anyone?”

“Ew. I’m glad I stuck to the nuts.”

“Don’t tell the monkeys that.”

“Monkeys?”

He points into the field, and I follow his finger until a monkey comes into focus. It’s huge and hairy and headed straight toward us.

I jump closer to Mark. “Do monkeys like nuts?”

“They have nuts…giant blue ones…”

“Oh.” I laugh, noticing what he’s getting at.

“Blue baboon.” Bronson’s voice sounds behind us. “Everybody in the car.”

“What are the rules? We’re a giant animal?” I whisper, my heart rate spiking as the baboon picks up speed. “He’s definitely coming for us…”

“Just don’t make any sudden movements.” Mark puts his arms around my shoulders from behind and pulls me backward slowly. At his touch, my nerve endings explode, sending a heated rush through my limbs, igniting me in tingles. The danger of the impending monkey attack combined with being wrapped in Mark’s safety net plunges me into a feverish daze.

Strings be damned. I want this. In that moment I commit, and once I set a goal, I’ll stop at nothing to achieve it.

Everything moves in slow motion. We take a tentative step back, but the baboon has other ideas and charges forward.

“Run!” Mark yells, whipping me around and taking my hand.

We break into a sprint. “No sudden movements!” I sputter between breaths, my heart in my throat.

“Hurry! He’s gaining on you!” Parker shouts from the safety of the Land Rover while Ranako aims his gun, ready to shoot.

We make it to the car, and Mark lifts me inside, scrambling in behind me just as the baboon closes in. Still holding each other tightly, we watch, breathless, as the monkey comes to a halt, intelligent eyes observing us.

The eight of us crouch together, nervously staring back at him. Ranako lowers his weapon.

The baboon starts to scratch himself.

“Do you see it?” Bronson asks.

We all bust up as he hits the gas.

Chapter Eleven

Mark VanCleer @BrightsideBP

Safari sing-along protocol: If you don’t know the words, just follow the bouncing baboon balls. Baboon Balls=#NotABandName

It’s our last night on safari, and Bronson packs up the sundowners as the once rosy sky goes black. We pile back into the Land Rover, wrapping ourselves in flannel blankets to combat the chilly night air. Between last night and this morning’s game drives we’ve checked everything off our big-five list, with the exception of lions and leopards, who remain elusive. As does my last hurrah. After last night’s drive, Mark was seated next to Mia and Tux at dinner, and with so many people around, it was difficult for us to connect. This morning he had a good-bye breakfast with Jake and his girlfriend, who had to get back to L.A. where White Lotus is recording. It is not lost on me that if “Operation Last Hurrah” is going to come to fruition, it has to happen tonight, so I was thrilled when Mark asked if the seat next to me in the last row of the Land Rover was taken. But, thus far, he’s kept a polite distance, the space between us measuring less than the wide gap separating Parker and Tux in the row in front of us, and more than the snuggly centimeter dividing Liv and Berkeley in front of them.

Bronson starts to drive.

“This is our last chance to see the big five.” Mark rubs his hands together. “If it doesn’t happen now, we’ll have lost the opportunity forever.”

His thigh brushes mine, and I hope I’m supposed to read into his sentiment.

“No regrets!” Liv chimes in.

We bump over the trail, and the two-way radio on the dashboard crackles to life. Bronson alternates speaking into it and listening. “Another car has spotted lions,” he reveals.

“That’s more like it!” Mark says.

“Do you want to see them?” Bronson asks.

We all respond with a resounding, “Yes!”

“Hold on, then.”

Without giving us a chance to brace ourselves, he hits the gas, making a sharp right that ricochets me into Mark’s lap. With a jolt, we are off the trail, bouncing over the brush at full speed. I scramble to grip the rail in front of me, to hold myself steady, but I keep being jostled toward him. Noticing my difficulty, Mark scooches closer, slipping his arm around my waist and tucking me into his side. As if on cue, millions of stars burst forth in the night sky—more stars than I’ve ever seen—more than I knew existed.

“Stay,” he says, his breath hot on my ear. “Have you ever felt anything like this?” The wind carries away his words.

“No.”

“Then let it happen.”

He’s right. With the cold stinging my cheeks and tears streaming out of the corners of my eyes, giddy energy builds in my belly, buoying me until I feel like I might take flight. Relinquishing control, I sink into his side. Wrapped up in him, his hands hot on my waist, it’s as if he is the only thing tethering me to the earth, and I feel safe letting go. Staring into the endless stars above, I give in to the urge to laugh out loud, and I am alive—free—a force of nature.

“There they are.” Bronson’s announcement floats back to us. Our headlights are two spotlights illuminating the grasses, and suddenly three lions come into view, sprinting in front of us, a trio of sleek cats, muscles flexed, on the prowl.

Shivers shoot up my arm as we follow them, mimicking their graceful patterns, chasing them through the night, hunting the hunters. Intoxicated, I exhale. “They’re beautiful.”

“So are you.”

I’m thankful for the cooling wind on my cheeks and the cover of night that camouflages my blush.

The lions make a quick right—perhaps trying to evade us—but we follow, losing sight of them for a moment. Ranako calls out directions, deciphering their trail, and Bronson responds quickly, making a sudden sharp left. We again catch a brief glimpse of the lions before the Land Rover catches air, shooting forward, the ground falling away beneath us. Mark clasps my wrist, sending electricity through my veins, and time stands still as we are suspended in flight, an imposter in the night, temporarily defying gravity. I am highly conscious of him, comforted by his presence, before reality takes hold and the car drops to a crashing halt in the bottom of a ditch. Bracing myself against the impact, I throw my hands up to protect my face as my body launches toward the railing, but it’s unnecessary; Mark holds me tight.

Shocked at the abrupt end to our high, we sit in silence, the lone sound the whirring of the wheels as Bronson pumps the gas, trying to gain traction.

It’s no use. We’re stuck.

Bronson turns to face the six of us while Ranako sweeps a spotlight over the plains like a prison guard searching for escapees, illuminating the spot where seconds ago there were lions. Lions we were chasing. Hungry lions…

Other than the searchlight and the stars, it’s pitch black out.

“Are you okay?” Mark whispers. His breath tickles my neck and sends a delighted bolt down my spine, despite the potentially dire situation.

“I think so.”

“Everyone out of the car,” Bronson says.

“Hold on,” Berkeley says. “Out of the car?”

“Isn’t the first rule of safari ‘don’t get out of the car’?” Mark asks.

“Yes,” Bronson says. “But tonight we break rules. We need to lighten the load to get out of the ditch.”

“But there are lions,” Parker says. “Pissed-off lions.”

“You’re a big animal,” Ranako whispers, light still scanning. “Huddle together.”

We look around at one another, trying to decide if we have a choice, but it’s so dark I can’t make out anyone else’s expression.

“What do you think, Mark?” Berkeley asks.

I feel him shrug next to me. “We don’t have much choice. What can we do without the Land Rover? Walk back to camp or sit here and wait? That might be more dangerous than fixing the car. We should do as the man says. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“We’re late for dinner, and the chef gets mad,” Tux says. “It’ll be a quick fix. My granddaddy had a truck that used to break down constantly. Let me take a look.”

“Or we are dinner,” Parker says.

“I only have to outrun you,” Tux says, laughter in his voice, his southern drawl softening the words. He leaps out of the car.

Parker gasps.

“I’m kidding. I would never let anything happen to you.” Tux’s voice sounds from somewhere in front of the Land Rover. “The car is fine, we’re just stuck. Bronson’s right. Everyone out.”

Mark helps me down, his hand gripping mine even after I’m safely on the ground. Staying close together, we move as one and come to a stop a few feet away from the vehicle. Behind us the black fields are endless, and I try not to imagine what is lurking out there.

Bronson tries the gas again, but it’s no use. The wheels spin in the sand.

“We need leverage,” Berkeley says. “I’ll be right back.” Kissing Liv’s forehead, he disappears into the night.

“Where are you going?” she asks, her voice barely a whisper. “Stay with us.”

“To get sticks,” Tux says, crossing in front of us. “The faster we find sticks, the faster we get out of here.” He follows Berkeley into the dark.

“They’ll be fine,” I say, letting go of Mark’s hand and linking my arm with Liv’s. “They know what they’re doing.”

“Yes. And if a lion so much as grazes a hair on his head,” Parker says, “you’re going to hear me roar.”

Ranako’s light flashes over us, briefly illuminating the surrounding fields, and I scan for movement, wondering if we’re being hunted.

The light returns to the car, plunging us back into darkness, and Berkeley and Tux come into view, carrying piles of sticks and branches.

Liv and Parker both exhale sighs of relief.

Berkeley and Tux shove the sticks under the tires, and Bronson starts the car. The tires continue to turn without gaining traction.

“Oh lordy,” Parker says, as Tux lifts the front of the Rover, his muscles straining, so Berkeley can shove in more sticks. “Please tell me this is how porno movies start.”

Liv swats at him. “That’s my husband.” Her hands fly to her face. “Oh my gosh, that’s the first time I’ve used that word. And it’s in reference to porn. Thanks, Parker.”

“We had to de-virginize your vocabulary at some point, Mrs. Dalton. But don’t worry, I wasn’t talking about your husband.”

A sudden rustling behind us makes us jump.

“It’s okay. I’ve got you,” Mark says quietly, his fingers circling my arm, and though I can’t be sure, I have the sensation that it’s his eyes I feel, not a lion’s. “Where do you think you stab a lion? In the eye?”

I think about it, grateful he’s stayed to protect us. “Go for the throat. Aim for the jugular or, even faster, the carotid artery, though that would spurt blood more than gush so it might be kind of messy…”

The light sweeps over us again, and I catch Mark smiling at me, having found a stick himself that he is now wielding as a sword. I smile back, even though in the face of being lion food, I should remain focused should I need to start a triage, but my defenses are down, and I inch closer to him.

“One, two, three!” Berkeley and Tux push on the front of the car, and the tires grip. The Land Rover makes it halfway up the hill before rolling back.

“They need more power,” Mark says. “Let me help.” He hands me the stick. “I trust you are the most likely to take out a lion.”

“I’ll do my best.”

He joins the others in pushing. I’m afraid the Land Rover is going to roll back over them, but this time they prevail, and the truck makes it out of the ditch.

With a cheer, we scramble up the hill after it, piling back into the car, shivering but euphoric.

I find my place again in the last row next to Mark.

“Nothing like facing death to make you appreciate life,” he says, tucking a blanket around my shoulders and drawing me to his side.

“Thank you for looking out for us. I’m glad we had you and your stately sword standing guard.” I wave the stick I’m still carrying.

He laughs, and I feel him shift next to me. Suddenly his face is close enough to mine that I can see his eyes sparkling in the dark.

My stomach drops.

“I wouldn’t have let anything happen to you, you know. I would have saved you first.” His voice is rough, surprisingly serious, and his fingers tickle the back of my neck, making my insides tighten. He doesn’t give me time to respond—or to think. Caught in the gravity of his gaze, I’m vaguely aware of his hands cupping my jaw, and then he presses his lips to mine and all my nerve endings explode in a blinding white light. Urging my mouth open, he plunges deeper, and it is as if the earth tilts, forcing me to slide against him, pinning us together as one. I forget where we are or who may be looking; not that they could see us in the dark anyway. All I know is him—the pressure of his lips, the strength of his chest against mine—and hot longing pulsates deep inside me.

The Land Rover lurches forward, yanking us apart and wedging the cold wind between us. Shocked by the abrupt interruption, I fumble for him in the night as we pick up speed, once again sailing over the plains.

“I’m sorry.” His voice arrives on the wind, barely audible over the whir of the tires. Finding me, he once again wraps me in his warmth, holding my back to his chest and resting his chin on top of my head. “I couldn’t help myself.”

I can feel his heart pounding through our shirts, and mine matches his pace. Overwhelmed with a sense of connectedness, oneness both with him and the earth, I twist to look up at him, admiring the outline of his jaw silhouetted against the starry sky. “Don’t be sorry. I’m not.”

My words evaporate on the breeze, but he squeezes me in response, sending a hot thrill down my spine, and I settle back, unable to get close enough to him. Basking in the security of his arms as we bob and dip over the terrain, I wish I could bottle the fizzy joy bubbling in my veins that is making me believe I’m limitless, that we are invincible.

Chapter Twelve

Amanda Conrad @BootsMD

WHYYYY do I have to get up for a 0645 airport shuttle?! I wanna eat more and drink more and watch pretty animals! But gotta get back to saving lives, AKA having no life.

Back at camp, our footsteps are loud on the teak decking that connects each opulent cabana. Cheeks red and eyes bright, we’re escorted by two armed guards to protect us from any animals that might wander into camp. Fortunately, they can’t prevent any other “encounters” that might be on the agenda this evening.

In front of us Tux places his hand on the small of Parker’s back, and I smile. Interesting. Something seems to have shifted…the stars are aligning tonight!

Mark keeps hold of my hand, his fingers wound tight around mine like we are bound together by an unbreakable force. I keep our progress slow, deliberate, meant to trap time so I don’t have to wake from the dream I’m walking in. But up ahead, boisterous voices overflow from the dining room, and reality creeps in. The wedding party is the resort’s sole guests, and we occupy all eight of the luxury tents—at least we did until Jake and his girlfriend left this morning, leaving one empty. With this being the last night in Africa for most of us, the chef has prepared a going-away feast, and the party is in full swing.

Despite my efforts to stall, too quickly we arrive at the main tent. For a moment we linger in the cover of darkness, where everything is possible, basking in the heat emanating between us. Mark smiles down at me, a promise in his gaze, and it is with the unspoken understanding that we’ll pick up where we left off, that we reluctantly step into the light.

The rest of the gang is seated in heavy leather chairs at a long table near the fireplace, toasting the end of the fairy-tale weekend. Cool air filters through the screened walls that open to the wilderness, competing with the heat from the fire, and deer antler chandeliers flicker overhead. With decanters of wine and whiskey littering the table, it’s like we’ve stumbled into a 1920s colonial time warp, like the gathering of famous faces should be projected in flickering black and white to regale the audiences back home with tales of our exotic African adventure.

Our lion story is quickly relayed with Parker and Mark taking turns telling the tale that grows taller as the drinks flow.

Nestled in a seat between Mark and Liv, I settle in for dinner, enjoying my wine, savoring Mark’s nearness, wanting to prevent my feet from returning to the ground. It’s like the last day of school, and I’m humming with anticipation, counting down the minutes until I can be alone with him.

“I can’t believe my little brother is married,” Mia says, cradling her cheek in her hand. “It went too fast.”

“It’s not over yet,” Berkeley says.

“Not for you,” she replies. “You’re off to Zambia tomorrow. It’s back to L.A. for me.”

“I meant there will be another wedding.” He takes Liv’s hand. “We get to do it all over again.”

“Cheers to that.” Mark raises his whiskey glass, and I admire his strong fingers wrapped around it, remembering their weight on my jaw. “Not sure you can top this one, though.”

“Just you wait,” Carly interjects. “It’s going to be spectacular. I’ll make sure of it. How else am I going to make my mark on L.A.?”

“You’ll make your mark,” Haynes says. “L.A. doesn’t know how to party like South Africa does. You’ll show them how it’s done.”

“I’m willing to test that theory,” Tux says with a wink at Parker.

Parker’s cheeks redden.

“Parker, I dare say you’re blushing,” Liv says.

“I’m just flushed from the wind,” he replies. “Or the wine.”

“I hope it’s not just the wine,” Tux says. “I trust ya’ll to know that I’m not letting this one go back to L.A. without me.”

Parker presses his hands to his face, and he is at a loss for words. For once.

“I’ll drink to that.” Liv grins. “I think my favorite part of getting married is finding out who hooked up with whom at the wedding.” She kicks me under the table.

“Like who?” I ask, wanting to make it clear I haven’t hooked up with Mark. Yet.

“Like Evan and Berkeley’s cousin Grace.”

“What? No. How did I not know about this?”

“I found out only because my mom and your mom walked in on them rounding second.”

“What? My mom walked in on Evan?” My cheeks burn for my brother. “Oh, that’s terrible; it’s like getting caught by a nun.”

“And you should know. Didn’t she catch you in the confessional with Mike Melton at church camp?”

“Liv!” I give her a look that would silence a screaming baby. “I don’t know if I like the new, married you. Spiller of secrets.”

“Hold on,” Mark interjects. “You played seven minutes in heaven in a confessional? I’m intrigued. In front of the priest? Forgive me, Father, my name is Amanda Conrad, and it’s been eight minutes since my last make-out session…” His fingers tickle my thigh, and my stomach contracts.

“No! The priest wasn’t there. It was a dare. Nothing happened. He was too nervous to make any moves, unfortunately. And it had been a lot longer than eight minutes.”

“Hopefully you’ve zapped your dry spell since then,” Mark says.

And I can’t help it, now my face is as red as Parker’s.

Liv looks back and forth between the two of us and then over to Parker and Tux, a giant smile on her face. “Can I make a toast?” she asks. “To love connections!”

Everyone joins in, glasses clinking.

As the night goes on, one by one couples peel off, heading back to their tents, citing early airport shuttles, though there are several leaving throughout the morning. Most of us are taking a puddle jumper to Johannesburg, where we’ll fly straight to Atlanta on one of two commercial flights; there wasn’t room for all of us on the same plane.

“Maybe take your time coming back,” Parker, my tentmate, says, pulling me aside before he follows Tux outside. “Tux is rooming with Mia, and I don’t know where we’ll end up.”

“I’ll have another drink, and I’ll be sure to knock,” I reply. “Have fun…”

“We’re heading out, too,” Blair says. She and Gemma stand. “I hate traveling hungover. And it’s going to be an excruciating flight—seventeen hours, commercial. Blah. We’re spoiled.”

“If we’d taken the private jet, we’d have missed this, though,” Gemma says. “It’s worth it. I hate to leave.”

I watch for a sign that she wants to linger in Mark’s presence, but to my relief, she links arms with Blair.

“We’ll miss you,” Liv says, standing to hug them good-bye.

“Have a fun rest of your honeymoon. See you back in La-La Land,” Blair says. “Good night, guys.” She waves to Mark and me.

“Good night,” I say.

Meeting their armed escort, they exit, leaving just the four of us—Liv, Berkeley, Mark, and me—behind.

“So, you head back to L.A. tomorrow, too, right?” Berkeley says to Mark.

“No—to New York,” Mark replies.

“New York? Sorry, I’ve been preoccupied lately. I didn’t realize you were staying there.”

“It’s cool. I didn’t exactly mention it,” Mark says. “I didn’t want to cause any drama with Jeff and Ted—I know they want to get back in the studio, but New York is working for me right now. It feels like Coconut Teaszer has some momentum going, and I have to see it through. This is my chance to be heard, to have something of my own. It’s where my heart is right now.”

“I understand. We’ll make it work. Lots of bands have guys living in different cities. There’s no reason we can’t do that, too. I’m happy for you. Coconut Teaszer is awesome.”

“Thanks, man. It’s really fun. You should jump in for a show and jam. These next two tours are all small stages, just like we used to talk about.”

I look back and forth between the two of them, feeling like I’m eavesdropping on an unreleased TMI episode. How many people would kill to be here right now? The conversation reinstates Mark’s rock-star status that I’ve managed to forget, heightens my surreal anticipation. Impatient to feel his arms around me again, I inch closer to him.

Liv stifles a yawn, leaning her head on Berkeley’s shoulder.

“You know I’m always up to jam, but right now I should get this one to bed.” He turns to his wife, smiling softly.

“Yes, you should,” she replies, sitting up straight. “I’m exhausted.” Pulling Berkeley to his feet, she looks pointedly at me. “Good night, you two.”

“Good night.” I try to keep the relief that I’ll finally be alone with Mark out of my voice. “Have fun at Victoria Falls.”

“I’ll call you when we get back,” she promises, hugging me good-bye. “Have fun tonight,” she whispers so only I can hear.

I shake my head at her, not wanting to admit to anything, as Berkeley takes her hand and leads her outside.

The tent swishes shut behind them and, suddenly nervous, I turn to Mark, unsure of what to do next. “I should probably go, too. Early flight tomorrow,” I say, not meaning a word of it.

He smiles. “Me, too. But I’m not ready for bed, yet. Ted snores, and I might need another drink to help me sleep. How about a nightcap?”

“Why not,” I say. “I can always sleep on the plane.”

Chapter Thirteen

Parker Mifflin @IsIndulgent

@BootsMD Rule #7 Celeb personal space is coveted—it is a no-contact zone! (P.S. Rules don’t apply in Africa.)

Mark pours me a brandy, and we move to two chairs on the deck that overlook the pool.

“It’s beautiful here.” I stare into the turquoise depths, inhaling the lemony candles that flicker in jars at our feet. “I don’t want it to end.”

“Me neither.” He stretches out his legs, his gaze on the inky horizon. “There’s no place on earth I’d rather be than here in this moment.”

We fall silent, an undercurrent of possibility crackling just below the surface.

Giving in to the heat that is penetrating my center, I acknowledge my desire, let it drown all logic, and go for what I want. Boldly facing his profile, my filter dissolves in my glass. “It doesn’t have to end. Not right this second, anyway.”

He looks at me, a slow smile spreading over his face. “What doesn’t have to end?”

I narrow my eyes, knowing he is toying with me. “The night. Are you up for an adventure?”

“If it means I might end up parked in the back of the Land Rover with you, I am.” He laughs before growing serious. “You know I couldn’t help myself earlier…”

My heart thunders in my ears. “That’s okay. I think I liked it,” I whisper.

“I think I liked it, too.” His voice is gravel. “Maybe I should try it again to make sure.”

“You better hurry. It’s almost tomorrow.”

Rising, he walks over to my chair and leans over me, running his fingers along my jaw, leaving heat impressions in their wake. “What happens tomorrow?”

“Let’s not think about it. Let’s be here. Now.” I tilt my chin up, and his palm finds the back of my neck, bringing my face to his. His lips taste of caramel, and I close my eyes as he coaxes my mouth open, his hands traveling up under my shirt, fingertips expertly caressing my skin, igniting me in sparks. Lowering his face to my throat, his hands circle my waist, slowly tracing the curve of my hip, and drawing me forward until I’m aching to be pressed against him. He takes my breath away, but I don’t want to come up for air. I want to stay here in this dizzy dream where all I know is him. Arching my back, I drag him closer.

He groans, pulling away, and with both hands around his neck I tug him back. “Don’t stop.”

Lips returning to mine, hands entwined in my hair, he murmurs, “I’m not planning on it, but I was thinking we should go somewhere more private…”

“Where can we go?” Pressing my forehead to his, I bite my lip, my fingers tracing his chest, moving lower, teasing. “Parker is in my room…”

“Ted is in mine.” With another groan, he sits up, looking down at me, eyes searing. “Do you think Parker is really in yours?”

“Probably. We can check, but there’s a good chance he’s with Tux…” The only thing I know for certain is Mark has unleashed a hunger, a part of me that has been starved for so long that it needs to be fed. Now. I move to yank him back down, but instead he pulls me to my feet.

I frown.

He smiles. “Don’t worry. I won’t disappoint you. Let’s take a quick peek. If he and Tux are in your tent, then maybe I can convince Ted to go room with Mia. He’s usually pretty accommodating.”

“Okay. But we need to find a guard to take us there.”

Hand in hand, we hurry through the dining room and quickly find an armed escort. Following close behind him over the teak decking, we brace ourselves for what we might discover in my room, not for a moment considering what we might encounter along the path until, suddenly, the guard comes to a stop and we almost slam into his back.

Gun raised, he takes aim.

“Oh, shit,” Mark says.

Standing in our path is a giant elephant. She shifts her weight, gentle eyes blinking at us, not budging.

“Don’t move,” the guard says. “We may have to go back to the lodge and wait her out. I can’t let you pass until it’s safe.”

Mark and I look at each other, the same horror reflected on both of our faces.

“I don’t know if we can wait,” he says. “I’ve got to get her to bed…early shuttle tomorrow.”

I scan the resort for other options and spy Jake’s vacant tent. “What about there? That tent is empty. We can sleep there tonight.”

“You’re brilliant, doctor, but we don’t have anything to wear.” Mark grins.

“I don’t need anything until morning,” I reply, matching his wry smile before turning back to the guard. “Is that okay? Can you let us in?”

He nods and, moving slowly so as not to startle the elephant, we make our way over to Jake’s tent.

The guard unzips the tent, turning on the chandelier, illuminating the suite and the mosquito net–covered bed. “You are not to leave until a guard arrives to chaperone you,” he says in halting English. “Is not safe. What time do you want to wake?”

“Five?” Mark suggests. “That will give us time to pack.”

“It will be my pleasure,” the guard says. “Good night.”

He leaves, zipping the tent closed behind him.

For a moment Mark and I are silent, grinning in shared victory before he goes to work starting a fire.

“First things first,” he says. “Check the mini bar?”

I cross to the fridge in the bathroom, admiring the claw-foot tub surrounded by screened-in windows that overlook the reserve and the outdoor shower. The tents are secluded from each other, promising privacy, and the view is for our eyes only. Fortunately.

Finding a champagne split in the fridge, I pour two glasses and return to Mark, who is finished with the fire and has brought a pile of blankets over to the couch.

“I was thinking I might like to take a bath,” I say. We didn’t have time to freshen up before dinner, and I’m still grimy from the game drive. “Join me?”

I want to take things slow, to stretch time, to linger in the thrill, but we don’t have that luxury. Already the stars are fading, and for my last hurrah to stay in Africa it has to start now.

He raises his eyebrows, clearly shocked that I would be so bold. “I’d love to.”

“Give me a few minutes.”

Returning to the bath, I fill the tub with hot water and bubbles, light the candles that surround it, and strip down. Slipping into the tub, I make sure the bubbles cover everything to the top of my breasts. “Okay, come in!” I call, sipping my champagne.

He appears at the door, and I lick my lips.

I watch him strip down, admiring his lean frame, my eyes traveling lower in anticipation as he slides into the tub across from me.

I reach across with my toe, rubbing it up his leg, sliding slowly, farther and farther, until it nudges against him, tickling, suggesting.

“You’re a tease,” he says, groaning.

I allow a sly smile to play on my lips before dunking under the water and washing my hair, making sure to give him a peek at what awaits underneath the bubbles.

He reaches out, fingers skimming my leg up to my thigh, tugging me forward, but I swat him away. “No touching,” I say. “Not yet.” My skin is taut over my bones, my body bursting with the desire to get closer to him. I can’t keep up my act for very long, but I make sure to touch myself, sliding my fingers down over slippery breasts to my waist and hips, letting him imagine where they end up.

“I can’t wait,” he says, again reaching for me, and this time I let him. He drags me forward until we are pressed together, his face against mine, tongue exploring, tasting my neck, hands gliding over my breasts, skimming my waist, making their way lower…on a discovery mission to find the spot that will make the stars rain down on me. He expertly maneuvers his fingers until I’m pulsating, longing to slide on top of him, to feel him inside me, filling me. I want to harness that pressure, the breakthrough. I’m burning for it. Aching. His lips are on mine, tongue probing, and I’m finding it hard to slow down. It takes immense willpower to pull away.

“Do you have a condom?” I gasp.

“Not in here,” he says. “But I have one in my wallet. It’s in the living room.”

“Just one?”

“Unfortunately, yes…”

“Better make it last,” I reply.

Getting out of the tub, he brings me up after him and, wrapping us in fluffy towels, leads me into the living room, where he’s laid out blankets by the fire. Slowly, he strips me of my towel, taking me in, eyes lingering.

I stand before him, unabashed, having never felt more comfortable in my skin. I let him look, the heat in his eyes matched only by the flames from the fire flickering around us. Something about him empowers me, and I’ve never wanted anyone more.

“You’re beautiful.”

I look up at him from under my lashes and pull away his towel, taking my time, letting my fingers trace the shape of his chest, trailing down until I’m holding him in my hands, massaging him until I know he’s close to the edge. “You’re not so bad yourself,” I whisper.

He’s having trouble answering, and I take it a step further, dropping to my knees and taking him in my mouth. Eyes on me the entire time, he is hard and full, going deep into my throat. I stroke him, taunting, until he steps back with a groan and drags me to the floor.

The velvety softness of the blanket caresses my back as he nudges my legs open with his knee, lips grazing my body, lower and lower, until he is returning the favor, his tongue pressing hot and firm, driving me to the edge, strumming a note deep inside that I’ve never known before. Swollen with desire, I’m longing for release, to feel him pulsing inside me, and I tug him to my face, kissing him, tasting salt, before I roll us over and push his shoulders into the floor. Shimmying down the length of his body, I roll the condom on, my gaze locked on his. Slowly, I slide onto him, letting just the tip of him enter.

He presses forward, but I hold tight, teasing him.

“You’re amazing,” he says through uneven breaths. “I’m not going to last.”

I bite my lower lip. “I was the kind of girl who could make her Halloween candy last until spring; this is nothing.” But even I can’t take much more, and I give in, letting him plunge forward, consuming my core, hips keeping rhythm with mine until we are deep underwater, lungs constricting, and I am throbbing for air.

Neither of us can hold on.

I surface, breaking through the crashing waves, crying out in breathy gasps until I am a shivering mass collapsed on the shore, sunlight kissing my skin.

He holds me close to his chest. “You’re incredible. That was incredible…” His breath is in my ear, and his lips linger there before softly brushing my cheek.

“It was perfect.” I sigh, snuggling down next to him, basking in his nearness, suddenly overcome with exhaustion.

We are quiet, and he tickles my arm, perhaps lost in thought, or like me, too tired to speak. Running my fingers lightly over his chest, I brush across a tiny scar near his throat, just above his collarbone.

“You had a central line?” I ask, sleepily. “What happened?”

“Sexy,” he replies, his laughter jarring me awake.

“Sorry.” I bury his face in my chest. “I can’t help it.”

“I like it,” he says, cupping my cheek and tilting my chin so he can look at me. “I had surgery when I was a kid for a broken arm, and my arm with the IV turned red and was sore. My other arm was in a cast so that was the only way they could get an IV in.”

“You had thrombophlebitis and cellulitis,” I say. “Interesting. How’d you break your arm?”

“Skateboarding. Or trying to. Berkeley and I were in fifth grade, and I told him I could do a McTwist. I was lying—I’d never done one in my life, which became clear when I landed straight down on my arm and broke it in three places.” He shows me another scar on his wrist.

“Scaphoid, lunate, triquetrum…” I touch the scar.

“You’re speaking a foreign language.”

“Those are all the bones in the wrist. ‘Slowly lower Tilly’s pants to the curly hairs.’ That’s the mnemonic to remember them. It’s one of my favorites.”

“Seriously? That’s what my doctor was thinking?”

“Probably.” I giggle. “My other favorite is ‘parasympathetic puts it up; sympathetic spurts it out’ or ‘point, shoot, score’.”

“What’s that one for?”

“Innervation of the penis. Aka erection and ejaculation.”

Rolling over, he straightens his arms, hovering above me. “I love it when you talk dirty, doc.” He leans down, kissing me, his tongue languid, like we have all night.

“Your parasympathetic nervous system seems to be working just fine,” I murmur against his lips, feeling his firmness against my leg. “But I don’t think we can test the sympathetic again.”

He pulls up. “Why not?”

“We’re out of protection. Doctor’s orders.”

“Ah.” He moans, rolling back over and wrapping us tight in blankets. “That does pose a problem. And with our elephant friend outside, there probably isn’t much we can do about it tonight.”

“Probably not.”

“What should we do, then?”

“How about sleep?” I snuggle into his side, once again letting exhaustion take over, more relaxed than I’ve felt in years.

“Or you could show me your scars. You promised.”

“I didn’t promise. I said if you were lucky.” My eyes are heavy, and I respond without opening them.

“Well, that’s one thing you should know about me. I’m very lucky.” He runs his fingers along my arm.

“That’s easy to say right now, you just got some.” I roll toward him, letting my cheek rest on his chest.

“See? Lucky.” He holds me close. “Show me what you got.”

“Maybe some other day…” My voice comes out soft and breathy, tinged with sleep.

“What day? I need to know so I can look forward to it.”

“Tomorrow?”

“It’s already tomorrow.” He plays with my hair.

“That’s not good. Tomorrow we leave.”

“You’ll have to show me in New York, then.”

“Okay. New York.” I’m ready to agree to anything in order to succumb to tantalizing slumber.

“Promise?”

“If I promise will you go to sleep?”

“Yes.”

“Then I promise,” I say, my voice drifting. It’s a struggle to speak.

“In that case, sweet frosting dreams, cupcake,” he whispers.

His lips gently brush my forehead and, feeling completely at ease with his arms around me, like everything is right in the world, I let go, surrendering to the night.

Chapter Fourteen

Parker Mifflin @IsIndulgent

Pinch me NOW. A chocolate croissant waiting for me on the plane? I shouldn’t. But maybe just a bite… #TheStruggleIsReal

A gentle breeze filters through the mosquito net, floral and fresh, like the first day of spring. I crack open my eyes to the golden light, stretching my stiff back against the soft bed. I haven’t slept that well in forever… Lazily rolling onto my side, I spy Mark lying on his back, sheets draped low around his waist, his face still deep in slumber. He must have moved us from the floor last night.

The peacefulness instantly erased, I jolt upright, remembering where we are. The guard should have arrived before the sun to escort us to our real tents!

“Mark.” I shake him awake. “What time is it?”

“Time for more?” he mumbles, eyes flickering open. He smiles when he sees me, slipping a hand around my waist and pulling me toward him. “Good morning, cupcake.” He kisses my nose.

I swat him with a pillow. “I think we overslept!” I gesture around at the endless landscape outside the screens, tranquil blue skies over desert brush. “How can you be so calm?”

“Are you in a hurry to get back to the States?” He stifles a yawn.

“I’m always in a hurry. We probably missed our flight.”

Propping himself up on his elbows, alertness seeping into his eyes, he studies me. “But is there anything that can’t wait a day?”

How is he not freaking out?

“I have to finish packing for New York.” I hold the sheet to my chest like a security blanket, unwilling to let go of my responsibilities. “I’m in the middle of moving. And you have the band to get back to.”

He shrugs. “It’s all going to be there waiting for us. Is it really the end of the world if we have to stay an extra day? Our dreams will still come true tomorrow. What’s waiting for you in New York that’s so important?”

Residency. Work. My new life. My future…which doesn’t technically start until August first… “Just an empty apartment and boxes,” I relent.

“I know I can’t think of anyone I’d rather be stuck with in a tent in the middle of nowhere.” He tickles my side, and I squeal, doubling over.

Me neither. But I don’t tell him that. “I guess not. But we should figure out how we’re going to get out of here.” Gaining the upper hand, I pin his arms to his sides, though my sheet starts to slip.

“We can do that. But what’s your hurry?” Wrestling a hand free, he grips the sheet, dragging me to his lips, kissing me good morning. My body instantly responds to his, craving him, but my mind won’t give in.

“We had only one condom, remember?” I murmur against his lips, pulling away enough to meet his eyes.

He puffs out his lower lip, scrunching up his forehead. “You keep reminding me. We’ll have to remedy that…”

He looks so disappointed I can’t help but giggle as I sit up. “You have a one-track mind.”

“You can’t see you right now. If you could, you’d understand.” He plays with my hair that I know must be a mess, still damp and knotted from last night’s exploits.

My skin heats. “Are you always this persuasive?”

“When it comes to staying in bed? Yes.”

“But when it comes to staying in Africa when you’re expected somewhere else?”

“I guess. When you constantly travel with four other guys who have their own neuroses, somebody has to be the bright side.” He smiles, and I notice a small dimple in his left cheek, but it doesn’t distract me from the truth behind his statement.

“So you’re Mr. Brightside?”

“The original.”

I warm to him, and suddenly staying in bed with Mark seems like the most important job in the world. “I don’t know if I’m rock-star demanding, but I know I won’t relax until I know how we’re getting home,” I say. “Let’s figure that out, then we can do anything we want.”

“Anything?”

I raise my eyebrows. “Anything.”

It turns out the guard didn’t relay the message that we were in the “empty” tent, so we didn’t get a wake-up call. The shuttles have left, and between the room shuffling last night and various travel itineraries this morning, apparently nobody noticed us missing. The concierge helps us to change our flight to the eight p.m. from Johannesburg to Atlanta tomorrow, and despite my protests, Mark upgrades me to first class so we can sit together, convincing me with the promise of sleep and the ability to hit the ground running once we arrive in the U.S. My to-do list trumps etiquette and I give in, vowing to pay him back.

The puddle jump to Johannesburg leaves Kruger at eleven a.m. tomorrow, and I set the alarm on my phone to make sure we won’t miss it, though there is no danger of that, really, because we’re the last two guests left at the lodge. They are closing for the season, and after today no new patrons are slated to arrive. With twenty staff members looking out for just the two of us, I’m pretty sure we won’t be forgotten this time.

“Breakfast?” Mark asks once the arrangements are settled. “I’m starving.”

“Yes, please.” I’m suddenly ravenous.

Holding hands, we follow our escort to the main tent. On the deck next to the pool a table overlooking the game reserve is set for two. Once we are seated, a waiter sets down plates filled with eggs and thick slabs of bacon alongside spinach-and-feta-stuffed pancakes.

“Thank you,” I say as he fills my glass with fresh-squeezed orange juice.

“Pleasure,” the waiter replies, drawing out the word so it sounds like “play-sha.”

“And can we get some coffee?” Mark asks.

“It will be my pleasure,” he replies, leaving us.

As soon as he’s gone, a monkey leaps onto our table, taking up residence on the edge farthest from us and watching my every move. Mark is watching me, too, and I blush. It’s not lost on me that this is the most pleasant, comfortable “morning after” I’ve ever experienced, and in the spirit of the Brightside, I’m going with it.

“I think he’s into you.” Mark gestures at the monkey. “You sure are good at attracting the blue balls.”

I almost choke on my bacon. “What can I say? I’m irresistible.”

“I’ll say.”

“I don’t think anyone back home would agree. You should see me in scrubs. Besides, I’m pretty sure he wants me only for my bacon.” I wave the strip from side to side, and the monkey’s head swivels.

“That makes two of us.” Mark’s smile widens into a mischievous grin as he steals a piece of bacon off my plate. “But I’m glad we got you out of your scrubs. A little life is good for the soul, doc.”

“So is saving lives.” I snatch the bacon out of his hand.

He laughs. “I wouldn’t know. All I make is music.”

“But music feeds the soul. It saves people every day.”

“I hope so. It feeds mine. In a lot of ways, it’s all I have. I’d be lost without it.”

“And here I thought you started playing so you could meet girls.” I bat my eyelashes at him.

He laughs, and the sun dips behind a puffy cloud. I rub my arms, noticing how cool the breeze is.

“Well, yeah. That’s my ‘official’ bio, but the truth is I needed an outlet. There wasn’t a lot of music in my house growing up, so I never considered it an option until Berkeley taught me to play bass. And once he did, it opened a whole new world. I listened to everything, finally had something that was mine, a place to escape to, even if it was only in my head.”

“What were you trying to escape?” I ask, diving into my eggs.

“It wasn’t so much what I was escaping from as what I was escaping to. I was a messed-up kid—I always felt sort of homeless. Music gave me a sense of place. It felt like what I was supposed to be doing, where I belonged.” He takes a bite of pancake, chewing thoughtfully. “After my mom passed, my dad moved me and my brothers from Ohio to L.A., but I always felt transplanted. It wasn’t home, not without my mom.”

“I’m sorry,” I say softly, putting down my fork and placing my hand on his leg, stunned at the revelation.

“It’s okay. It was a long time ago.” His fingers circle my wrist.

“How old were you? If you don’t mind me asking.” I warm to the pressure of his fingers.

“Eight. My brothers were ten and thirteen.”

“How—?”

“It was an aneurism. Sudden.”

I bite my cheek, imagining those little boys, my heart aching for them.

“My dad pushed everyone away. He shut down emotionally and threw himself into work. He’s a big finance guy, and he moved us to L.A. right away, saying there was more opportunity there, though truthfully I don’t think he could handle Ohio anymore—too many memories. But he made a lot of money and bought us a big house in Beachwood Canyon. To outsiders it probably looked like we were living the dream, but in reality it was chaos—just the four of us dudes trying to figure it out. It’s not unlike being in a band—it looks more glamorous than it is.”

“So it sounds like home for you is a bunch of dudes trying to figure it out…”

“Shit.” He looks to me with wide eyes. “You’re perceptive.”

“Not really.” I wrinkle my nose. “But it sounds kind of lonely…”

“It is sometimes.”

He doesn’t elaborate, and we sit in silence, still touching, unwilling to fracture the connection. The clouds part and the sun emerges, shining hot in the sky. I find myself admiring Mark’s skin, tanned from safari, how it makes his blue eyes sparkle…

The waiter returns with the coffee, interrupting the moment, and Mark lets go of my wrist, thanking him as he pours two steaming cups.

“It is my pleasure,” the waiter says, before retreating.

“That was getting entirely too serious,” Mark says, returning to his breakfast. “For the rest of the trip we should live by the Hakuna Mantita rule, as Parker would say. No worries.”

“No worries,” I repeat, happy to oblige. “Agreed.”

Pouring cream into his cup, he clears his throat. “So about last night.”

I groan, wanting to keep the mood light. “Yes…”

“I had a great time.”

“Me too.” I take a sip of my coffee. “We should do it again sometime.”

“Absolutely. Let’s hurry up with this breakfast thing.”

“Condoms…” I remind him in a singsong voice.

“Don’t worry. I’m on it.” He shovels a forkful of eggs into his mouth. “But what I wanted to say is let’s make today like last night. Let’s be in the moment and not think about tomorrow.”

“Of course. I’m not the type of girl who’s going to become some psycho stalker when we get home.”

“Boots.” He sets down his fork. “That’s not what I meant—”

I don’t let him finish. “I just mean I get it. We both have a lot going on, and we both have lofty goals that require intense focus. I’m fully capable of enjoying what we have right now with no expectations.”

He places his hand on mine, silencing me. “What if I want to have expectations?”

The thrill that shoots through me collides with fear that he might be serious, and fear wins. “We just met… I have so much work…”

He lets out a little laugh, sitting back in his chair and releasing my hand. “Don’t worry. No expectations. I was just double-checking.”

I am shocked by a sudden pang of disappointment, but I quickly dismiss it.

“We’re on the same page,” I assure him.

He nods. “Just promise me this,” he says. “While we’re here just go with it. Stay out of your head and let’s see what happens.”

“I can do that.” I raise my orange juice glass to his in an oath. “To seeing what happens.”

“To seeing what happens.” His glass meets mine.

We drink.

“Now that that’s settled, what’s your idea of a perfect day?” he asks. “If you could do anything, what would it be?”

“I don’t know…” I stare at the pool, imagining a day lounging in the sun, but that doesn’t seem eventful enough.

“Besides me, of course.”

“That’s a given.” I don’t miss a beat, relieved he’s stopped the serious talk. “But I want…to see a leopard,” I decide. “I feel cheated that we came this far and didn’t see one.”

“You’re easy to please, aren’t you? Condoms and a leopard? I’ve got my work cut out for me.”

“I let you off easy last night,” I reply, a wicked smile on my lips.

He doesn’t flinch. “I’m up for the challenge, but I don’t think anyone has seen one in over six months.”

“A condom or a leopard?”

“Leopard, thank goodness. I asked Bronson. The odds are against us.”

“You’re in luck. Those are my favorite kind of odds.”

“Mine, too.” He smiles. “All right, cupcake. It will be my play-sha to find you a leopard.”

Chapter Fifteen

Mrs. Bloom @PsychicMom1

@BootsMD Look to the northern skies. Camelopardalis is shining down on you.

Amanda Conrad @BootsMD

@PsychicMom1 I hope there’s a cure for that!

Mrs. Bloom @PsychicMom1

@BootsMD It’s a constellation, my dear. There is no antidote for magic.

We set out in the Land Rover, just the two of us, with Bronson and Ranako at the helm, the sun setting at our backs. I’m more relaxed than I’ve been in ages. Mark surprised me with a massage in the spa tent this afternoon while he arranged the game drive. It was heaven, with zebras grazing nearby and nothing but glorious silence for a distraction. Completely content, I inch closer to Mark with an ease I could never have imagined possible, and he puts his arm around me as we pick up speed, bumping over the landscape on our final drive.

After pausing to observe a bird, some hippos, and more grazing impala before continuing on under darkening skies, I realize I cannot passively participate in this drive. If I want to see a leopard, I need to make it happen.

Silently, I start to sing to myself… L-E-O-P-A-R-D, find out what it means to see…just a little lep, just a little lep… to the tune of “Respect” by Aretha Franklin, willing the leopard to appear.

We stop again, this time for giraffes, which are majestic and stunning, but leopard they are not.

I will the game reserve to join in, quietly singing out loud, “Just a little lep. Come on. Just a little lep…”

Mark looks to me out of the corner of his eye. “What’s that?”

“A little song I have stuck in my head.” I sing the whole thing for him. “I thought maybe it would help draw the leopards out.”

“Motown conjures leopards?”

“Maybe?”

“I like it.” He nods. “Looking for leopards in the tree…” he sings to the tune of “Working My Way Back to You, Babe.”

Laughing, I join in, and we sing together as we rumble over the plains.

Forty-five minutes later, however, we still haven’t seen a leopard.

“Sundowners,” Bronson says, pulling into a clearing where he pours us cocktails.

“I don’t understand it,” I say, accepting the sweet Amarula concoction. “Do they not like our singing?”

“Impossible. We’re a perfect duo,” Mark says.

I smile, liking being his other half—if only for tonight.

“So Bronson.” He snakes an arm around my waist and turns us toward our guide. “How about finding us a leopard?”

Bronson laughs, deep and hearty.

We wait for him to reply.

He doesn’t.

“I know you haven’t seen one in a long time,” Mark says, “but maybe we can find one tonight?”

Bronson remains silent, but then finally speaks, drawing out the words. “Some of them back at the lodge have worked here for a year and have never seen a leopard.”

“But maybe we will?” I ask, knowing I’ll just have to work harder for it. If I want it badly enough, put in the hours, it can happen, right? I believe in the immortal words of Doc Brown, that “if you put your mind to it, you can accomplish anything.” Though, admittedly, becoming a doctor seems more tangible than willing a wild animal to appear out of thin air.

“Maybe. We can try,” Bronson relents. He doesn’t sound optimistic.

“Let’s get to it, then.” Mark hands over his empty glass. “We have work to do.”

Climbing back into the Rover, we continue into the night, softly singing, L-E-O-P-A-R-D… With barely an hour left before dinner and the official end of our tour, we ramp up the music. Find out what it means to see… Strapped into his chair on the hood of the Rover, Ranako turns on his spotlight, the light slicing through the black night, scanning the plains for movement. Just a little lep… Time flies. We see some water buffalo, a hyena, but… Just a little lep remains elusive. Bronson checks his watch. “It’s about time we get you back for dinner. The chef is waiting.”

Mark and I look at each other, and I know we’re thinking the same thing: we can’t go back now! We have to see a leopard. We have to. Somehow the leopard has taken on new meaning. If a leopard doesn’t materialize tonight it will destroy our faith in possibility. Come on. We have to make it happen. JUST A LITTLE LEP!

We have just ten minutes of safari left, and I’m coming to the realization that we’re going to go home empty-handed. NO! I won’t let it happen. The thought that we’re going to fail is crushing. We can’t turn back. We have to find a way. We will make this happen! Willing the leopard to show itself with every last ounce of energy, we crank the volume of our voices, singing out with all our might, L-E-O-P-A—

Ranako hisses, and Bronson slams on the brakes, jolting us forward. Mark’s arm shoots out across my chest, bracing me against the sudden stop. Straining to decipher what Ranako whispered, Mark and I look at each other in silent disbelief…

It sounded like he said “leopard.”

Our eyes trace Ranako’s steady stream of light to the end and there, lying hidden among the grasses, is not one leopard but three. A mother and her two cubs. Not just a leopard. Baby leopards.

The hairs bristle on the back of my neck, and tears spring to my eyes. We did it. Somehow we did it. WE CONJURED A LEOPARD!

We are silent, staring, mouths gaping, for several minutes before the mother leopard springs into action. Picking up one of the cubs in her mouth, she takes off into the night, leaving the other baby to fend for himself. Ranako tries to follow her with the spotlight, but she is too fast. We lose her. He continues to scan the plains, whispering, “Where’s mama?” and checking to make sure she isn’t sneaking up behind us before focusing back on the baby to make sure he isn’t planning an attack of his own.

He isn’t. He just stares at us wide-eyed while we take his picture. Then he gathers his courage and bolts after his mother.

Once the leopards are out of sight, Bronson restarts the car and drives toward camp.

Mark and I can hardly stay in our seats, and not just because of the bumpy ride. We’re ecstatic, bursting with joy—can barely contain ourselves—can’t stop smiling. Wrapping his arms around me, he pulls me against his chest, holding me in place, shielding me from the biting wind.

“I’m never going to forget this. You’re unbelievable.”

I look up at him. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Yes you did. This wouldn’t have happened with anyone else. You did it.”

Staring into his eyes, I shake my head. “No. We did it.”

He smiles. “We make a good team.” And then his lips are on mine, their warmth spreading down to my toes. The tension in my neck I didn’t know I was carrying releases, and my muscles go lax, all resistance evaporating. I am helpless against him, at risk of getting lost, but I kiss him back, having never felt this glorious. Somewhere above us I know the stars are smiling.

When he breaks the kiss, he keeps me close, refusing to let me go as Bronson pulls into the lodge.

As usual, upon our return, the staff is waiting for us with tiny glasses of sherry for post-game-drive relaxation. But even the spirits can’t calm us down, and holding hands, unwilling to break the connection, we chatter away to the guard about the magical leopard as he escorts us to the tent where we are to freshen up for dinner.

As soon as we’re inside, I press my hands to my cheeks, still marveling. “I can’t believe it.” I’m so high, I’m surprised my feet are still connected to the ground.

“It’s insane. It was real, right?” He stares at me, eyes wide and cheeks flushed.

“It was, even though it seems impossible…”

Mark pops the champagne the lodge had gifted us for the last night of our stay, and it bubbles over the side of the bottle. “There must be some crazy Motown mojo in the air tonight.” He pours.

“Or maybe the leopard is our spirit animal?”

He laughs, handing me a glass.

“To our last night in Africa,” he says. “May the magic continue.”

“To seeing what happens.” I clink my glass against his, then take a sip. “Speaking of magic…” I bite my lip. “What are the chances that we get everything we want tonight?”

Mark was forced to report the bad news earlier that the lodge is sold out of condoms and won’t be getting any more in until the first supplies arrive for next season, which is in three months.

He grins and digs into the back pocket of his jeans, pulling out three little packets.

I pounce on him. “You are magic. Where did you get those?”

“Ranako, the old dog. I knew he’d have some.”

“You asked Ranako?” I squeak, my cheeks heating. “When?”

“During sundowners, when you were talking to Bronson about how to brush your teeth with grass. Desperate times…”

I might love him. The thought surprises me, but I can’t deny it. Right now, anything is possible. “The guard will be here to take us to dinner soon.” I tug on his shirt. “We really should get showered…”

Chapter Sixteen

Olivia Bloom @BloomOlivia

I love a happy ending. But even better, I love when happy has no end.

The plane comes to a stop at our gate, and we gather up our things. Carry-on bag in hand, Mark follows me down the aisle, falling into step beside me as we walk up the Jetway.

“Thanks for the upgrade,” I say. “I’ve never felt so rested after a flight.” I spent most of the trip wrapped in blankets, passed out in my seat that transformed into a bed (since we didn’t get any sleep last night).

“Of course. Unfortunately, we still have to go through customs.” He grimaces. “That’s what’s nice about a private jet. You don’t have to deal with declaring anything. You just grab your things and go home.”

“I don’t have anything to declare, anyway.” Except that I’m going to miss you. The thought catches me off guard. My brain knows that the second we touched down in Atlanta the hurrah ended. It’s time to return to reality. But my heart hasn’t received the message. It’s still pumping glitter into my veins, making me believe in sparkly possibilities, and it’s like I have a foot on two continents that are rapidly drifting apart.

“Are you sure you aren’t sporting some secret Amarula on your person? Do I need to check your bra?” He grins that mischievous smile I’ve come to adore over the last two days. Oh, to be the girl who chases fairy tales… But my brain knows I need to jump to safety soon. My dad would never forgive me. I can have all the fairy tales I want—after I pass my boards.

“I’m positive. No need to check. You know very well there isn’t room to hide even a sample-sized bottle in there.” Exiting into the airport, we wind our way through the halls to the customs line.

“I don’t know…I might have to make sure. Airport restroom? We missed our chance at the mile-high club.”

“Super sexy,” I tease him as we take our places at the back of the line. “I’m sure it smells great in there.”

“Excuse me.” A teenage girl interrupts us. “Are you Mark from Coconut Teaszer?”

He smiles at her politely, smoothing his features over, though I’m highly aware this is a defining moment for him. “I am.”

She squeals, beckoning her friend to join her. “Can we take a picture with you?”

“Sure.” He doesn’t let on how thrilled he must be.

I watch in amazement at his expert grace, knowing how much it means to be recognized for his work, to cast his own shadow, not be hidden in one. Of course he’s probably used to this to some degree. But I’m not.

The girl hands me her phone. “Will you?” She barely looks at me, her tone dismissive. The notion that I might be his girlfriend is clearly not an option, and I see us through her eyes: he’s her rock-star dream, and nothing about me says rock ’n’ roll. I might as well be standing here in my scrubs.

His world is completely opposite of mine. I’m going to be stuck in the hospital 24-7, and he’s going to be on the road. We both want to focus on our careers right now. A magical weekend escape doesn’t change that.

The fuzzy haze I’ve been floating in starts to lift. “You bet.” Smiling dutifully, I frame the three of them in the shot. “One, two, three.” I tap the screen. “Let me take one more.” I shoot again and hand her back the phone. “Let me know if you like them.”

“I love them,” she says. “Our friends are going to be majorly jealous. Thank you.”

“No problem,” Mark and I say at the same time.

The girls scurry off and are quickly replaced by a mother/daughter duo. I take their picture as well, but these two want to chat. “Where are you coming from?” the mother asks.

“Vacation.” Mark looks around for help as a teenage boy gets in line behind the woman, followed by two girls wearing Kappa Delta T-shirts, their lean legs exposed by their cut-off shorts and flip-flops.

“Is Berkeley with you?” the mother asks, looking hopefully past him down the line.

“Not this time.” I notice a hint of a frown. “It’s just me.”

A security guard approaches, and Mark exhales in relief.

“Would you mind coming with us, sir?” the guard asks.

“Sure,” Mark says. “As long as she can come with me.” He extends his hand.

“Both of you, then,” he replies. “Right this way.” Backed by a chorus of disappointed whispers from the line, he leads us to a little room that is probably used to frisk smugglers.

“I don’t know if I should follow you,” I whisper. “I’m not interested in a full body cavity search.”

“That’s not what you said last night.”

I punch his arm.

“Those weren’t Brightside superfans—those were Coconut fans,” I say. “That must mean something, right? Congratulations!”

“Yeah…that was a first.” He plays it cool, but he can’t hide from me; his pleasure is contagious, and I’m fluttering for him.

Out of the corner of my eye I search to see if his joy includes any trace of African magic—if he thinks we’re possible in the real world—but he’s focused on a horizon beyond me, and it’s like an ocean has been wedged between us.

What happens in Africa, stays in Africa.

Disappointment seizes my chest, leaving me cold, but I soak in the chill, teaching my heart a lesson.

A customs guard asks for our passports and examines them when we hand them over.

“Where are you coming from?” he asks.

“South Africa,” Mark replies.

“What was the commotion about out there? You somebody?”

“I’m in a band. Someone recognized me.”

“You don’t say? What band?”

“Coconut Teaszer.”

The guard squints at Mark. “Never heard of them.”

Mark shrugs, and I clearly see the mountaintop he’s looking up at, the pinnacle that will signal success; someday the guard will have heard of them.

“Anything to declare?” the guard asks, looking back and forth between the two of us.

“No,” Mark says.

“And you?” the guard asks me.

L-e-o-p-a-r-d…maybe we should find out what it means to see, just a little lep… The song rises in my throat, but I tamp it down. “No,” I reply.

“Then welcome home, Mr. VanCleer and Ms. Conrad.” He stamps our books, the force of the ink marking the page echoing with finality.

We exit customs into the main airport, and I pull out my connecting ticket, searching for my gate.

“I’m this way.” Mark points over his shoulder. “My flight to New York boards in twenty-five.”

“I’m that way.” I point in the opposite direction. “Pittsburgh calls.”

We face each other, and I don’t know what to do next. Do we exchange numbers? Hug? Declare our undying love for each other? I immediately silence the last notion. He’s a rock star. And we’re both used to flings.

“You better get packing.” He shifts his weight from his left foot to his right, uncomfortable.

“You can say that again. Lots to do.”

“Where’s your place in New York?” he asks. “I can’t believe I never asked you that.”

“Maybe it’s more fun to keep the mystery alive,” I suggest. “No strings. No pressure. We could stay strangers…” I’m only partly joking.

He raises his eyebrows. “I think we’re past the point of strangers.”

My heart swells with hope, but I squelch it, annoyed at how easily it wants to give up everything I’ve worked for in exchange for one more night with him. “That’s true.” I sigh, keeping my voice casual. “I’m in medical center housing at NYU. I got lucky—won the lottery for a studio. You?”

“I’m in the East Village. We’re not far from each other. Let me give you my number and then you can text me yours—just in case you have a late-night cupcake craving.”

“Yeah?” Forcing a smile, I hand him my phone, unsure if cupcakes are code for “booty call.” Crushed that the magic I felt could be reduced to something so common, my brain cloaks my heart in a protective shield. “Cupcakes could be cool…but they offer a plastics position to only one person, and I’m going to have to work my ass off to make sure it’s me. To be honest, I don’t know if I’ll have much free time.”

I think I see him wince, but the expression passes so quickly, it’s possible I imagined it.

He finishes entering his number and hands the phone back to me. “I get it. I’m going to be busy with the band, too. I guess we’ll see if our paths cross.”

Deep down some part of me wants to scream out, to grab Mark and run, retracing our steps until we’re back on the plane headed toward a place where the fantasy can continue, but my brain freezes my vocal cords. He hasn’t given any indication he wants to run away with you. And you agreed to no expectations… “It was great being stuck in Africa with you,” I finally manage to say, my voice cracking.

He smiles, and for a second I glimpse my dive bartender. “There’s nobody I’d rather be stuck with.” Stepping forward, he pulls me into his chest. “Good luck, Boots.” His lips brush my ear, but they don’t linger. “I’ll see you around.” Releasing me with a little wave, he turns his back and heads down the hall.

“Good luck,” I call after him, drowning the notion that something important just walked out of my life. “See you.”

He disappears into the crowd without looking back.

Staring down at my phone, I’m unable to fully let him go. You always go after what you want. You want him. The tug-of-war wages, but as the distance between us expands, my head clears. But you want plastics, too. You’re a doctor first. Then comes happily ever after.

Grasping on to the lifeline I’ve always known, I text: friends?

His response comes through a minute later: friends.

Satisfied I’ve sufficiently closed the door on fairy tales, I shove my phone into my purse and head to my gate, setting my sights on what I’m walking toward, what I really want.

Dr. Conrad, reporting for duty.

Chapter Seventeen

Mark VanCleer @BrightsideBP

If we can make it here… It’s all up to you, New York.

“There’s my girl. Git over here and give me a hug,” Mama Rosie says when I walk in the door. She looks nothing like a traditional “mama”—she’s more a rock ’n’ roll madam who earned her moniker because she takes care of her girls. Today her dark hair is streaked with magenta, and she’s wearing animal-print leggings with a ripped, oversize Dead Kennedys T-shirt. With her youthful appearance, it’s hard to believe she’s nearly fifty.

The door to the dimly lit dive swings closed, shutting out the light behind me, and I’m greeted with the familiar scent of onions and garlic. Rosie’s feels more like someone’s living room than it does an Italian restaurant and bar, and maybe that’s why I like it. It’s the opposite of my mother’s pristine home. Here the walls are covered in nostalgic black-and-white photos from its heyday when it was a rock club, and the back room is decorated with red-checkered tablecloths, multicolored string lights, and wine casks hanging from the ceiling.

With a wave to Walt and Al, two of the regulars, I head for Mama Rosie.

She walks out from behind the bar and throws her thin arms around me. “We missed you, Boots. I don’t know what we’re going to do without you when you head to New York.”

“I’m going to miss you, too.” I squeeze her in return.

She steps back, looking me up and down. “Something’s changed. Sit down and tell me everything.”

“Nothing has changed. Other than finally being packed and ready to go.” I take a seat on a high stool. “The movers are already on their way. My flight leaves in the morning.”

“Let’s not talk about you leaving when we just got you back. Let’s talk about your trip.” She heads behind the bar. “The usual?”

“Yes, please.”

She starts mixing me a Manhattan on the rocks, but she’s having trouble gripping the whiskey bottle. Noticing her hands shaking, I frown.

“I want the Berkeley & the Brightside behind-the-scenes lowdown.”

“Shhh.” I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone about the wedding, but I had to tell Rosie—I tell her everything. And I trust her. Before it was an Italian restaurant, Rosie’s was a club called the Neon Pineapple, and she booked the acts. She prided herself on making the Pineapple the place to play in Pittsburgh and lured some pretty big bands—from Social D to The Red Hot Chili Peppers. She considers herself a former member of the music industry, and I know she wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize her insider status.

“Besides, there isn’t much to tell. They’re great guys—pretty normal, actually, once you forget who they are,” I whisper, leaning toward her, making sure I’m not overheard. Watching her fight with the cap on the vermouth bottle, concern creeps over me.

“You made it to the inner circle, then—where it feels like family. I miss that. When the Neon Pineapple was at its most popular, being backstage was like having all my friends in my living room for an exclusive party.” She sets the bottle on the bar and her eyes glaze over, like she’s remembering better times. But a moment later she sobers and fills a glass with ice. “They must have played, though?”

“Oh, yeah. There was live music every night. The Brightside, Mandalay…a bunch of bands playing around the campfire. You would have loved it. It was like being at a festival, but with forty people in the audience.”

“Wow. I’m jealous. I’ve never seen Berkeley & the Brightside live, you know, other than the time they came in to eat, and of course they didn’t perform. What I wouldn’t do to have them play our stage.” She caps a martini shaker and rocks it side to side, the bottom never leaving the bar, as though it’s too heavy to lift.

Resting my chin on my hand, I watch the drink-mixing ritual. Something is very wrong…

“I still can’t believe the drummer said he’d heard of the Neon Pineapple,” she continues. “Can you imagine? After all these years, to have someone still know about our little corner of the music world…”

“I can’t believe I wasn’t here that night.” I first came to Rosie’s when I was on a date with a resident my freshman year at Carnegie Mellon. He ended up being a jerk, and she gave me a shoulder to cry on, made me feel at home. After that I started showing up several times a week to study—getting away from the competition at school helped me to focus.

“Me neither. If only you’d met Mark, then…”

My stomach drops, and I stare at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She smiles and looks past me to a couple who has just walked in. “Welcome to Rosie’s, how can I help you?”

“Two for dinner,” the man says.

“Rosie!” I plead for her to explain how she could possibly know about Mark.

“Right this way,” Mama Rosie says, picking up two menus without acknowledging me. “Stephanie,” she addresses a waitress clad in black at the other end of the bar, “finish this for Boots. You two, follow me.” She ushers them into the dining room, her right leg dragging.

Cringing at the change in her, I chew on my thumbnail, running through possible diagnoses to keep from dwelling on Mark. It’s been hard enough to stay focused the last couple of days with only packing to distract me from analyzing every moment we spent together.

Stephanie comes over and pours my drink. “How ya doin’, Boots? How was your vacation?”

“Really fun.” I don’t elaborate; she doesn’t know where I was anyway. “Hey—is everything okay with Rosie? She seems kind of off.”

She sighs. “It’s been a tough week, not that she’d let on. She’s been having dizzy spells—she could barely stand the last few days. I’m glad she seems better today.” She plops a cherry and a slim red straw into my glass and sets it in front of me. “She’s stressed. Those guys who want to buy the place and turn it into an Asian fusion restaurant have been around again. I know she could use the money, but she doesn’t want to give it up.”

“This place is her life. What would she do without it?” What would I do without it? I stir my drink. “It seems like more than stress, though. She should see a doctor.”

“I’ve tried to get her to go, but you know it has to be pretty bad for her to sit down or rest.” She pulls out a cutting board and a plastic container filled with lemons. “At least Derrick has been stepping up and running the bar for her lately.”

My stomach contracts at the mention of his name, reminding me that I have to face him tonight and make a clean break. We were always casual, and I could probably let it fade to nothing, but in the spirit of giving New York my full effort, I feel the need to cut all ties. “That’s surprising,” I say into my Manhattan.

Stephanie laughs. “It’s a shame…he’s a cutey. It’s too bad he can’t get his act together.”

Mama Rosie returns with a plate of sausage-stuffed banana peppers and sets it in front of me. “Eat up, girl. They must not have fed you in Africa; you’re skin and bones. Now give me the real dirt.”

I widen my eyes, reminding her that my trip was top secret.

“Stephanie, go see if that table is ready to order,” Mama Rosie commands. “Derrick will be here soon enough. He can finish stocking the bar.”

Wiping her hands on her apron, Stephanie does as she’s told.

Once she’s out of earshot, I swallow my worries about Rosie’s health and try to be cheery. “Let’s see… They had a bar in the wine cellar called the Rose Bar. I thought of you. It was almost like a secret passage to home.”

“How about that.” She walks behind the bar and picks up a knife, intending to slice the lemons, but her hand starts shaking and she drops it, opting to pour herself a small glass of Chianti from an already open cask.

“And we went on safari and saw lions and a leopard—”

“Get to the good stuff,” she cuts me off. “What happened with Mark?”

“How’d you know about Mark?” I gasp in exasperation. “Have you been hanging out with my aunt?”

“No.” Rosie laughs. “Lucky guess. He seems like your type is all. If I had to pick one of them for you, it would be him. He’s a doll.”

“He’s very sweet.” Taking a long swig of my drink, I try to drown the longing that blossoms in my chest. “But we’re meant to be friends.” My voice breaks on the word “friends,” and I can’t hide from Rosie.

“Boots! Something happened with him!”

“No!”

“Yes it did. I can tell. That’s what’s different about you.”

My jaw drops, and I scramble to find words to deny it, but I come up empty.

Placing her hands on her narrow hips, she purses her lips. “Tell me everything.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” I mumble.

“Come on. You know I live vicariously.”

I stall, playing with my straw, hating to disappoint her.

“Boots!”

“Fine.” I roll my eyes. “We had a connection at the wedding that turned into a couple magical nights, but it was no big deal.”

“Uh-uh.” She shakes her head. “I know you too well. Look at you blushing. This is a huge deal.”

Pressing my hands to my cheeks, I stare at my drink. “Even if it meant something to me, the timing is terrible. I need to focus on residency and he’s busy with his new band. Besides, he’s used to flings and so am I. We agreed to no expectations.” The words ring hollow in my ears, and to my horror tears sting my eyes, threatening to overflow. Since when am I so emotional? Am I under some sort of African spell?

She frowns, taking a small sip of her wine. “That’s an awful way to live. If you have a chance at love, you need to take it before it passes you by. Now, I’m not one to meddle—you gotta live your own life and you know your heart—but if I could give some advice…”

“Oh, yes. You never meddle.” I pretend to glare at her. “Go ahead.”

“I’m serious, Boots. Once you’re my age and looking back, you might wish you’d done it differently. Make room for love. That’s all I’m saying.”

“I will. Someday. But first it’s important for me to become a successful surgeon. Once I’ve done that I can think about love. Maybe.” I suck down the rest of my drink.

“But what if he’s the one and you miss out on him? He won’t wait around forever.”

The same fear I’ve been battling since I left him at the airport pools in my chest, and I sit in unresolved silence.

Sighing, she starts to walk to the other end of the bar, but then she throws up her hands and turns back to me. “You have his number?”

“Yes…”

“Call him.”

“I can’t, Rosie.” I fight to stay true to my old dreams, the promises I made to myself, even as aching desire ripples through me. “Residency is going to take all my time. I have to focus.”

“You don’t want regrets, Boots. Believe me.” She shakes her head. “Please, call him—just to see what happens. Do it for me, so I can sleep at night.”

To see what happens…

“Hey, Boots.” Derrick steps behind the bar, tying an apron around his waist. He’s dressed completely in black, down to his inky, messy hair, and his sleeves are rolled up, revealing his tattoos.

“Speaking of love…” Mama Rosie rolls her eyes. “You’re late.”

“I was working on a project, and I had to wait for the glue to dry,” he says. “When the muse is visiting, you have to seize the moment, spend every second you can with her.”

“And which one is the muse?” she asks.

Her words are a shot to my gut. Despite not being exclusive, my competitive side doesn’t like to think of him with somebody else.

“Very funny.” He frowns. “It just so happens I was inspired. I’ve been up all night creating.”

“And when are we going to see one of these works of art?”

“Someday.” He shrugs. “Art doesn’t have a timeline.”

“Well, bars do. Please try to be on time.”

“You got it, Aunt Rosie.” He picks up my glass and starts mixing me a refill. I focus on the paint stains on his fingers, the ink clotted under his nails.

“You’re just like your father.” She sighs. “But it’s your life, none of my business…” She walks off, muttering to herself, to seat another couple who has just entered the bar.

I smile a sad smile as I watch her hobble to the door.

“The traveler returns.” Derrick sets my glass in front of me.

“For a minute.” I stare at the drink, my jaw clenched, wishing I could avoid the impending conversation. But it needs to be said.

“Good trip?” he asks, washing a glass in the well and setting it out to dry.

“Yeah, it was great. Did you finish any projects while I was gone?”

“Nah. It’s been too busy around here.”

I nod, looking around the sparsely populated bar. Rosie’s is never busy. It’s part of the reason it’s perfect for studying, though I wish for Mama Rosie’s sake things would pick up.

“When you taking off again?” he asks.

“Tomorrow morning. This is it. Last night at Rosie’s.”

“You’ll be back,” he says, like he doubts my ability to make it on my own.

Pride rearing against his cynicism, I meet his eyes. “To visit, but it won’t be the same. I have a new life to focus on now. I need to make a fresh start, and that means we can’t keep—”

“It’s cool.” He shrugs and pours a glass of wine for Stephanie’s table.

“Yeah? You sure?” He could at least pretend to be sad I’m leaving.

“You’ll knock ’em dead, Boots.” He turns his back and heads to a customer who has just made himself comfortable at the bar.

“That’s not her style,” Rosie says, coming up beside me and placing a hand on my arm. “She was put here to keep ’em alive. This girl’s meant for big things.” Lowering her voice, she whispers in my ear. “Call him. Take it from me. You never know when it’s going to be too late.”

Chapter Eighteen

Amanda Conrad @BootsMD

Um, can vegans get organ transplants? #OnCallThoughts

As soon as I’m settled in my new apartment, I dutifully call Mark, holding my breath through all four rings. I exhale in relief when it goes to voicemail. Keeping my voice cheery and casual, I leave a message telling him I’ve moved to the city and cite my need for a good breakfast spot as my reason for calling. For the next week, I check my voicemail way too often. When he finally calls I’m in the middle of a shift, and he leaves a message saying he’s heading out on the road, but when he gets back it will be his “play-sha” to introduce me to the egg and bacon pie at Tuck Shop.

Burying my disappointment that he didn’t jump at the chance to take me to breakfast before he left, I take it as a sign that we’re meant to remain friends and resolve to stay true to my original plans. Part of me is relieved he made the decision for me.

At least I can tell Rosie I tried.

“What are you doing for the rest of this spectacular morning?”

Looking over my shoulder, I focus my aching eyes on Dr. Harrison Segal.

Like me, he’s a first-year resident, but he has already secured a plastics position. The algorithm that matches students to residency programs placed him in the role whereas, much to my father’s chagrin, I didn’t match anywhere and had to scramble for placement. Stupid algorithm. But I’m grateful I ended up in such a prestigious hospital and still have a shot at my dream.

Despite being seven weeks into my residency, this is the first time my rotation has intersected with Harrison’s, though his reputation precedes him. Aside from being brilliant, he’s also impossibly handsome—as the female residents will attest—his lightly tanned skin somehow radiating warmth even under the sallow fluorescent lights. If I were to cast him in an eighties movie, I’d pop his collar and make him the most popular jock in school.

“Going home and going to bed,” I say, knotting the string on my sweat pants before wadding my soiled scrubs into a ball. “I’m about to drop. Aren’t you?”

He smiles, revealing perfect white teeth above his dimpled chin. “Yes. But I’m hungry, too. Can I interest you in some breakfast?”

“I suppose I could be persuaded…but I’m kind of a mess.” I pull on a sweater over my tank top and wind my hair into a knot on the top of my head. “I look like I just rolled out of bed.”

“Me too,” he says. “We can go somewhere casual.”

My stomach growls. “Sure.” What could it hurt? “There’s actually a place I’ve been wanting to try. How does egg and bacon pie sound to you?”

“Artery clogging.”

I can’t tell if he’s joking, so I play it safe. “Oh. Well, we can go somewhere else, then.”

“It’s fine. If it sounds good to you, let’s go.”

“Really? They probably have other things…”

“I’m sure I’ll love it.” He throws his duffel bag over his shoulder and leads me to the door.

When we arrive at Tuck Shop, it’s smaller than I expected, with no tables, only a counter and four stools. I walk up to the register and order the egg and bacon pie that Mark recommended and a cup of coffee. Harrison, on the other hand, orders the kale salad, a side of Brussels sprouts, and a sparkling water. Making ourselves comfortable at the end of the counter, I sip my coffee while we wait for our food.

“Sorry,” I say. “I thought they’d have breakfasts other than pie.”

“No problem. I’ll have a protein shake when I get home. Brain food. You should try my chia-flax concoction sometime. It has lots of omega-3s and tons of fiber.”

“I probably should,” I joke, patting my belly. “It’s easy to expand when all your pants have elastic waistbands.”

“You look great.” His eyes run the length of my frame. “I’ll let you know if you’re turning into a wide load.”

“Thanks.” I think.

“You’re from Pittsburgh, right?” he asks, squeezing lime into his water.

“I am. And you’re from?”

“Boston. How are you liking New York?”

“I haven’t seen much of it, to be honest. I’ve been pretty focused on trying to get the plastics position.” Our breakfast arrives and I’m embarrassed by mine—the flakey, buttery crust stuffed with bacon and eggs is barely visible under a mound of hash browns and cheese—compared to his dainty veggies.

“The competition is tough. Carrie is gunning for that spot, too.” He forks a sprout and samples it, chewing thoughtfully.

“I know. She’s a tough opponent. I think she has her name on, like, ten papers already, and the way she rattles off facts, she must have a computer for a brain.”

When it comes to Carrie, I could say plenty more, but I’m uncertain if Harrison is her ally, so I play it safe. Whenever I’m around her I have the suspicion she’s waiting for me to slip up so she can happily take a scalpel to my back. As competitive as medical school was—and as much time as I spent at Mama Rosie’s to escape the insane stress—that was child’s play in comparison to this. I often find myself longing for the familiar, comparatively friendly competition of my Pittsburgh medical school cohorts who are now spread out in residency programs across the country.

“She graduated at the top of her class at Columbia,” he says, nibbling his kale. “And is very focused. She has a reputation for being ruthless. She’ll be tough to beat, but if you’re up for a late-night dissection, maybe we can find out if she has a heart.” He grins.

Surprised by his dark joke, I raise my eyebrows. “You would do that for me? I’m flattered.”

“I’m rooting for you.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that.” I smile back before sampling a delicate bite of pie, even though I’m ravenous and could probably devour the entire breakfast in a matter of minutes. “I wouldn’t want to get you in trouble for using the lab after hours, though. I guess I’ll just have to work harder—”

Behind me the shop door opens and a boisterous laugh fills the tiny space. “You are too funny,” a raucous female voice says, and I realize Harrison isn’t paying attention to me anymore. He’s staring at whoever walked in the door.

Glancing over my shoulder, I almost choke on my pie when I spy Mark with his hand on the small of comedienne Amelia Solares’s back, guiding her through the door. Seeing them together, I fight for breath as a barrage of thoughts collide in my head. I guess he’s back in town… I guess he’s seeing Amelia Solares… I guess we don’t belong…

Amelia’s crass HBO stand-up special was a huge hit, and her star is on the rise. She’s been everywhere in my gossip magazines lately, not to mention gracing the cover of Vogue, but it’s the impact of seeing him—those happy blue eyes, that mischievous smile—that sends me reeling. Praying for invisibility, I whip around, turning my back to them, and in the process my coffee goes flying straight into Harrison’s lap.

He yelps as the hot liquid lands, and I immediately snatch a napkin and go to work dabbing his crotch. “I’m so sorry!”

“It’s okay.” Calmly taking my hands, he removes them from his nether region. “I got it. It’s just a little coffee.” He takes over the dabbing.

I bury my face in my hands. “I’m such a klutz.”

“Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me,” he says. “I won’t tell the plastics attendings.”

Now I really can’t tell if he’s joking. “Thank you,” I say meekly.

“Wow,” Amelia says from behind us. “That’s one way to jumpstart your morning. Though from the looks of you two, you’re just finishing up.”

“It was an eventful night,” Harrison agrees, a bold smile on his face, and I have the sneaking suspicion he’s trying to match wits with her.

Keeping my eyes trained on Harrison’s crotch, I wince at how his statement sounds, knowing we look like we spent the night together. And we did…just not that way. Not that it’s any of Mark’s business. After all, he’s clearly introducing Amelia to breakfast pie…

The back of my neck heats, and I know Mark’s eyes are on me. Unable to resist a second peek at him, I slowly lift my gaze to his. We instantly lock, and a lightning bolt shoots through me, but he breaks the connection with a raise of his eyebrows and a glance at Harrison.

It’s not what you think! I will him to hear me, at the same time wondering why I care. We agreed. No expectations. Friends. But seeing him—seeing him with her—has woken my heart, alerted me to a treasure trove of feelings I thought I buried that are lurking under my skin, waiting to be discovered.

“Maybe I’ll have what she’s having,” Amelia says.

Maybe you’re having what I had. Jealousy rears its ugly head, the thought of them together twisting my stomach into a knot. “You should. It’s breakfast pie, and it’s delicious,” I say, pushing my plate away, knowing I can’t eat another bite.

“That’s what I was telling you about,” Mark says, and at first I think he’s talking to me, but then he turns his full attention to her. “You’re going to love it.”

“I know I will.” She places her hand on his bicep. “You know me so well.”

I sit in silent confusion, waiting for him to acknowledge me, to make some indication that we’re acquainted, but he doesn’t. Whether it’s out of respect for me and Harrison or because he doesn’t want to explain to Amelia, I don’t know.

“Maybe we should take ours to go,” Mark says. “It’s a little crowded in here.”

“Yes. It’s probably best to devour our pastries in private,” she agrees. “Wouldn’t want word to get out that we eat carbs.” She winks at Harrison, and he laughs a loud guffaw.

They order two breakfast pies and coffees to go.

“We were just leaving,” I say, trying to appear unaffected, to match her bravado. “If you want to take our seats.”

“No we weren’t.” Harrison reaches over and slides my stool closer to him. “But we can make room.”

“That’s okay.” Mark accepts their order from the cashier. “We don’t want to intrude. You were here first.” There’s an edge to his voice, and I want to cry out “No! You were here first!” but I hold my tongue, willing him to look at me, to concede some sense of recognition.

He doesn’t. Instead he smiles at Amelia. “Shall we?”

Helpless, I watch as he backs out the door, holding it open for her.

It’s like we’re strangers… Did I do something to upset him?

Linking arms with Mark, she leads him down the street. And, I have a sinking suspicion, out of my life. Suddenly I wish I could go back to the airport, do it all over again, tell him I want to make it work, that there’s room for me to be a doctor and be with him, too. But I can’t. Because it’s impossible. I have only 100 percent to give, and anything less isn’t going to get me the plastics position. Besides, I don’t know if it would make a difference anyway. He never said there was room for me in his life, either…and he’s certainly not lonely.

“Gotta love this city,” Harrison says, back to crunching his kale. “She really should go easy on the bacon pie, though.”

Chapter Nineteen

Amanda Conrad @BootsMD

Watched chief resident repair a hand laceration. He did not laugh when I said, “Nice hand job.”

And I say the moon and the stars

Are aligned just fine the way they are.

Come let them pull us right off this earth

And we’ll fall fall fall…

Pressing the mute button on the TV remote, I silence Mark’s voice, cringing at the reminder of how easily I fell. I used to love this song, but now every time I hear it all I want to do is curl up into a ball and hide. It’s like I’m made of lead. The heaviness pins me down, renders me immobile, and I can’t stop picturing that day at Tuck Shop. In the days that have followed I’ve replayed the scene over in my mind a hundred times, imagining him walking in the door and heading straight to me, gathering me in his arms, telling me how much he missed me between kisses, while Harrison and Amelia look on in shock.

I need to stop fantasizing. It’s never going to happen.

Seeing him with Amelia revealed how much I hoped what we had was real—how much the possibility of him had been feeding me, brightening my outlook. The whole time I’ve been in New York he’s been in the back of my mind, buoying my spirits. I now realize that somewhere deep in my brain’s recesses, buried beneath all logic, our time together tapped into some childish belief in magic: the notion that Prince Charming existed. As much as I tried to keep that little girl who wanted the fairy tale locked away, he got to her. And by ignoring me, he slayed her heart’s deepest desires. That’s the only reason I can come up with for why seeing them together bothers me so much.

I need to get over it. I’m not some psycho stalker. I promised I wouldn’t overthink things…

Settling back into my couch, I rub my eyes. This is exactly what I didn’t want to happen. It’s the reason I wanted to keep my distance in the first place. I need to focus on work.

This week our chief resident seems to favor Carrie, and that has me in a panic. Knowing I need every ounce of energy I possess to focus on getting ahead, that I don’t have time for distractions or broken hearts, I vow to get my priorities straight. I can’t put my goals on hold for a guy, especially one who, according to my gossip magazines, is in it hot and heavy with Amelia Solares. He’s made his choice—he clearly doesn’t even want to be friends with me—and I’m not going to grovel. I’m just as capable as he is of keeping my emotions in check. After all, I’m a doctor, it’s part of my job.

My phone rings, and I snatch it up, chiding myself for thinking it could be him. Sliding my finger across the screen, I answer. “Liv! I’ve missed you!” It’s been weeks since I’ve heard her voice—we’ve had time for only the occasional text. I put my feet up, letting the emotions seep out of my bones, too tired to do anything else. “Are you moved?”

“I officially am,” she says. “It was hard leaving my apartment, though. Berkeley’s house is beautiful, and I love living in the Hills, but I wish Blair and Parker were closer. I miss walking outside and seeing them sitting there in the courtyard sipping cocktails.”

“It’s probably better for your liver.”

“True.” She laughs. “What about you? How’s your place coming along?”

“It’s not. I can’t believe I’ve been here over two months—it’s still the definition of sparse, but I don’t have time to make it home. Most nights I don’t even bother unfolding the couch into a bed, I just crash.”

I look around the three-hundred-square-foot space with its white walls and linoleum floors that encompasses my living room, bedroom, and kitchen. It’s barely a step up from the rooms in the hospital.

“It’s not glamorous, but I’m lucky to have medical center housing, otherwise I’d never be able to swing it here. And it’s a good thing pharmaceutical companies like to cater lunch for doctors or else I’d starve.”

“But you’re loving work, right?”

“Yes and no. The days are long, but I’m learning a ton. Sometimes I feel like Sherlock Holmes, figuring out these cases. It’s a total high. And I love working with actual patients. But I keep trying to impress my chief resident, and there is no pleasing that guy. He’s the Miranda Priestly of surgery. I think he loves berating and dismissing us just as much as he loves his giant coffee and pristine white coat. Maybe more.”

“Ugh. I could never do what you do.” She sucks in her breath. “I’d probably start to cry if your chief resident even looked at me. You’re so strong.”

“Not really. I fight tears every day.” I picture this afternoon’s incident when he criticized me in front of a patient for not following up on lab results. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Ever since I came back from your wedding I’m a basket case. But if I want the plastics position I can’t show any weakness or else they’ll take me down like an Im-pa-la.”

She laughs. “When do you find out if you’re accepted?”

“In a couple months.” I close my burning eyes. “And I don’t know if I’ll get it. Everyone I’m competing with seriously acts like they’re the next big thing, like they’re going to get their own reality show or something. I swear, if Carrie ends up being the next Dr. 90210, I’m going to take a scalpel to my wrists.”

“Don’t go that far!” She sounds truly concerned. “I know what you mean about competition, though. I’ve been hanging out with the actress crowd. I’m practically gluten-free by default at this point. I can’t get skinny enough, or do enough Artist’s Way… I actually overheard a girl say, ‘I don’t do Barre Method anymore. It makes my ankles too thick.’ I’m not sure I fit in.”

“Maybe someday I’ll make you fit.” Fighting to keep the drowsiness from my voice, I rub my eyes. “Dr. 90210 at your service. I’m your secret weapon.”

“I hope I don’t get that desperate. But maybe I will. I need to prepare for when Blair leaks me to the press as Berkeley’s fiancée—which will be soon. The Keystone movie release got moved up to Christmas. I’m not looking forward to dealing with Christina Carlton and her fan army. Crazy ex-girlfriends are one thing, but insane celebrity exes take the cake. She’s going to eat me alive.”

“Berkeley will protect you. And everyone will love you together. It’s impossible not to; you two are contagious…” My thoughts drift to South Africa, and inevitably, Mark. I haven’t told Liv what happened our last couple of nights there because I don’t want to get her hopes up, and I always refrain from asking about him, but tonight, in my exhaustion, I let him slip in. “So, how is Berkeley…and the Brightside?” And by Brightside I mean Mark.

She seems to get my gist. “There’s been a little band drama. Mark is really busy with Coconut Teaszer. He’s totally MIA. Haynes, too—he’s been focused on making that band work—and it’s causing some friction with Jeff, but Berkeley says it will blow over. You probably have more of a chance of seeing Mark than we do.” She pauses, gearing up for the big question. “Have you?”

“We ran into each other once,” I say quietly, hating to disappoint her, and more so hating the disappointment he invokes in me. An image of him feeding breakfast pie to Amelia pops into my head. “And it was weird. He acted like we didn’t know each other. But he was with Amelia Solares, and I figured they had a thing going and that was why.”

“A thing with Amelia? I don’t think so. You can’t believe everything you read. Trust me.”

“But I can believe what I saw.”

“What did you see?”

“They were having breakfast after what looked like a late night.”

“That doesn’t mean anything. They went to UCLA together. They’re old friends. Friends stay up late and eat breakfast.”

I defend my position even though I’m somewhat comforted by how easily she dismisses Amelia. “It doesn’t matter if they’ve known each other for a long time. She’s crazy smart and funny—I’m obsessed with her Twitter account. And on top of that, have you seen her? She’s gorgeous. If he has a shot with her, don’t you think he’ll take it?”

“Actually, no. She’s not his type—she’s too outrageous. She’s very cool, but I don’t think he’s into her.”

“How could he not be? If I were a guy, she’d be my dream date. If he’s not into her, maybe she’ll give me a shot!”

Liv laughs. “Exactly. Besides. You’re all those things, too. And you’re a doctor.”

“I don’t compare. She’s in a different stratosphere.”

“I think you belong in Mark’s stratosphere. I’m not giving up on your love story yet. I’m going to get to the bottom of why he didn’t talk to you.”

“You don’t have to do that,” I say, even though my heart pounds at the possibility. “It’s probably for the best that he ignored me. I need to keep my mind on work.”

“So you’re admitting there’s a love story?” I can hear her smiling, triumphant.

“No. I’m just too tired to argue.” I shake my head even though she can’t see me. “I’ll let you keep dreaming for one more night. And speaking of dreams… I better get to them. I have to get up at four. I start my trauma rotation tomorrow, and I have a twenty-four-hour shift.”

“Your day sounds much more important than mine.” She sighs. “I have an audition for a cat food commercial.”

“Well, break a leg, Gladys.” I drag myself to my feet, determined to wash my face and brush my teeth before bed.

“And you fix one, Ovid.”

We hang up the phone and twenty minutes later, just as I’m drifting off to sleep, she texts me.

berkeley just got off the phone with mark. apparently he texted you twice when he got back from tour but you never responded. and then he saw you at breakfast with some guy???

I shoot straight up to sitting. He texted me? I rack my brain for how I could have missed his messages. Did I accidentally delete them? And then I remember that my cell phone billing got messed up in the chaos of moving and they briefly shut off my phone. Is it possible his messages got lost in the shuffle?

I text her back.

omg. i never got the texts! and the guy was a coworker. nobody. now i feel like a jerk.

She replies: call him! he wants you to. believe me.

Sinking back against my pillow, I pull my blanket to my chest, trying to process this new information. He probably thought I was ignoring him… The fantasy reignites, my girlish dreams creeping back to life. But before I can get carried away again, I tear them down, irritated at how easily I can be influenced. I’m too tired. I’m not thinking straight. I need to remember my priorities. Tomorrow. All will become clear tomorrow. I’ll deal with this then.

Burrowing under my blanket, I shut my eyes, willing my mind blank.

But when the darkness takes me, I dream of him.

Chapter Twenty

Amanda Conrad @BootsMD

Dear Intern with The Long Perfect Nails: I know you’re lying about doing rectal exams on all the trauma patients.

Putting up my hood, I step out onto the sidewalk. The skies are still dark, barely hinting at the light in the east, and an icy wind cuts through my jacket, carrying with it the promise of winter. Head down, I walk toward the hospital, brown leaves crunching under my feet, still tired after a restless night. Mark really texted? I wonder what the texts said… Hope glimmers in my belly, no weaker this morning.

Taking out my phone, I examine his contact info. What could it hurt? Maybe I should get in touch with him. Apologize. Explain. But then I pass a bus stop with a poster for Amelia Solares’s new HBO comedy special plastered on it, and I change my mind. He texted a while ago, silly. He’s obviously moved on. It’s not an ideal way for it to end, but maybe it’s for the best. I tamp down my frivolous hopes. Focus. Long day ahead.

Arriving at the hospital, I put away my stuff and slip into my long white lab coat, indulging in the thrill its significance still gives me, even though I graduated from the short version worn by medical students months ago.

“Hey, Harrison,” I say when I reach the desk and sign in to the computer system. “Long night?” I take in his rumpled scrubs and the dark circles under his sparkling green eyes.

“It was the usual gun and knife club. Darwin was definitely proved wrong last night with the number of train wrecks we saved.” He smiles.

“The human race thanks you.” Glancing down at the desk, I spy a magazine open to a page with the title, “Music’s Newest Front Man: Mark VanCleer from Brightside to Spotlight.” Mark mention of the day, check! “Interesting reading material.” I cock my head to the side, eyeing him.

He laughs and closes the magazine. “I actually picked it up for you. I heard gossip magazines were your reading material of choice.”

I blush, embarrassed that he knows my dirty secret. “Only because everything is insanely serious around here. I need a mental break sometimes.”

“It’s okay. I think it’s cute.” His fingers linger on mine as he hands me the pager and hospital-issued cell phone, then turns serious. “You’ll be shadowing Dr. Levy, but first you should go see the lady in bed three. She’s eighty-six years old and experiencing shortness of breath. Her heart rate is one thirteen, her blood pressure is stable, and she’s alert and oriented.”

“I’m on it,” I reply, already running through protocol, envisioning what I’ll do if I find she’s not stable.

“Oh, and if you’re up for it, a bunch of us are going to the Peculiar for drinks tomorrow night. You should come.”

“Sure, I’ll see how I feel after I recover from tonight,” I say, clipping the pager onto my pocket.

“Get some sleep if you can, then. I’ll be disappointed if I don’t see you there.” With that he waves good-bye.

Raising my eyebrows, I wait until he’s on the elevator before flipping open the magazine and tearing out the page about Mark. Shoving the clipping into my pocket, I head to bed three.

I quickly forget Harrison and Mark once I reach the patient. A check of her EKG reveals atrial fibrillation, and I order the nurses to place pacer pads on her while I call up to cardiology so they can admit her and arrange for a transesophageal echocardiogram. I diagnose three more patients before Dr. Levy, the attending physician, interrupts me.

“Dr. Conrad.” He beckons me forward. “You’re with me today, provided you pass the quiz. Name the branches of the facial nerve.”

“Ummm…” Ten zebras bit my cock…got it. “Temporal, Zygomatic…” I rattle them off.

“Good. Let’s go. We have a fifty-five-year-old male on his way, cardiac arrest…”

And we’re off and running.

Around one the next morning, I’m physically exhausted, unsure of how much longer I’ll be able to stand and longing to sneak away for a few minutes to rest my eyes—or read the article about Mark—but we’re spread thin, and I can’t be spared. Just when I’m thinking I might catch a break, an EMT rushes in with a gurney. “We’ve got a high-speed motor-vehicle collision with a steering-wheel injury,” he says, pushing the cart into a trauma bay. “We don’t have an ID on her.”

“She’ll be known as Trauma Foxtrot,” Dr. Levy says. “Let’s go.”

Instantly alert, I rush after him.

Pulling the curtain shut behind us, I assess the situation, looking down at the already intubated young woman lying on the table, blood obscuring her slackened features.

“Your thoughts, Dr. Conrad,” Dr. Levy says.

She’s not much older than me…

I notice that every shot of air from the breathing tube causes her ribs to move out of sync with the rest of her rib cage. “She’s showing signs of flail chest.” My brain automatically runs through my ABCs. A: Airway: air is moving—check. B: Breath, chest is asymmetrical… I feel her pulse, it’s weak. The blood pressure cuff continues to cycle, searching. Her pressure is low…

Her chest X-ray reveals a collapsed lung and an obscured diaphragm indicating blood in the chest. Time moves in slow motion, but only precious seconds pass before I come up with my diagnosis. “Hemopneumothorax. We need to put in a chest tube.”

“Very good.” Dr. Levy nods and hands me a scalpel. “Wielding a knife against human flesh requires supreme faith. Do you have faith?”

“I do.”

“She’s all yours.”

Taking the knife, I splash Betadine on her chest. My focus intent on her frame, each movement is deliberate, calculated, as I feel for her ribs and make the incision. There is the familiar tugging sensation of flesh separating, and I tune out the chaos surrounding me, concentrating as I spread her muscle tissue deep and insert my finger, sweeping inside her chest to dilate the hole. Her ribs hug my finger. In the distance, I am aware of Dr. Levy telling me I’m doing fine.

I shove the tube into her chest and am met with a whoosh of air and the pleasant gurgle of blood, a rushing river draining from the tube. The gushing is a mark of success, and my own blood pumps through my veins as I watch the chest tube output slow and taper off.

“It seems the bleeding was limited,” I say.

“She should be stable enough to go to CT,” Dr. Levy says, his eyes on the patient.

“Dr. Levy,” a nurse interrupts, pulling back the curtain. “We have a stab wound to the neck—”

“Can you handle babysitting her?” he asks me.

High on adrenaline, in this moment I’m invincible. “Of course.”

“Be sure to get a full body scan, but get a head scan first and call up to neurosurgery,” he says before disappearing to the next trauma bay.

We wheel Trauma Foxtrot over to the CT scanner, and while the nurses prepare her I call up to ICU to arrange for her to be admitted.

“Dr. Conrad.” One of the nurses calls me over when I hang up. “She’s put out 250 ccs of blood. It’s bright red and not slowing.”

Rushing to her side, I feel for Trauma Foxtrot’s pulse, noting that her heart rate has increased. Her heart is pumping harder to compensate for the massive loss of blood… My eyes fly to the monitor and see that her arterial line tracing is in decline, reflecting a drop in blood pressure. Her skin is pasty white, and suddenly her pulse ceases altogether, her chest tube continuing to gush bright red blood.

“Call code blue, get Dr. Levy, get the senior resident—get someone, get type O blood,” I order, my voice sounding like it’s coming from somewhere outside my body. Panic sets in, and I start chest compressions, working frantically, my eyes never leaving the green line on the monitor, praying, begging for the arterial line tracing to come back.

The curtain behind me swishes open, and Dr. Levy appears. “What do we have for access?”

“Can you put in a groin line?” the nurse asks.

“She doesn’t have one?” he asks, shooting me a look.

Fuck. Why didn’t I think to put one in?

I don’t look at him; I just keep pumping. It’s a losing battle. It’s like I’m trying to bail water out of a leaky boat but the ocean comes roaring in. She’s lost too much blood, and I’m helpless to do anything else, but I keep trying.

The green line on the EKG is flat. But if I keep going… I watch for a blip, some sign of life, anything. One by one the nurses start leaving, knowing what I can’t admit.

She’s gone.

Dr. Levy places his hand over mine. “Call it,” he whispers.

The single remaining nurse unplugs the monitor, turns off the ventilator, and again that ethereal voice that is not my own sounds.

“Time of death is 2:27 a.m.”

The moment after. Silence. Emptiness. Despair. I stare at her lifeless fingers, slender and tapered, each nail meticulously painted creamy coral. Did she savor the moments leading to this one, or did they pass her by? I wonder what her plans were for tomorrow. Was she going to meet her girlfriends for brunch? Stop at the farmers’ market on 12th and Hudson? Cook dinner with her boyfriend?

Someone, not me, closes her eyes. Eyes that once beheld the sun and the moon, that her mother gazed lovingly into the day she was born. Eyes that had memories to make but will see no more.

“Shit happens,” Dr. Levy says.

I don’t respond. I just continue to stare at the body in front of me, cold and pale. Lifeless. The remnants of my attempt to breathe life back into her lungs are evident in the discarded vials and tubes strewn about the room, the breathing tube sticking up out of her throat, useless, and bile rises in mine. My lungs fill with air and release, almost taunting her with their ease, until my breath catches, and I fear that I might suffocate.

I killed her.

Backing out of the scanning station, I brush past Dr. Levy and head to the bathroom to clean up. Discarding my mask and gloves, I try to wipe away the blood, wipe away the memories that will forever be burned in my mind. Why didn’t I put in a groin line? This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. I became a doctor to save lives, not take them. As long as I do my best, as long as I try hard enough, I can do anything. Right? Clearly I’ve been lying to myself.

I killed her.

Back at the nursing station, I stare at the discharge summary I need to fill out. Discharged to where? To a box in the ground? I pause, unsure of how to fill in the collection of blank lines and tiny boxes. Even though I didn’t know her, I feel like she deserved more. Like I should say something about her life, like her death is bigger than the three lines I have to describe it. Is that what we’re reduced to in the end?

Her name was Emily.

Dr. Levy joins me. “Dr. Conrad,” he says, towering over my head. “The first one is the hardest, but you’ll get used to it.”

Eyes still on my paperwork, I reply, “What if I don’t want to get used to it?”

“You don’t have a choice. You’ll have one soon where everything comes together—the training, the skill, the perseverance—you’ll save someone, and you’ll be hooked. But it comes with balance. You have to take the lows with the highs. What you need to do is disconnect. Stop looking at patients as humans. Life is a giant science experiment.”

I shudder.

“You need to get back in there, go to work. The only way to beat death is to save a life. Too bad she wasn’t an organ donor,” he says, patting my shoulder. “Have you told the family yet?”

My heart rate flatlines. “No.”

“Best to get it over with. Meet me at bed four when you’re done. We have other patients to attend to. You have to keep going.”

I nod, quite certain that if faced with the task, I would not be able to cut into human flesh—to operate, to function—but taking a deep breath, I force my fingers to pick up the phone.

Chapter Twenty-One

Amanda Conrad @BootsMD

Post-shift emotional texts are the new drunk dials, guys. I am a LOOSE CANNON.

“Another?” the bartender asks.

Looking up at him through stinging eyes, I nod, not caring that it’s seven o’clock in the morning and I’ve been up for over twenty-four hours. There’s no way I’m sleeping today. Not after last night. Not after I got sent home early, dismissed for bursting into hysterical tears after we lost the girl. Try as he might, Dr. Levy couldn’t console me. I’m the worst doctor ever. I’m too human to be superhuman.

I glance around the Peculiar, at the Sunday morning regulars already perched on their stools, Bloody Marys in hand, talking about the Jets/Patriots game that will be on in a couple of hours.

The bartender sets down another Sprite in front of me, and I stare at the ice in the glass. Afraid of being alone, of the dark thoughts crowding in, I came here hoping for a taste of home, but it’s not the same. The bartender remains aloof, disconnected, unwilling to reach out to a stranger, probably dismissing me as one of the thousands of nameless faces he encounters every day in a city as big as this one. I miss Mama Rosie; she’d help me talk this out.

A wave of loneliness washes over me, and I’m unable to stop thinking about Emily, about a life snuffed out. It may as well have been me on that table, the way I feel—like I’m dying. Like my heart is hardening, arteries filling with decayed plaque that will keep the blood trickling through, keep me functioning but without the passionate fervor that sends life rushing to my toes. I hear her father in my head, the tiny intake of breath when I delivered the news, my voice lifeless and fake, reciting facts instead of offering the comfort I wish I could convey. I wanted to tell him I knew how he felt, knew that my words had set the walls around him in motion, closing in tight until they crushed him, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t conjure any amount of empathy without breaking down myself, so my message remained flat. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this…”

And I’m guilty, guilty, guilty.

It’s my fault.

The tears come out of nowhere, starting gently before they take over, wracking my shoulders in great sobs, and I bury my face in my hands as the “should haves” come rushing back. I should have put in a groin line…

“Are you okay?” the bartender asks, his voice conjuring the perfect amount of empathy, the tone I couldn’t muster.

“Just the check, please,” I say, hiccupping, embarrassed by my display. I need to get out of here.

The regulars shift in their seats, uncomfortable with the interruption to their Sunday morning ritual, the blast of emotion, life…death…is an affront to their routine.

Throwing some cash on the bar, I do my best to compose myself and then head out to face the day.

The fall sun is weak, low in the sky, but the cold air on my hot cheeks is sobering, and I breathe in the city: fire and roasting chestnuts from a street vendor mixes with the usual gasoline and soot.

I don’t know how long I walk, head down, lost in a daze, dutifully avoiding eye contact with everyone I pass lest some emotion from my life interfere with their commute. Nearing my apartment, I’m on the brink of collapse from exhaustion when I’m overcome with a longing to see Mark.

I wonder if he’s in town. Is he nearby right now?

I showed him a side of me in Africa that few people have witnessed, and right now I think he’s the only person who could accept this fragile girl I’ve become, could lift my spirits.

Climbing the stairs to my studio, I lock my apartment door behind me and curl up on the couch, unfolding the magazine article now crumpled in my purse. Upon closer inspection, I realize it isn’t so much an interview as a collection of images, a timeline illustrating Mark’s rise from casual sidekick—him unshaven wearing board shorts, a T-shirt, and baseball cap at an outdoor festival—to suave front man, clean-shaven and wearing a Tom Ford suit during a red carpet interview. Staring at his face on the page, craving how cherished, how invincible he made me feel in Africa, I come to a decision. I should text him. We shouldn’t have left it the way we did. Nobody has made me feel like that before, and right now, that’s exactly what I need. To keep feeling. With Mama Rosie’s voice in my ear, “You never know when it’s going to be too late,” I pull out my phone, find his number, and type:

hey mark—it’s boots. i’ve been thinking a lot about seeing you at tuck shop and want to apologize for any misunderstandings. the truth is…i miss you.

I hit send before I can think twice and throw my phone back in my purse.

I’ve completely lost it.

With that, I sprawl out on my couch, pulling a blanket over my head to shut out the day, and succumb to exhaustion.

I dream of the girl. We’re holding hands and walking through a cemetery. Her fingers with the coral nails are stiff and cold. She can’t speak, but I know she wants to tell me something. Her eyes begging, pleading, she grips my hand, squeezes so tight my bones crunch, and I think they’re about to shatter. My immediate fear is that she’ll crush my hand, render it useless, and I’ll never be able to operate again. I try to wrench my fingers from hers, wanting to scream out, but my voice is trapped.

Cracking open my eyes, I let a little light in, and Emily fades. Slowly, I open them all the way. Uneasy twilight filters through the blinds and, coming to full consciousness, I bolt upright.

Oh no. I texted Mark.

Sinking back against the pillows, I rub my temples to ease the aching tension in my head. Not good. I don’t want to look for a response, wish I could erase the sleep-deprived-probably-emotionally-defeated message I sent him. I don’t even remember what I said. Did I say I missed him? Ugh.

Part of me hopes he didn’t respond, but if I’m honest, I don’t know if I’ll be able to take the disappointment if there is no text alert on my phone. I’m afraid to look, but it’s probably best to yank off the Band-Aid. Taking a deep breath, I swipe my finger across the screen.

My heart pounds when my eyes fall on a tiny red circle on the message app.

Wrapping my blankets around me, I settle in and click on it.

boots! you’ve been on my mind lately, too. we’re in town tonight—we’re playing the slipper room at eleven—but we head out tomorrow. not sure if you can swing it, but if you want to meet up, i’ll be at the pardus bar on second between 1st and avenue a until 9 or so. would love to see you.

Glancing at the clock, I realize it’s already after seven, and I hesitate. Should I go? He didn’t say he missed me, too… I really shouldn’t. I’m back on rotation tomorrow, and I can’t afford any more mistakes. I should go to bed early. But if I just go for one drink and not to the show…

Mama Rosie’s voice still in my ear and spurred by an overwhelming desire to see him, to be wrapped in the comfort and familiarity of his arms, I decide to take a chance. At the very least I should make things right between us.

I text him back: i’ll be there.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Mark VanCleer @BrightsideBP

What’s new Coconuts? #Teaszer #Tonight @SlipperRoom

The heavy wood door gently closes, blocking out the city behind me. I’ve never heard of this place, and it was discernible from the street only by small gold lettering on the door reading “Pardus” in script that belongs etched in marble on a Roman museum. Mark is so laid back, I expected him to suggest a dive, so the formal entrance surprises me. But maybe I’m projecting my own affinity for dive bars on him—he is a rock star. How well do I really know him?

I enter through dense velvet curtains into a small, dark bar that is a cross between a library and a train car with etched mahogany ceilings and walls lined with books. Candles flicker in a large stone fireplace on one wall, and my eyes slowly adjust to the dim light, scanning for Mark’s familiar face. Pardus isn’t crowded at this early hour, and I easily find him sitting on a leopard-print barstool, whiskey in hand, chatting with a bartender dressed in suspenders.

It’s him. It’s really him.

He hasn’t noticed me yet, and I take a minute to observe, letting the familiar tilt of his chin and the strength across his broad shoulders seep through me in heated shivers. It’s a pleasant combination that lifts the heaviness of the day, if only for a moment, before I remember the edge in his voice the last time I saw him, picturing his hand on Amelia’s back.

Friends. We’re friends, nothing more.

The dose of reality slams into me with a blast of cold air as someone enters the bar behind me. Recalling my “I miss you” text, I consider running, letting the velvet curtains swish shut behind me.

“Boots!” He spots me before my legs take action. His perfect lips—I forgot just how perfect they are, not too full, not too thin, providing just the right amount of pressure—curve into a smile as he crosses the room and comes to a stop in front of me. “Hi.”

On the walk to the bar I thought of a dozen things I wanted to say—explanations for not responding to his texts, apologies for not telling him how I felt at the airport—but upon seeing him, every phrase leaves my mind. The brave eloquence I possessed in private abandons me, and my heart pounds in my chest, voiceless.

“Hi,” I manage to say.

Clutching the cupcake box I’ve brought, I stand before him with all that is unspoken taut between us. So much needs to be said. But how do I say it?

“It’s great to see you,” he says. “You look amazing.”

I look down at my jeans, realizing I should have thought to transform myself into a New York socialite ready for a night out on the town. It’s almost impossible to overdress in this city. Something I can’t seem to remember.

“So do you,” I reply, tugging on my coat, wishing it could morph into a killer dress.

“Come on.” He gestures me forward. “Let’s get you a cocktail.”

I follow him to the bar.

“Have you been here before?” he asks, pulling out a stool. “I discovered it when I got back from Africa. Have a seat.”

My stomach contracts at the mention of Africa. “No. First time.” Setting the cupcake on the bar, I remove my gloves, jacket, and scarf, hoping he doesn’t notice my hands shaking. “But this would be a great bar to study in.”

He motions the bartender toward us. “It would. They’ve got an incredible selection of whiskey. I kind of thought you might serendipitously wander in here at some point.”

Serendipity? The notion pumps courage into my veins, and an apology forms on my lips. “I haven’t had much time for whiskey lately but… Listen, I’m really—”

The bartender arrives, placing a leopard-print napkin in front of me, and I come to a halt.

“How are you doing tonight?” he asks.

“Brett, this is my friend Amanda.” Mark introduces me. “She’s soon to be a prestigious plastic surgeon and is a whiskey aficionado. Get her anything she wants. It’s on me.”

“Impressive,” Brett says, shaking my hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“You, too.” The lofty introduction zaps my determination to confess. Realizing Mark sees me as a cool professional doctor, capable of fun for a night—not the shattered girl who longs to collapse into his arms—I try to pull myself together.

Settling onto my stool, I know I should choose some obscure whiskey in order to live up to Mark’s expectations, to be the girl he met in Africa, who knew what she wanted and would stop at nothing to get it, but I don’t know where she is right now. I order an old-fashioned.

“So how is residency going?” Mark asks as we watch Brett mix my drink.

To my horror, the previous day rushes at me and my voice cracks. “It’s really hard.”

Concern breaks over his face, and for a second I think he sees me for what I am, that he’ll hold me against his chest and tell me it’s going to be okay. I want him to be my bright side, but instead he keeps his hands to himself, murmuring, “I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do to help?”

All hope of there being anything lasting between us unravels, and I pick up the pieces, trying to put back together the girl he used to know. He has Amelia to go home to. In order to have even a sliver of a chance I need to be as pulled together as her.

Brett sets my drink on the napkin and heads to help another customer.

“It’s nothing a little whiskey won’t fix,” I say, raising my glass. Taking a sip, I allow the sweet citrus of the charred orange garnish to sharpen my senses while I shove the pink cardboard cupcake box at Mark. “Sorry it’s not homemade. I stopped at Butter Lane—no time to bake.” Eyes stinging, I force a smile.

“You shouldn’t have.” Returning my smile, he opens the box.

Inside is a single cupcake.

“Banana?” he asks, bringing it to his nose. “My favorite.” He takes a bite. “Mmmm. This must be butter-banana.”

“With brown-sugar bourbon frosting.”

“It’s delicious. Want some?” He offers me half.

“No thanks.” My stomach is so knotted, I’m certain it would reject anything not in liquid form.

“It’s okay to indulge now and then, remember?” Finishing off the cupcake, he elbows my arm, and I know he wants me to cheer up.

“I remember,” I reply and turn the conversation to him in hopes of dulling the ache in my chest. Emily, Mark—all is lost. “So how’s the band? I played one of your songs in the OR a couple weeks ago. Everyone really liked it.”

“You play music while you’re operating?” He seems genuinely interested.

“Oh, yeah. It helps move things along. Usually the surgeon gets to choose—and they pick some pretty weird stuff—but we had a cool one that day and he let me make the playlist.” I brighten, feeling like I’m meeting expectations. “The only rule is it’s always old-school hip-hop or house music when we’re sewing them up at the end. I like to play ‘Rappers Delight’—the long version is fourteen minutes, and it takes us through the home stretch.”

“Sugarhill Gang. Nice. I love that—except isn’t the opening bass line eerily similar to ‘Another One Bites the Dust’?”

I gasp. “It totally is.” I give him a playful shove. “See? This is why I need you!”

He laughs, and for a moment our eyes lock. I need you… The air thickens with longing, hinting at unresolved emotion and confusion. At least it does for me.

“I’ll have to tell the guys you played us. They’ll love that.” He breaks the connection, his fingers busy shredding his napkin, and the moment passes. “That’s the kind of thing they need to hear right now.”

“It seems like things are really taking off for you, though. I hear and see you all over the place.”

“Honestly, it’s a lot of smoke and mirrors.” Sipping his drink, he shrugs. “Haynes has been great about getting us press and, don’t get me wrong, it’s awesome, but we have a long way to go. The guys are used to filling stadiums, and when you can’t sell out a five hundred seat venue, it feels like failure.”

“You once told me the chase is part of the fun.”

“I did.” He smiles. “Do you remember everything I say?”

“Pretty much. It’s a doctor thing. We’re not allowed to forget.” So how could I forget to put in a groin line? The weight of the mistake bears down on me, holding my voice hostage, and I can’t continue. The desire to be wrapped up in him—to be where I feel safe, content—tugs at my center, and my thoughts float to our final night in Africa, to the last (and only) time everything was right in the world. To when I was enough. It couldn’t have happened with anyone else… But he never asked for my heart.

“So, what did you think of Tuck Shop?” Mark breaks the silence as I take a sip of my drink. The liquid lands in the wrong pipe, and I cough, having become certain we’d dance around that topic all night.

“It was delicious,” I say with forced brightness, starting to sweat.

“You seemed to be enjoying yourself.” He raises his eyebrows, and I can’t tell if he’s asking for an explanation or if he thinks it’s water under the bridge and he can tease me about it.

Either way, I try another tiny sip of my cocktail, gathering the courage to lay it all on the line. You have to do this. Get it off your chest.

Pushing away all doubt, I take a deep breath and let the words tumble out in a rush before I lose my nerve. “It wasn’t how it looked. I never got your texts—my phone was shut off and I must have missed them. I’m sorry if it seemed like I ignored you, but I thought you didn’t want to talk to me, and I promised you I wasn’t a crazy stalker. But then I had a hard day at work and it brought up all these emotions. I felt like I needed to fix us, so here we are—”

“Berkeley told me you didn’t get my messages a couple days ago.” He silences me, placing his hand on mine. “But that day at Tuck Shop I thought you didn’t want to talk to me, either. You hadn’t responded to my texts…and the way we left it, I knew you wanted space. Plus, I didn’t want to interrupt…”

I scramble to explain. “He’s a coworker. We’d just come off the night shift, and he suggested breakfast. Tuck Shop was the only place I could think of.”

For a second I think I glimpse hope sparkling in his eyes, but then it’s gone.

“And I didn’t want to interrupt you, either,” I add, waiting for him to elaborate on his side of the story.

“Amelia’s an old friend. Nothing more.” He squeezes my hand. “And I would still love to eat egg and bacon pie with you. Rain check?”

“Sure…”

Just then his phone lights up with a photo text from someone named Vivian. He quickly turns the screen over, but not before I glimpse milky white cleavage and fishnet thigh-highs. Clearly even if he’s “just friends” with Amelia, it’s still not lonely in the stratosphere…

“You’re coming to the show, right?” he asks.

Vivian blots out my secret wants, and the other pressures I’ve been straining against come gushing forward. I have to be on my toes tomorrow, to save someone, to make up for killing Emily…

“It’s going to be fun,” he says. “Tonight is kind of different. We’re playing as part of a burlesque show.”

“How did you get that gig?” Finishing my drink, I try to keep from dissolving into tears, to stay brave.

“I’m friends with one of the dancers.”

Friends with benefits? I assume he’s talking about Vivian. Maybe I could match wits with Amelia, but I definitely can’t compete with Vivian; she’d smother me with cup size alone. Crushed that my life doesn’t magically click with his, I suck on the ice, hoping for a last hit, but it’s no use.

“You should come,” he continues. “I have to go pretty soon. We have sound check in twenty minutes. But the doors open at ten.”

I hesitate. He didn’t invite me to come with him now, meaning it would probably look weird to Vivian if he showed up with another girl…

“You promised,” he reminds me.

“I did…”

“Please come. If we go on late, we might need you to resuscitate the crowd.” He grins that smile that is my undoing, and for a second I believe he really wants me there. As a friend. A friend sans benefits?

“Okay,” I relent, hating to disappoint him when we’ve just (sort of) cleared the air. “I’ll come.”

“Great. I’ll put you on the list.” He stands, motioning to Brett to close his tab. “Sorry to cut this short, but I’ll see you in an hour.”

“I understand. Thanks for the drink.”

Brett hands him a black book, and Mark signs the credit card slip. “Any time. I’ll see you in a little bit.” He briefly kisses my cheek before leaving.

The weight of his lips linger even as I wave good-bye and order a Diet Coke to pass the time until ten, mulling over everything that just occurred. Again, he has given no indication that he wants to pursue anything beyond friendship with me. And even then he doesn’t seem to be lacking in the friend department.

My phone lights up with a text, and I check the message from Harrison.

i’m still at the peculiar. are you coming by?

Considering my promise to go to the show, I start to decline, but then Vivian’s creamy cleavage pops into my head, and I picture myself standing awkwardly alone at the Slipper Room, watching her dance for Mark. Suddenly I’m exhausted. The amount of effort required to endure looking like a pathetic loner clinging to the hope that he’ll notice me when I’m better off at home studying groin lines is overwhelming, and I come to a decision.

Mark has his world, and I have mine. It’s time to get back on track.

I reply to Harrison: yes. be there in a few…

Chapter Twenty-Three

Amanda Conrad @BootsMD

25 hours at the hospital and counting. This is why the resident work room windows don’t open.

“I’ll have a pint of Stella,” I tell the bartender before finding Harrison, who is sitting alone in one of the church pews that serve as booths at the Peculiar.

“Amanda! Glad you could make it,” he says as I approach, patting the seat next to him. Simply dressed in jeans and a dark T-shirt that clings to his well-defined arms, everything about him is precise, but I would never guess he’s a surgeon. He looks more like one of Trent’s fraternity brothers. My dad would love him. By contrast I picture bringing Mark home—unshaven, shaggy haired, carrying an instrument case containing an actual instrument, not a stethoscope—and imagine the feathers that would ruffle. Instantly a pang of guilt for standing him up lands in my gut, and I stifle the urge to ditch Harrison.

“Hey.” I choose the seat across from him so we’re not side by side staring at an empty bench. “Where is everyone?” His knee brushes mine, and I scoot my feet back.

“Carrie, Greg, Amy, and Adam are in the back playing pool. I told them I’d wait for you up here.” He takes a sip of his beer. “How are you holding up?”

“I’m fine,” I say, too quickly.

“I heard you had a rough night.”

“Did you?” I take a small swallow of my drink, unsure of how much he knows.

“It was your first ‘celestial discharge’?”

For a moment my face crumples, the night rushing back, but I try to compose myself, not wanting to show weakness in front of him. Though I would happily cry on Mark’s shoulder… Quickly pushing the thought away, I recalibrate my focus to Harrison. “That’s a nice way of putting it.”

“You’ve never heard that phrase before?” he asks with a hint of a smile.

“First time.”

“You are new at this.” He breaks into a full-blown grin that would be the undoing of any normal girl.

I’m sure patients don’t mind the celestial discharge prognosis when those lips are giving them the bad news… I want to be able to joke about it, to come across as blasé, but I can’t say that out loud, and my mind goes otherwise blank. Tears crowd my eyes, and staring at my beer, I shrug.

“It’s tough,” he says, using what I imagine is his gentle doctor voice. “You never forget the first one. And it’s almost impossible not to feel like it’s your fault.”

“You’ve lost a patient before?” Looking up into his eyes, I find compassion reflected there. Oh, he’s good. Of course he has perfect empathy-voice. Is there anything he’s bad at?

“Oh, yeah, a couple. I’ve never been the lone physician in the room when it happened, but I’ve blamed myself every time. I always feel like I should have done more—but don’t worry, you’ll get over it. It’s part of the job. You win some, you lose some, and at the end of the day, hopefully you win more than you lose. That’s all you can ask.”

“I wish it were easier to see it that way.”

“You’ll come around.” He takes my hand in both of his. “You’re a good doctor, Amanda. One of the best, from what I’ve heard. Definitely a front-runner for the plastics position.”

I sit up straighter, my spirits suddenly lifting. “You’ve heard that? From who?”

“I overheard Dr. Kelly talking the other day about who they were considering. Your name came up, and not just because you’re the most attractive resident on the floor—that’s what I usually hear about you—but this was because of your skills.” His fingers trace a shape on the back of my hand.

Blushing, I try to hold steady, uncomfortable with the intimate hand-holding. “Dr. Kelly paid me a compliment? That’s shocking. I thought the only thing that could please him was if I lasted an entire shift without taking a bathroom break. Which I’ve tried doing, by the way.”

He laughs. “He’s a pretty tough nut to crack. As the saying goes: eat, sleep, or sit down when you can, except when Dr. Kelly is your chief resident.”

“And he won’t let you eat or drink, anyway, so that really helps with the bathroom thing.” He’s still holding my hand…

“Good point. The other day he decided to quiz me on the necessity of venovenous bypass for twenty minutes in front of a patient who was scheduled for a liver transplant, which I’m sure made the patient feel really confident before going under,” he says. “The guy can be totally clueless.”

“Hey, Harrison, you’re up.” Carrie walks to the table, carrying a pool cue, narrow hips swaying. “Hi, Amanda,” she adds as an aside without looking at me.

I take the opportunity to snatch my hand back so she won’t get the wrong impression. “Hey,” I say, but my words fall on deaf ears. Her eyes are locked on Harrison.

“Everyone is waiting for you,” she says.

“Do you want to play?” he asks me.

Carrie frowns. “You promised you’d play with me. I need a pro to help me beat Adam and Amy. The next round is on the line.”

Pulling out my phone, I check the time. “I should go, actually. I’m in at five tomorrow morning.”

“And you’re still here drinking beer?” Her judging eyes assault me.

I look to my still-three-quarters-full glass and push it aside. There’s no way I’m finishing it now. “It’s yours if you want it.” I slide it over to Harrison, not dignifying Carrie with a response. “Thanks for the chat.”

“I’d love to do it again sometime,” he says, full concentration on me, as though Carrie is invisible.

“Just say when and where, and I’ll be there,” I reply sweetly.

With that, I stand, brushing past Carrie and heading back into the night. I’m not sure if my response would have been the same if it wasn’t for her proximity, but why not? You never know.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Mark VanCleer @BrightsideBP

@BootsMD What happened to you last night? The #coconuts missed you!

“Let’s review our ABCs.” Dr. Kelly addresses the group of us who are huddled around him for our morning briefing, but I know his words are meant for me. Knees wobbling, I feel like I’m center stage and the spotlight is on me. Maybe I should have gone to the burlesque show last night. Vivian could have taught me a thing or two.

“Dr. Conrad,” Dr. Kelly says. “A is for…”

“Airway.” The word releases in a rush, and I tilt my chin up so he can’t see my lips trembling.

He continues past me. “B is for breathing, C is for circulation…”

“Let’s just make sure we get groin lines put in,” he concludes. “As we recently learned, patients can bleed out. She was a goner, but it would have been nice to have a big line in.”

Inwardly, I shudder.

Dr. Kelly dismisses us to our rounds, but before I can go he pulls me aside. “Can I have a word with you?”

“Of course,” I reply, my voice catching in my throat.

He leads me to his office and closes the door behind us, gesturing for me to take the seat across from him.

Eyes burning, I stare at a glass pyramid etched with Congress of Plastic Surgeons Resident Award sitting on his desk. Having tossed and turned all night, alternating between replaying my conversation with Mark and thinking about Emily, I’m exhausted.

He gets right to the point. “Dr. Conrad. How do you account for Emily Blake’s death?”

Tearing my gaze from the award, I command my voice to hold steady. “It was an error in judgment. I should have put in a groin line.” My voice doesn’t obey, and tears prick my eyes, but I manage to keep concentrating on his face.

He nods, his lips closed in a firm line, concealing all emotion. “Thank you for your honesty. I’ve spoken with the board regarding this case, and they asked me to speak with you. I want you to know I don’t believe this death was your fault, and neither do they.”

To my horror the threatening tears fill my eyes and start to overflow. My breath catches in my throat, and I’m unable to respond. Mortified, I try to stop the emotional waterfall, but the flood is upon me and I am powerless. A sob escapes.

“Don’t beat yourself up over it,” he says, his voice flat. “These things happen. We thought she was stable, and even if you had put the line in and transfused blood like mad, with the extent of her injuries she wouldn’t have survived. It’s not your fault.”

It’s like he’s made of stone, and I can’t bring myself to believe him.

Closing my eyes against the cold, gray marbles examining me, I try to pull it together, knowing the plastics position is on the line, but my mind is spinning out of control, and suddenly I’m drowning in self-loathing. “I killed her,” I whisper. I want to drop to my knees, to curl into a wailing mass huddled in a corner, but I stay in my seat, my shoulders shaking.

He frowns. “The steering wheel killed her. Not you. Eventually you’ll get over this, I promise. Until then, all you can do is learn. No matter what a case’s outcome is, you should always think about what you could have done differently, done better. That’s what the practice of medicine is.”

His words meet a wall, and all of the foreign emotions swirling inside me boil over. “What if I don’t want to get over it? I don’t think it’s possible for me to view this girl as a specimen, to chalk the meaning of her life up to the role she played in mine.” I hiccup. “She’s a learning experience? Do you think I’m so narcissistic that I could believe she was put on this earth to ultimately make me a better doctor? It’s not right—”

“Listen,” Dr. Kelly halts my rant. “I’ve been authorized to offer you a short leave of absence. Why don’t you take a few days, a couple weeks even, to get your head straight. Make sure this is the right profession for you.”

The right profession? This is all I’ve ever wanted! Nobody has ever doubted me. Stunned, I stare at my lap, knowing I should prove I’m stoic enough to be his colleague, but I can’t hold my tongue. “You want me to leave? Because I can’t callously dismiss a death, a death that I had a hand in, I shouldn’t be a doctor?” I raise my eyes to his.

He peers back, his expression unreadable. “I’m not saying you shouldn’t be a doctor. All I’m saying is you’re emotional right now, and maybe you should think things through. Consider it a mental-health break. We all need them now and again.”

“Great. That’s just great,” I mutter. Holding my arms across my chest, I want to defend myself, but I’m so shocked that he thinks I’m crazy, I don’t know what to say.

“I’ll draw up the papers,” he says. “Go home. Take the time to really think about what you want for the future. You’re welcome back whenever you’re ready.”

I can only nod as everything I’ve worked for crumbles around me.

Back in my apartment, I stare at my phone, contemplating what to say to Mark. I need to apologize for flaking last night, and in my fragile state he’s the only person I want to talk to about the mess I’ve made. It’s not that I think he’ll understand; after all, rock stars don’t kill people. But I can’t help thinking hearing his voice will make me feel better. Not that I deserve his comfort.

I don’t know what to say, and my fingers tremble as I dial, but I call before I lose my nerve. What happened to the brave me? I don’t know who I am anymore.

The call goes straight to voicemail, and part of me is relieved.

Without thinking, I start talking. “Hey, Mark, it’s Boots. I wanted to apologize for skipping the show last night. I had a tough day at work, and I know that’s not a good excuse, but it got late and I thought I was better off going to bed. Next show, though, I’ll be there. I promise…” I pause. Not that my promises mean anything to him. “Anyway, break a leg on tour—well, not literally—maybe you need to bring a doctor along, just in case.” I laugh awkwardly, knowing I need to hang up. “Okay. Bye. Tuck Shop soon. On me. Bye.”

I end the call and sink onto my couch, wanting to keep my mind occupied, to keep from analyzing how the message will sound to him and to figure out what I’m going to do with my life. I’ll feel better if I have a plan.

Still craving his voice, I opt for the second best thing: Coconut Teaszer. Plugging my earbuds into my ears, I push play on “Home.”

If home is where the heart is, I’ve been living in my sleeve.

But maybe if I’m mobile there’s no way you’ll ever leave.

Home is at a distance from my shoulder to my hand,

Home with you is all that I have planned.

Letting his words wash over me, I find the answer. Maybe Dr. Kelly is right. Maybe I need a break.

Maybe I should go home.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Parker Mifflin @IsIndulgent

Need a special gift for my special someone. Something that will last as long as our love. Ideas?

Amanda Conrad @BootsMD

@IsIndulgent Diamonds are forever, penile implants last 8-12 years. Cheers!

Parker Mifflin @IsIndulgent

@BootsMD Oooooh…one of those is a girl’s best friend. Bottoms up!

“Boots! Are my eyes playing tricks on me?” Mama Rosie comes out from behind the bar, bumping into a stool that has been in the same location for years.

I meet her halfway, and she hugs me as tight as she can, her feeble arms unable to wrap me in their former strength.

“It’s not your eyes,” I say, basking in the warmth of her embrace despite her weakness. Her energy shines through, trouncing the creeping feeling in my bones that her body is failing her. “I’m home for a little while.”

She releases me, rubbing her hands on my arms, squinting at my face like she still thinks I might be an apparition. “You sit down and tell me what the hell you’re doing here when you’re supposed to be living the life of a high-profile New York City surgeon. Somehow I think this isn’t good news.”

“It’s not great,” I admit, taking a seat on the stool as she leans on the bar for support and makes her way to the well. “I don’t know if the New York City surgeon thing is going to work out. I sort of had a meltdown…”

“What happened?”

Disgusted with myself, I take a deep breath. “I made a mistake that I feel cost a girl her life, and they suggested I take a leave of absence to get over it and think about my career choice.” It’s the first time I’ve said it out loud, and the confession echoes across the bar.

“If I know you, it wasn’t your fault. You’re probably the best damn doctor they’ve got.”

“Not even close.” I shake my head. “I cried in front of my chief resident. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Ever since I got back from Africa it’s like I’m inside out. My skin is supposed to protect me, but instead I’m like a beacon for every emotion that aspires to being felt—every ache, every sleight, every sob story—I feel them all. It never used to be like this.”

“Maybe you’re in love.” She picks up a bottle of whiskey, her hand like a claw around its neck.

“You’re funny.”

“I’m serious. Once you find true love, it blooms inside you. You’re like the Grinch—your heart is swelling.”

“I should see a doctor then.”

She doesn’t laugh. “What’s wrong with a little vulnerability? Is the tough doctor act really working for you?”

“Not exactly.” I sigh.

“Well, there you go.” Dismissing me with a wave of her hand, she picks up a glass but loses her grip on the whiskey bottle, and it falls to the floor, fortunately landing on the cushioned bar mat and rolling to a stop.

“Damn hands,” she mutters, bending to retrieve the bottle.

Flying off my stool, I rush around the bar. “Let me help you.”

Shooing me away, she feels for the bottle, but her knees give out, and she topples to the floor, her body contorting into a pretzel shape.

For a moment I panic, standing frozen in place, but before I can will my limbs into action, she starts to breathe deeply, calming herself.

“What’s going on, Rosie? Have you gone to the doctor?” I drop to her side.

“Yes. Not that they answer my questions.” Her eyes well up, and she struggles to continue. “It’s MS,” she finally says. “I’ve been in and out of the hospital for the last month, but no one there cares. They shoot me up with drugs and send me on my way. I guess it’s working—there aren’t as many holes in my vision as there were—but I can’t stop the numbness. My body is going to give out, and then I’m going to die.”

Her admission cuts straight through me. “You’re not going to die.” I help her to her feet, conjuring the soothing doctor voice I’m still unable to master. “MS isn’t a death sentence. Plenty of people live with it. It can be managed.” But your life will never be the same. The thought ropes around my heart, squeezing it until I think it might burst, and I’m unable to fully mask my mourning for the loss of my energetic friend.

She leans heavily into my side as I bring her around the bar. “There are lots of drugs and therapies. We’ll figure out the best ones.” I deposit her on the stool and pull up another one next to her.

“If I could afford them.” Her shoulders slump, eyes trained on the bar’s worn wood grains. “My insurance coverage is pathetic, and some of those pills still cost thousands of dollars a month. With the bar in the state it’s in, I don’t know how I can ever afford it. It’s like I have to choose between my life and this place, but this place is my life. I don’t know what I’m going to do.” A single tear runs down her cheek.

I put my arm around her, knowing my words will sound empty, but I say them anyway. “We’ll find a way. I’m glad we know what it is—it’s much easier to fight an enemy when you know its strategy. Let me do some research on affordable treatments. I need something to do while I’m in town anyway, or else my mom might make me learn to crochet again, and you remember what happened last time—I made that really ugly doll that my aunt wanted to use for voodoo.”

Mama Rosie laughs, drying her tears with a bar napkin. “We can’t have that, now.” She plants her feet and stands, determined. “Enough about me. Finish your story.”

I watch as she heads to the back of the bar, her tight red dress that matches her lipstick clinging to her still-youthful frame. It’s not fair. She again picks up the whiskey bottle, resolving to pour my drink. I want to help, but I know it’s important to her to do it on her own.

Instead, with a grimace, I tell her the whole story.

“See,” she says when I finish, triumphantly setting my drink in front of me. “It wasn’t your fault. Your boss is right. She probably would have died anyway, and she was lucky to have someone who cared, who didn’t treat her like a specimen. You saw her. You honored her existence. Maybe you’re not like the other doctors—and I think that’s a good thing.”

“Thank you.” Wiping tears from my cheeks, I compose myself. “It has made me do some thinking about what direction I should be going in, if I’m on the right path. But at the end of the day, being a surgeon is what I’ve been dreaming of my whole life, and it would break my dad’s heart if I quit now. He’s beside himself that they sent me home—he’s barely speaking to me.” Sampling my cocktail, I try to shake off his disappointment, but it’s carving me in two. “No, I have to see this through. This is just a hiccup.”

“Your dreams can still come true even if you take a detour, you know.” She leans heavily on the bar for support, like she needs a rest. “The path isn’t always clear-cut.”

“Dreams plural? I have only one dream. If I’m not a plastic surgeon, or trying to become one, what am I? Besides a failure. Giving up on surgery is basically giving my identity a celestial discharge.”

“Hmph.” She points a long red nail at me. “If you don’t know who you are without the title then you should explore some other parts of life. Challenge your definition of success. Get out of your bubble. It might take longer to get wherever you’re going, but that’s part of the fun. Think of all the little celebrations you’ll miss out on if you get where you’re going too fast. It’s okay to slow down, Boots.”

“You sound like Mark,” I say into my glass.

“Now you’re speaking my language.” Her eyes light up. “Please tell me you saw him. I’ll be terribly disappointed if you spent all that time in New York and didn’t hook up with him.”

“I definitely didn’t hook up with him.” Setting down my drink, I chew on my thumbnail, guilt over Mark replacing my grief for Emily.

“That’s a shame.” She grins. “But you saw him?”

“Yes.”

“How was it?”

“Magical and heartbreaking—confusing.” I sigh. Cognizant of my chewing, I force my hand flat on the bar. “It’s not meant to be. He’s seeing someone else. A burlesque dancer. I can’t compete with her. I’m not even a doctor right now, and that’s the only thing that makes me interesting.”

“Honey, you don’t need to compete with her.” She places a hand on her hip. “You’re a class act.”

“I don’t know. He’s probably mad at me. I promised I’d go to his show, and then I didn’t show up, and I haven’t talked to him since.” I play with my straw. “I wouldn’t blame him if he hated me.”

“Why didn’t you show up?”

“The dancer. The death. The cute resident I work with…pick an excuse.”

“The cute resident I accept, but excuses I do not. It may be none of my business, but since I’m a dying woman, I’m going to start speaking my mind.”

“Start?” I ask, raising my eyebrows. “And none of that dying stuff, please.” I stare her down, but I’m relieved to catch a glimpse of the old Rosie.

“I’ve been holding my tongue about you and that Derrick nonsense for years,” she says. “You play it safe, wasting your time with someone who doesn’t challenge you, who can’t hurt you. Why? You’re so brave in other parts of your life.”

I shrug. “I don’t have time to commit to a real relationship. I have years of residency ahead of me. It isn’t fair to ask anyone to wait.”

“I think it’s more than that. What are you afraid of?”

“I don’t know.” I fidget with my glass, shifting uncomfortably on the stool, and dig deep for the answer Rosie is a master at drawing out. “Mark makes me feel things I’ve never experienced before… I guess I’m afraid of losing myself, of becoming a ghost. I think I could be all in with him, but I have to keep a little piece of me for me, because that’s what gives me value. I don’t want to get sidetracked. I have to become a doctor first. Why would anyone want me otherwise? And then someday I can be a doctor who is also a wife.”

“Why does doctor come first? You have to seize opportunities when they present themselves. Take it from me, you don’t want to miss out. When my dad left me this place, I gave up everything to make it into a name—a place bands had to play. I invested my entire life in it, but it never lived up to my vision, and now here I am, dying, with no one to take care of me.” Dunking a towel in the sink, she slowly starts wiping down the bar. “Sometimes I regret it, you know? Never getting married, never having kids—because that didn’t seem cool—it didn’t fit into the world I was trying to be a part of. But, Boots, there’s more to life than work, than what your dad considers success. You gotta take chances, stare fear in the face, and go for the life you really want, even if it means risking your heart.”

“That’s all well and good, Rosie, but he’s not exactly presenting an opportunity. He seems okay with the way we left things. I might have been the only one feeling magic.” My voice cracks, and deep down I can’t fully believe it’s true. It wouldn’t have happened with anyone else… “Besides, maybe I’m into Mark because he’s so sought after. I’m competitive. What if once I have him, I don’t want him anymore? What if it’s about the chase?”

“Maybe that’s something you should find out for sure.” She pauses, wringing the sopping towel, her hands clenched, unable to squeeze it dry. “You know what I think?” She doesn’t wait for a response. “I think that’s why you’re here—to explore other avenues.” Giving up on the towel, she leaves it in a wet ball next to the sink and turns her full focus to me. “Promise me while you’re home you’ll take a risk. Do something that scares you.”

I look around the bar, at her life’s work, and something Mark said in Africa pops into my head: “Opportunity finds you when it’s ready, not when you are.” Rosie’s right. I’ve got to be open to being found. You never know when it will be too late. “Okay. On one condition,” I finally say. “You have to do the same. Maybe being diagnosed with MS is a sign for you.”

“Ha!” She snorts. “Aren’t we a pair? Death and disease, giving us a new lease on life.”

“I’ll give it a shot if you will,” I say, knowing I’ll do anything to keep her going, keep her fighting. “I’ll open myself up to love if you agree to stop thinking of MS as a death sentence.”

Considering, she narrows her eyes before nodding. “Done. If that’s what it takes to get you together with Mark, you’ve got yourself a deal.”

She shakes my hand, and her grip is firmer than I’ve felt it in ages.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Amanda Conrad @BootsMD

You can remind me that the county hospital scrambled eggs are made from a powder all you want… NOTHING IS TASTIER. #BreakfastCraving

Harrison Segal @DrSeeYouNow

I just Lol’d @BootsMD. Missed you on rotation last night. County hospital date when you return? #MyTreat

Amanda Conrad @BootsMD

@DrSeeYouNow You sure know how to tempt a girl…

“How is it being home?” Liv asks.

I put down the medical memoir I’m reading by the fire in my parents’ living room and cradle the phone against my shoulder. “Let’s see. I’ve made six kinds of cupcakes and mastered crow pose in yoga…” Restless, I stand and start pacing the length of the room.

“That sounds fun, and it’s good that you’re relaxing. As Parker would say, you deserve a break.”

“Relaxing? Ha!” I stab at the fire, stoking it. “I don’t think it’s possible for me to relax. Being home gives me anxiety. The one time I felt productive was when the teacher in my mom’s reupholstering class sat on the cushion I made and got stabbed with a staple—it took two stitches to close the wound. I can stitch up human skin, but I can’t make a dining room chair cover. It must be a sign that I’m not cut out for homemaking. I need to go back to work.”

“Or I have another idea to get you out of the house…” She pauses, and I can hear her grinning. “Coconut Teaszer is playing a show at Altar Bar in Pittsburgh on Halloween. It’s a costume party, and I could get you tickets…”

My spine stiffens. Mark never called me back, so I’m pretty sure he’s over me. I’ve been holding up my end of Rosie’s bargain by flirting with Harrison via text, though I can’t ignore my heart’s excited patter at the prospect of seeing Mark again. “You’re out of your mind. What would I dress up as? That’s your territory, not mine.”

“A ghost bride?”

“Good call. Becoming one of those is my worst nightmare.”

She laughs. “Let me think on it. I’ll come up with something. But you should go. He’d love to see you.”

“How do you know?”

“He asked Berkeley about you just yesterday. He wanted to know if you got out much.”

I wince. “I don’t know, Liv. I don’t want to intrude. I’m sure he’ll be busy with the band and his burlesque girlfriend.” I shudder to imagine what she’ll be dressed as.

“He doesn’t have a girlfriend,” she says. “I know for a fact he’s never been serious with anyone. The girls he dates are always just for fun. Kind of like you and Derrick.”

“If you say so…” I should apologize in person, make things right once and for all. I sigh, knowing what Mama Rosie would say. “I’ll think about it.”

“Botox! It’s supposed to relax the muscles…and you’ll look great.” I slide a research packet across the bar to Mama Rosie. She picks it up, leafing through. “It’s really supposed to help, and it isn’t too expensive.”

She considers for a minute. “I guess it’s worth a shot…”

“Or two.” I smile.

“I’ll try it, but on one condition. You have to go to this.” She slides a flyer across the bar to me.

I know what it is without looking at it. “I’m not going to that.”

“We have a deal, missy.” She points a long red fingernail at me. “He’s in town. This is your chance!”

“It’s supposed to be a great show,” Derrick says, coming up next to Mama Rosie and reading over her shoulder. “And that venue is kick-ass. I saw Pardus play there a couple weeks ago.”

“Pardus?” I ask, the name ringing a bell.

“Yeah. They’re a death metal band. Totally awesome. Pardus means ‘leopard’ in Latin. Isn’t it a great name? I was thinking of getting it tattooed across my back.”

Mama Rosie swats at him with the packet. “You don’t need any more tattoos. You hardly have any skin left.”

I’m barely listening to them. Pardus means leopard? That explains serendipity…

“Rosie, do you have Halloween plans?” I pick up the flyer, considering it. “I’m not going alone.”

“I’ll go with you,” Derrick says.

“You’ll do no such thing,” Mama Rosie says. “You have to work.” She turns to me. “I don’t know, Boots. I don’t want to slow you down. You and Stephanie go.”

“Come on, Rosie, I’d rather go with you. When was the last time you went to a show?”

“It’s been awhile,” she admits. “I just don’t move like I used to. I think my concert days are over.”

“They aren’t over. You always say you miss the old days, being behind the scenes,” I say. “No promises on meeting the band, but it will be like old times. You promised not to give up on life, and if I go, I need someone with experience to help me navigate the scene. Please come with me.”

“Well, if it will guarantee you keep an open heart…” She taps her fingers on the bar, contemplating. “Fine. But what should I dress up as? A sexy patient? Can you get a hospital gown for me?”

“How about a sexy zookeeper?” I suggest, grinning. “I think I might go as a leopard.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Harrison Segal @DrSeeYouNow

Green face paint/exam gloves/scrubs: check. Afro, love beads, heart-shaped goggles: check. #Retrovirus costume: complete.

Amanda Conrad @BootsMD

@DrSeeYouNow Oooh. Points for creativity! Thank you for not just wearing a red nose and going as Patch Adams. #TooEasy

Harrison Segal @DrSeeYouNow

@BootsMD Dr. Kelly is wearing a T-shirt that says “I’m an organ donor: Need anything?”

Amanda Conrad @BootsMD

@DrSeeYouNow Inappropriate! Does he know that’s a creepy pickup line? But at least he didn’t show up as the grim reaper…

“I look ridiculous. Where is Liv when I need her?” I mutter, self-conscious in my animal-print leotard. After trying for hours to transform myself into a leopard reminiscent of the sleek cat we witnessed in Africa—the effect of my pinned-on tail and painted whiskers was more homeless kitten than sexy cat—I gave up and taped Band-Aids over the ears on my headband. This way if anyone questions my feline prowess, I can claim I’m a “Deaf Leopard” (Def Leppard). I can’t imagine facing Mark with so blatant an innuendo—and having the joke on standby gets me out the door.

“You’re adorable,” Rosie says as we climb the steps to the old brick church that now houses the club. “He’s going to love it.” Having costumed herself as red-haired Britney Spears from the “Toxic” video and wearing a low-cut black body suit, you’d never know she was sick to look at her. Her difficulty navigating the stairs is the only giveaway, and I help her shuffle through the doors.

“If he sees me,” I reply, handing our tickets and IDs to the bouncer. Our hands are stamped, and we get in line to check our coats. I watch the girl in front of me shed her winter cocoon to reveal a sexy butterfly costume. She probably has a better shot at being noticed than I do.

“What do you mean ‘if’ he sees you? You told him you’re coming, right?” Rosie asks.

“No…” I stare at my ballet-slippered toes.

“Why not?” She trades her coat for a ticket and tucks it into her purse.

“Because I wanted to be a surprise.” It’s true, but it’s only half the reason. Though Liv offered tickets, I didn’t tell her I was coming, preferring to leave a meetup with Mark to chance. Part of me needs some serendipity to be convinced that this is the path I should be heading down.

“Well, I’m going to make sure he gets his surprise, then.”

Laughing, I hug her. “I love you, Rosie.”

Winter layers accounted for, we enter the venue on the balcony level, looking out over a sea of heads to the stage at the far end of the room. The opening act is already playing, and the floor is packed with hundreds of dancing bodies. All these people are here to see him. How will I ever stand out?

But then I remember I’m dressed as a leopard. Imagining what he’ll think if he sees me, I start to sweat, wishing I’d worn anything else. “Maybe I’ll wait until after the show to find him,” I yell over the crowd noise. “I don’t want to bother him when he’s about to go on.”

Rosie shakes her head.

“Come on.” I drag her toward the bar to avoid the reprimand I know is imminent. “Let’s get a drink.” Part of me feels like I’ve fulfilled my end of the “open to love” bargain just by showing up, though with the lights through the stained-glass window behind the bar shining down on me, I’m reminded this used to be a church, and I must confess: deep down I’ll be severely disappointed if I don’t see him.

“Good luck with that,” she says, gesturing at the massive line as we wedge ourselves at the end of it.

The first act finishes their last song, and the crowd cheers. The lights come up, and the crush of people behind us push forward as everyone scrambles for refills.

“Don’t you think it might make sense to text him?” she shouts. The line moves surprisingly fast, and we reach the bar. Rosie orders a Devil’s Punch—the cocktail special—for me and a Diet Coke for her.

“Maybe. Let’s see where the night goes.” The drinks arrive, and I take a big gulp, needing liquid courage.

Behind us the crowd erupts in screams, and I turn in time to see Coconut Teaszer take the stage. Along with everyone else, we rush toward them, trying to get closer, but it’s no use. The front of the stage is already twelve rows deep with fans.

The house lights dim, and spotlights cast sinister shadows over the band. Dressed in torn tuxedos, their features are camouflaged with black and white zombie makeup. They look like they’ve just risen from an Old Hollywood grave.

Mark steps to the microphone, guitar in hand, jumpstarting my pulse. It’s really him. Whoever did his makeup was a pro, hollowing his cheeks and shredding the flesh on his chin. He even wears contacts that white out his eyes. It should void them of emotion, render him a stranger, but I instantly feel the crackle of connection. He must feel it, too, because his eyes are like magnets to mine, and despite the disguise, I catch a glimpse of my farm boy.

He betrays no sign of recognition. Maybe I’m imagining things…

“Good evening, Pittsburgh,” he says. He keeps his face slack, succeeding at his best zombie impression, though he doesn’t stay serious for long—or scare anyone—as he breaks into an engaging smile. “You guys look a little dead out there. Let’s see if we can dance some life into you.” Dropping his chin, he starts to play the opening riffs to Oingo Boingo’s “Dead Man’s Party,” and everyone screams, jumping to life and singing along to the surprise cover song.

Rosie rocks back and forth next to me, unable to full-out dance, though I know she wants to, but I stay still, watching Mark, entranced. To me, he is both familiar and unfamiliar, his presence commanding attention, and I can tell he’s more comfortable being a front man since the last time I saw them play. He stands out, and I’m pretty sure it’s not just to me. As he works the stage, he morphs into what everyone else sees him as: a star. And suddenly I’m intimidated, tiny, a nobody. I’m just one of six hundred faces turned toward him, begging to be noticed. But then he walks over to the bass player and they do a silly zombie dance together. His sweetness shines through the swagger, and it’s like he’s one of us, just here to have a good time. Their comradery takes me back to Africa, and for a moment I’m cuddled next to him in the back of the Jeep, singing my heart out—until the crowd erupts, bumping me forward into a band of sexy dancing pirates, and the memory evaporates.

Rosie grabs my tail and tugs me toward her. “Don’t overthink it, doll. Just let it happen.”

I nod. Just like in Africa, just like a last hurrah… Taking a deep breath, I exhale my anxiety about the end of the night and let myself go. With my arm around Rosie, we sway together, getting lost in the music.

An hour later, when Coconut Teaszer leaves the stage, I’m sweaty and disheveled, my whiskers probably melting. “Are you ready to go?” I ask, my nerves returning. Maybe showing up was enough of an apology—I can text him later and tell him I loved it.

Mama Rosie grips my arm in response, her fingers cutting into my flesh with surprising strength. “Uh-uh. I’m not letting you out of this. It’s time you take charge. Go after this with the same passion you have for pursuing medicine. Be the doctor who loves.”

I frown. Easier said than done. Logically I know she’s right, but that doesn’t change the fact that my knees are shaking in terror. I’m carrying years of armor locked around my heart, and even though I want to be free of the shackles, I’ve misplaced the key. “I don’t know where to find him. If he saw me, he’ll find me.” The excuse sounds lame, even to me.

“What are you going to do? Hang out and hope he comes looking for you?”

“I was thinking we could walk slowly toward the exit. Maybe I’ll run into him.”

“Because that’s going to happen. There’s a meet and greet in the VIP bar upstairs,” she says, pointing at a sign that says exactly that. “Why don’t we try to get discovered up there?”

We stand at the base of the stairs, facing off.

“We don’t have VIP tickets.”

“You could text him…” Hands on her hips, she purses her lips. Sticky with gloss, they make a smacking noise when she speaks again. “Or do you want me to pull some strings? See what I can do?”

As she says it, I feel a tap on my shoulder.

“’Ey, Boots?”

Whipping around, I immediately recognize Haynes, and a mixture of excitement and dread collides in my chest.

“Hi, how are you?” I hug him hello.

“Hello,” he says, hugging me back. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

“Why?” I take a step back and almost bump into a sexy sailor who is trying to talk her way upstairs. “How did you know I was here?” I ask, hoping Mark mentioned he saw me from the stage.

“Liv said you might show up. You should have told us; we would have given you tickets. You didn’t have to buy them.”

“I didn’t want to be a nuisance.”

“It’s no trouble; you’re family. Come up and say hi. Mark will be excited to see you.”

“I don’t want to be in the way. I’m sure he’s busy…”

“He’ll never be too busy for you, promise.” He guides me toward the stairs. “Come on, he’d never forgive me if I let you get away.”

“Okay,” I concede. “But just because I don’t want to get you in trouble. And this is my friend Rosie. Can she come, too?” I gesture to her.

“Of course.” He shakes her hand. “’Ey, Rosie. Pleasure.”

“We’ve actually met before. You ate at my restaurant last year. We used to house the best underground club in the state, and we talked about the Brightside playing a secret show there someday.” She’s in her element, all business.

Haynes pauses, thinking. “Right,” he finally says. “Great eggplant parmesan. Berkeley’s favorite.”

“Melenzane Florentine. My great-grandmother’s recipe. House specialty,” she says. “You come to dinner next time you’re in town and we’ll talk. It’s on me.”

“I’ll remember that.” He flashes her a smile. “But for now, follow me.”

He leads us to the bouncer, who lifts the velvet rope to let us pass, and I take Rosie’s arm to help her navigate the stairs.

When we emerge in the VIP bar, my eyes go straight to Mark. He’s signing autographs and mingling among a line of girls dressed in sexy costumes. Though he still wears his zombie makeup, he’s removed his contacts and his eyes are back to normal. In fact, I daresay they’re sparkling as he chats up the girls.

Craving that devilish smile I know so intimately, I adjust the neckline on my leotard, wishing I had time to reapply my whiskers.

“You can wait here,” Haynes says, depositing us in a corner. “He’ll be done in a few minutes. Do you want something to drink?”

“Sure,” Rosie replies, grabbing my arm and pulling me down onto a nearby couch. “We were drinking Devil’s Punch.”

“You got it.” Haynes hurries off.

“You, too?” I ask, surprised at her order.

“I’ll just have a taste. Everything in moderation, right, doc?” She smiles. “It’s fine. My doctor said a drink here and there is safe. Besides, between the stumbling and the slurred speech, people probably already think I’m drunk. I might as well embrace the part. And I’m going to live it up. Who knows when I’ll get to be backstage again.”

The yearning in her voice tightens my throat.

“Now don’t be nervous,” she whispers before I can respond. “What are you going to say when you see him?”

“I don’t know. Sorry I stood you up is probably a good place to start.” Again my costume’s implications bombard me, and I have the urge to bolt down the stairs, but I remain frozen in place.

Haynes returns with our drinks. “I’ll send him over in a minute,” he says before hurrying off again.

My mouth feels like it’s full of cotton and I gulp my drink down, watching him approach Mark. He taps him on the shoulder, whispering in his ear. A moment later, Mark looks our way, and an instant spark sends chills to my toes. Waving, he breaks into a slow grin, and I find myself fantasizing him dropping everything and crossing the room to me. But of course he doesn’t. He goes back to work, expertly charming, signing autographs, until the line dwindles.

When the last costume has been escorted out and only the band and a chosen few remain, Mark makes his way to Rosie and me. I tighten my fist into a ball until my fingernails cut into my hand, my chest growing tighter with each approaching step.

“Boots! I thought I saw a leopard in the crowd. You finally made it to a show.”

Standing unsteadily, I start to babble. “I’m sorry about last time. It got late, and I had an early shift—”

He wraps me in his arms, silencing me, and I lean my head on his shoulder, savoring the instant comfort he brings.

“I know. I got your message.” His breath on my ear sends shivers down my spine. “I’m sorry I didn’t call you back. We had spotty reception on the bus, and then things got crazy.” He releases me. “I’d rather have you here tonight, anyway. I was hoping the leopard was you. I’m glad you’re real. I thought I was imagining things.”

“I’m a deaf leopard, actually,” I quickly explain, pointing to my bandaged ear.

“So you still haven’t heard us live.” He breaks into a crooked grin. “Or were we that bad?”

“No!” I laugh. “You were incredible.”

I forget Rosie is there until she elbows me.

“Oh! Mark, this is my friend Rosie.” I usher her forward.

Mark shakes her hand. “Nice to meet you. What are you girls up to tonight?”

“I don’t know.” I shrug. “We were about to leave when Haynes found us.”

“You were going to leave without saying hi?” He raises his eyebrows.

Guilty, I concentrate on his jacket. “I didn’t want to bother you.”

“You could never bother me. I’m glad you came. It saves me from having to track you down.”

My lips part in surprise, but he continues before I can ask if he’s serious.

“Do you ladies know a good place for late-night food around here?” he asks. “I’m starving.”

Rosie and I look at each other, and she nods.

“Do you have anywhere to be?” I ask him. “The place I’m thinking of is a little ways away.”

He glances over his shoulder, and I follow his gaze, glimpsing a girl wearing a black corset and rabbit ears—a wannabe Playboy Bunny—before he turns back to me. Vivian?

“Nope. We’re staying in a hotel tonight—we’re off tomorrow—it’s laundry day. We don’t have to be in Alexandria until the next day.”

“In that case, I have just the place. Though I think you’ve eaten there before…”

“I’m intrigued,” he says. “I hope you don’t mind being seen with a zombie.”

“I can’t think of anyone living I’d rather be seen with,” I reply.

He smiles. “Let me take care of a couple things, then I’m yours.”

Disappearing for a moment, he confers with Haynes before returning and sliding his arm around my shoulders.

“Lead the way.”

Guiding us forward, I look back over my shoulder and catch a glimpse of Haynes delivering the bad news to the bunny. At first I cringe, unsettled that Mark so easily discarded her, but then I remember what Liv said about the company he usually keeps, and I push the feeling away, instead resolving to enjoy the warmth that is shimmering in my chest. He picked me.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Mark VanCleer @BrightsideBP

So a meatball-eating zombie walks into a bar…

“I remember this place,” Mark says as Mama Rosie unlocks the bar. “The Neon Pineapple?”

“The one and only.” Smiling, Rosie turns off the alarm.

“Crazy.” He stares up at the fluorescent signage above the bar, the red light from the neon letters casting a pink glow on his pallid zombie skin. “Ted was obsessed with this place and its musical history. He brought us here the last time the Brightside played Pittsburgh. I remember the food was really good, and there was a waitress who sang to us? Elphaba?”

“Elzbieta,” Rosie says, flicking on the lights. “She doesn’t work here anymore—she went back to Lithuania. But you have an incredible memory. You must meet tons of people; how can you remember that?”

“The people I meet are my favorite part of touring. They’re what define a place. The cities are usually a blur—all we see is the inside of clubs and hotel rooms—but the people keep it interesting.”

“I’m impressed.” She hands me her keys, giving me a nod of approval. “Help yourself to anything. Just lock up when you’re done.”

“Do you need help getting upstairs?” I ask. Rosie lives in a tiny apartment above the restaurant.

“No. Tonight I’m feeling more like myself than I have in years. I can handle them. Enjoy yourselves.”

Before I can protest, she makes her exit, but not before giving me a glare that commands I sacrifice my heart to the zombie.

“Nice lady,” Mark says. “I remember her, too. But you—you weren’t here. You, I definitely would have remembered.”

Heat rises under my whiskers. “Oh yeah?” I tug him toward the kitchen, needing to escape to the walk-in to cool down. Don’t overthink things. Be yourself. See what happens. “How do you know I wasn’t studying in a corner somewhere?”

“Because we would have met. I would have made sure of it. I have a sixth sense for pretty girls, and I never forget a face.”

Pleasure ripples through me as I prop open the refrigerator door with a pony keg so we won’t get locked in.

“Were you here?” he asks, leaning against the walk-in door and folding his arms across his chest.

Rising to my tiptoes, I shrug, pretending to be busy rummaging through shelves but really wanting to give him a better look. “Maybe your radar was off that night…”

His jaw drops. “There’s no way I would have missed you. Trust me.”

The look on his face is so earnest I can’t help but giggle. “No, I wasn’t here. Which is unusual. I used to study here practically every night.” Finding the container of meatballs soaking in marinara—because that’s what I imagine us eating when I indulge in top-secret fantasies where he shows up at Rosie’s—I pull it down.

He considers me. “Don’t you think it’s kind of crazy?”

The sincerity in his voice halts my laughter and, grabbing a bag of mozzarella, I move to shimmy past him. “What’s crazy?” As I ask, my ballet-slippered foot slips on the tile that is wet from the keg’s condensation. My hands full of meatballs, I have nothing to brace myself with, and I start to go down, but at the last second Mark twists and catches me around the waist. My momentum is too much for the both of us, though, and he can’t plant his feet in time. Screeching, I take him down with me, and the meatballs go flying, crashing to the floor. We land in a heap.

“Are you okay?” He holds me to his chest as the meatball container rolls to a stop.

“I think so.” Feeling his strength against my back, longing overtakes me, and I relax into the warmth of his embrace. “First you save me from the mud and now meatballs.”

His arms tighten around me, and my heart thumps.

“And here I thought cats always land on their feet.” He pats my hair. “Steady there, kitty.”

“Apparently this leopard isn’t just deaf, she’s balance-challenged, too.” Taking a deep breath, I tilt my face up to him and confess, “She’s far from perfect.”

His fingers gently trace the length of my whiskers, his touch sending little sparks down my spine. “I wouldn’t have her any other way.” Butterflies flutter to life in my belly, and I’m being drawn into him, propelled by some hypnotic force. He lowers his face to mine just as the damp cold starts to seep through my tights. He must feel it, too, because suddenly he straightens and helps me to my feet.

Disappointment thuds in my gut, and I wince. “At least the meatballs survived,” I say, composing myself and attempting to appear unaffected as I pick up the container that fortunately remained sealed.

“That’s good, because this zombie needs more than just flesh to survive.”

That’s unfortunate.

Heading for the stove, I dump the meatballs into a pan and start heating them, reassessing my wants. This was so much less scary when it was a fling…but nothing has to happen tonight. Just gauge his feelings, see if he’ll accept you even if all you have to offer is meatballs.

“Rosie clearly trusts you with the place.” He leans against the salad-station counter, as comfortable in the kitchen as he was onstage, and I marvel that he’s really here.

“She’s one of my best friends. This place is like a second home to me.” Tossing the meatballs into a bowl, I smother them with mozzarella and place them under the salamander to brown.

He looks out into the dining room. “This doesn’t look anything like my home, but it’s got a great vibe, like you’d want to have a big dinner here with a bunch of your friends.”

“And what does your home look like?” The cheese is bubbling on the meatballs, and grabbing the bowl with a towel in one hand and a hunk of Italian bread in the other, I lead us back into the bar.

“Which one?”

“How many do you have?”

“A few. Or maybe none.” Fluffing out the tails on his tuxedo jacket, he takes a seat on a barstool.

Setting the meatballs down as he talks, I walk behind the bar and pull out two sets of silverware rolled in red cloth napkins. “Dig in.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice. Thank you for cooking. I appreciate it.” He stabs a meatball. “I have an apartment in L.A. and an apartment in New York, but I spend most of my nights in a bunk on a tour bus—these are delicious, by the way,” he says as he eats. “Is that what makes a home? Where you sleep?”

“Oh God, I hope not. I spend most of my nights in a hospital. I’d rather saw off an arm than call it home.” Ducking behind the bar, I retrieve a cask of wine and two short glasses.

“As long as it’s not your arm. That’s reserved for me.” Rolling his eyes back, his features yield to the zombie makeup.

“Finish your meatballs first, then we’ll talk about dessert.” I laugh, a bartender drawn to her boyish patron, and it’s not lost on me that this is reminiscent of our night in the Rose Bar in South Africa, except tonight our roles are reversed.

His laughter mingles with mine, and the room takes on the hazy glow of memory. Comforted, I bravely speak my heart before I lose my nerve. “I’m glad you’re here.” I pour the wine.

His sparkling eyes meet mine. “I’m glad, too.”

A thrill shoots from my stomach to my toes, and heat builds between us. But then my brain decides to overcompensate for my heart and I feel the need to become the carefree girl I was in Africa; the girl he was into.

“So a leopard and a zombie walk into a bar…” I say, sliding a wineglass toward him.

He doesn’t miss a beat. “But the leopard ducks to pick up the zombie’s head off the floor and says ‘you should really watch where you’re walking’.”

It takes me a second, but then I giggle. “Literally a bar. Not bad, not bad.” Walking out from behind the bar, I pull up a stool next to him. My knee brushes his leg as I sit and, liking the connection, I let it rest there.

He makes no moves to dislodge it. Grinning, he scoots my stool closer to him. “So, you didn’t tell me what you’re doing in Pittsburgh,” he says. “NYU let you have a weekend off?”

Sobering, I sigh, dunking a hunk of bread into the sauce, concentrating on navigating around the meatballs while I decide how much I want to tell him. My instinct is to gloss over it, to hide my shortcomings, and I force myself to go against my will. “I’m sort of on a break…a leave of absence to get my head straight. That’s what happens when you kill someone. It’s kind of hard to talk about.”

“I won’t force you to.” He sounds concerned, and his fingers gently circle my wrist, their pressure making me tingle, giving me courage.

“It’s okay. I should talk about it, get used to saying it out loud. My chief resident says I need to get over it.” I sip my wine with my free hand, afraid to move my other one for fear he’ll let me go—that it will break the connection I so desperately crave—and tell him an abbreviated version of the story.

“You can’t save everyone,” he says when I finish, his fingers still pressed to my wrist, my pulse thumping beneath them. “But it sounds to me like you did everything you could. It was just her time.”

“I keep telling myself that,” I say, empowered that he seems to accept me despite my mistake. “But I guess I’ve never known anyone who died besides my grandmother. And she was old and had lived a good life. This was like looking at myself on the table, and it made me question everything: am I doing enough? What am I here for? Am I supposed to be a doctor? What do I really want from life? I think I might be going crazy.”

“A little crazy is good sometimes.” He reaches out and straightens one of my cat ears.

Remembering him mentioning “crazy” before, I cock my head to the side. “Speaking of crazy, you never answered my question. What was so crazy earlier?”

Taking his hand back, and also letting my wrist go, he thinks for a minute, like he’s trying to remember what I’m talking about. To my relief, our connection continues across space, even without physical contact. It’s like I’m tied to him.

“Ah.” His face lights up, and he rubs his temples. “Sometimes after a show I have so much adrenaline I’m not in complete control—I go off on tangents, say things I shouldn’t.” He points at the last meatball. “Do you mind if I eat that? I can’t eat much before a show, also thanks to the adrenaline, so I’m usually starving afterward.”

“It’s all yours, but stop trying to distract me.” I put my hand on his thigh and lean into him. “Now I’m really curious. What was so crazy? You have to tell me.”

He smiles, finishing off the meatball, and I’m not certain, but his cheeks look pink under his makeup. The silence stretches as he chews. “Honestly?” he finally says. “I was thinking that it was crazy we were both here a year ago, that our paths were so close to crossing but didn’t.”

Goose bumps erupt on my arms, and the air pulsates, vibrating atoms bouncing between us, and I want to slide my hand farther up his leg, but I keep it in place. “Maybe it wasn’t meant to be,” I whisper. Yet.

“Do you believe that?” He places his hand over mine, clasping my fingers together with his.

I inhale sharply. “I don’t know. Do you?”

“I don’t know, but maybe we should find out.”

Picking up a piece of my hair with his free hand, he winds it around his finger. The tide pulls me under, and my stomach drops in anticipation.

He leans forward until our faces are so close our noses are practically touching. “We can’t control the timeline…”

“…opportunity finds you when it’s ready, not when you are.” I finish his sentence, and the room fades around us in a blur. He is all I see.

“I wouldn’t change anything about the way we met,” he says, his fingers now tangled in my hair, their grip inciting a pleasant ache in my neck and shoulders.

“Me neither.” Suddenly I’m back in Africa. I can practically feel the wind stinging my cheeks as we sail over terrain. The weight of the past weeks lifts, and that effervescent energy that could shoot me to the stars reverberates between us, binding us together. My entire body poised for action, I’m wound tight, and all I know is I want to give in to the pull, to feel his lips on mine again, to be pressed against him.

He shifts in his seat, his chin tilting toward mine. His hand finds the back of my neck and I submit to gravity, my lips parting in expectation of his, but at the last second he lets me go, and our connection fizzles. It’s as if the cord tying us together goes slack, and I scramble to reel him back in, but it’s too late. Distance wedges between us, chilling me.

Rubbing the back of his neck, he shakes his head like he’s trying to come to his senses. “Sorry. Adrenaline.” Releasing my fingers that he still holds in his other hand, he swings his legs around so they are under the bar and checks his watch. “Wow. It’s late.”

No!

“This was great and I don’t want it to end, but I should probably go.” He folds his napkin. “Can I help you clean up?”

“It’s okay,” I flounder, startled by the abrupt change of events, wishing for a better excuse to make him stay. “I’ll take care of it.”

“I feel bad leaving you with a mess.” He stands and pushes in his stool.

“It’s fine…”

He starts to head toward the door, and I scramble after him, still trying to make sense of what went wrong, to find a way to keep him. Suddenly he comes to a halt, and I almost slam into his back. Whipping around, he grabs my shoulders to steady me. “I’m just going to come out and say it. I’ve been thinking, would you want to come on tour with us?”

My jaw drops. “What?” Afraid to look anywhere else, I keep my focus trained on the zombie skin peeling off his cheek.

“You have questions,” he says. “Maybe I can help you find the answers.”

“Where would I sleep?” My heart thuds, and it’s the only question on my mind.

A smile forms on his lips and travels all the way to his eyes. “Don’t worry, it will be a friendly trip.”

I disguise my disappointment with bravado. “That’s not what I was asking. I literally meant ‘where will my bed be?’”

“I’ll have Haynes get a bunk ready for you. We have an empty one. This is perfect,” he says, letting go of my shoulders and tapping his fingers against his chin like he’s still convincing himself. “We head out to Alexandria the day after tomorrow. You can check out some other cities—Nashville, Charleston. Maybe you need a change of scenery—to get away from all the noise.”

“You’re impulsive.”

“Yes.” He raises his eyebrows. “You should try it sometime. See what happens.”

Knowing I can’t pass up this opportunity, I try to contain the chaos in my brain and be practical. I place my hands on my hips. “What about the other guys? I don’t want to crowd them.”

“Don’t worry about them. The more the merrier is their motto.”

He tugs me toward the door.

My heart wants to give in—to bask in the prospect of spending time with him—but my rational side has to weigh the decision. “Can I think about it?”

“Of course. Let me know tomorrow. Or technically today.” He comes to a stop in front of the door. “This was great, Boots. It felt like home, and I’d love to stay all night, but I really should go.”

Back to Vivian? I can’t silence the thoughts designed to keep my emotions in check, to keep my heart in my chest. He mentioned only guys, but what if she’s on tour, too? He said it would be friendly…could I handle seeing them together?

Every fiber of my being wants to ask him, to have him kiss me and tell me not to worry about Vivian, that he wants us to go on tour together. But I’m on lockdown, and the words won’t come. I exhale all the conflicting emotions churning inside me. “I understand. And if you need more home cooking, you should come to my parents’ house for Sunday dinner tomorrow night—I mean, tonight.” I unlock the door. What am I thinking? Subjecting him to my dad? Why can’t I just let him go? “But I’m sure you have something more exciting to do…”

“Just laundry,” he says. “I’d love to come. And maybe your family will help me persuade you to come on the road.”

“I highly doubt that.”

He smiles. “Tonight, then. Text me the address.” His eyes linger on me, and for a split second I think he’s going to reach out and touch my face, kiss my cheek—something!—but then the moment passes and he opens the door, blasting us in cold.

“Good night, Boots.” He steps outside with a small wave.

“Good night.” Caught in a swirl of confusion, I rub my arms as I watch him disappear down the street.

This is not how my fantasies usually end.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Mark VanCleer @BrightsideBP

Laundry day. Pittsburgh > Pitt-stains

“Why wouldn’t you go?” Mama Rosie asks. “You have no reason whatsoever not to.”

“Except that I don’t want to cramp his style. He made it pretty clear this is a friendly adventure, and I’m not sure I want to know what he does after hours or whose bed he ends up in.” After Mark left, I crashed at Rosie’s and have just ventured downstairs for the first time today. Despite it being a clear fall day, the decision to go on tour remains murky.

“Do you really think he’s out there hopping from bed to bed? I saw the way he was looking at you last night, and it seems to me that the one person he’s interested in is you.”

“You saw that Playboy Bunny.”

“Yes, but you don’t know who she was. She could have been there for another guy in the band for all you know. Besides, even if she meant to meet up with Mark, he ended up here.”

Waving my hand, I dismiss her. “Well, I’m starting to think I should go back to hopping from hospital bed to hospital bed.” As if on cue, my phone lights up with a text from Harrison: survived the “night of the living dead.” dr. kelly tried to intubate a skeleton. don’t you miss this?

I smile. Behind me the door opens, letting in a slice of daylight.

“Hey, Jim, the usual?” Mama Rosie asks.

“Yes, ma’am. I could use something that will take out the Sunday sting. Gotta ease into the week.” The door closes, plunging us back into darkness. “As my Jilly used to say, ‘the good Lord made Sunday mornings for repenting and Sunday nights for sinning,’” he continues. “Hiya, Bootsie.” He squeezes my shoulder before taking his usual seat at the end of the bar. “Gotta have a little dirt on the soul; it keeps you connected to your fellow man.”

“Hey, Jim,” I reply with a soft smile. His shoulders slump a little as he sits. Jill was his wife, and the two of them came in for martinis promptly at one o’clock every Sunday, after a morning spent volunteering at church. Even with her recent passing, he’s loyally upheld the tradition. It breaks my heart.

Standing on her tiptoes, Mama Rosie tries to reach a bottle of Tanqueray. Her fingers graze it, and it tips forward. Scrambling to catch it, her reaction isn’t fast enough, and it crashes to the floor, shattering. “Dammit!”

“Let me help you.” I hurry around the bar as she drops to her knees, her hands cramping as she attempts to pick up the shards of glass.

“Dammit,” she mutters again, trying to stretch out her fingers.

Grabbing a bar towel, I begin to sop up the mess. “I’ve got it. You go sit down. I can make his martini.”

“It’s so frustrating.” She sits back on her haunches, near tears. “Don’t let life pass you by, Boots, I mean it. You need to take this trip.”

“You okay down there, Rosie?” Jim asks.

“Just fine.” She moves to stand but topples forward.

Gripping her arm, I help her to her feet and take her around the bar to a stool. “Did you start that new prescription today?”

“No. It’s too expensive. I’m sticking with the old stuff. I can’t keep this place running and afford it.”

“There’s got to be a way.” Grabbing a broom, I sweep up the mess.

“Maybe I should sell. There are investors canvasing this street; one was in just the other day.”

“It’s something to consider,” I say, opening a new bottle of gin. “I know you don’t want to do it, and I’d be devastated to see the bar go, too, but your health is more important.”

“I wish there was another option, but I don’t see a way.” Elbows on the bar, she rests her forehead in her hands.

“I wish I could buy it.” I add olive juice to the martini shaker. “But I’m up to my eyeballs in student loans—it’s like having a mortgage—and it’ll take me thirty years to pay them off, even if I become a big-time surgeon.”

“Well, now,” Jim says, digging into his pocket. “Maybe this will help. I’ve been waiting for the right moment, and I don’t want you to say no. We wanted to do this. Some of us took up a collection.” He slides an envelope across the bar.

Tears spring to my eyes as I watch Mama Rosie pick up the envelope and struggle to tear it open. I want to help her but know her pride would resent me for it. She finally prevails, her face melting into tears when she sees what’s inside.

“It’s too much.”

“You always take care of us; now let us take care of you,” he says. “This place is all some of us have. What would we do without you? Get your medicine.”

My heart aches for both of them. “And here’s your medicine, Jim. It’s on me.” I set the martini in front of him. “Extra dirty—your soul seems a little too clean today.”

“We can’t have that, now, can we?” He smiles.

Rosie stands and takes a few shaky steps toward him, giving him a hug. “Thank you, Jim. Thank you.”

“It’s the least we could do.”

“You work here now?” Derrick walks into the bar, tying an apron around his waist.

“I wouldn’t have to if you were on time,” I say, rinsing out the martini shaker.

“Sorry, I got caught up in my latest project.” He joins me behind the bar, moving in to kiss me hello.

Dodging him, I return to my seat at the bar next to Rosie, letting Derrick take over.

“You have to seize this opportunity.” Mama Rosie picks up where she left off as soon as I’m settled. “Listen to your heart, and tell your brain to take a hike. Go, live your life.”

“But I’m confused.” I glance at the text from Harrison, still marked as unread on my phone. “What if I’m wasting time here when everything I’m meant for is there? What if I miss my chance at plastics? Abandoning my responsibilities isn’t how I operate. It feels like the longer I’m gone, the harder it’s going to be to explain when I go back.” My leg shakes beneath the bar, and I start to get antsy, the familiar need to be working overtaking me.

“The way I see it, you know what waits in New York. I say, try the unknown path, veer out of the ruts on the trail you’ve been carving. You’ll never know what’s out there unless you chase it.”

“Yeah, but I could end up in a ditch and get eaten by lions.” I tap my fingers on the bar.

“And have you ever felt more alive than you did that night? Would it be that bad?”

“I guess not…”

“Then at the very least, do it for me. Let me live vicariously.” She pulls her final card. “Life on the road! What I wouldn’t give for that.”

“When you put it that way… I’ll think about it.” I sigh. “And maybe it’s better if we go as friends. It’s less stressful that way.”

“You know my thoughts on that matter, but whatever gets you out the door,” Rosie says.

Again I check my phone, this time looking at the clock. I realize I need to get to dinner before Mark shows up. I haven’t told my parents he’s coming yet. “I have to go…Sunday dinner.”

“Enjoy it.” She takes my hand, holding me in place. “Hopefully I won’t see you tomorrow.”

“No promises.” Giving her a squeeze, I head out of the bar.

Chapter Thirty

Mrs. Bloom @PsychicMom1

Did you know the tomato is a nightshade, a known aphrodisiac? The secret’s in the marinara sauce! #AppleofLove

Entering the house through the kitchen door, I’m greeted by the smell of sausage and peppers sautéing in butter. Aunt Kat is standing at the island chopping vegetables for salad and sipping red wine while my mom stirs a pot on the stove.

“Boots!” Aunt Kat sets down her knife to give me a hug.

“Hi.” I kiss her cheek. “Happy Sunday.”

“Where have you been?” Mom asks, wiping her hands on a dish towel and taking her turn hugging me.

“I was at Rosie’s.” Disentangling myself from her embrace, I lift the lid off the sauce that has been simmering all day, inhaling oregano and garlic.

“You were there all night?” Mom asks. “You had me worried.”

“Mom, I’m an adult. You have to stop worrying. Yeah. It was Halloween and it got late so I stayed.”

She frowns. “Someday I hope you’ll understand…”

“Well, I’m here now.” I dip a spoon into the sauce and taste it. “What are you two up to?”

“We’re discussing the holiday lights tour we’re setting up for the seniors down at the center,” Aunt Kat says. “I’m in charge of bus rental.”

“That’s really nice. I’m sure they’ll love that. Anything you want me to do?”

“Go set the table?” Mom suggests.

“I was thinking more along the lines of tour guide, but sure. Is it okay if I set an extra place? I kind of ran into Mark from the Brightside last night and invited him over.” I say it quietly, hoping I’m not opening a can of worms. “You remember him from Africa? He was Berkeley’s best man?”

“I remember him,” Aunt Kat says, perking up. “I can’t wait to tell Liv.”

“It’s not what you’re thinking,” I say, hoping to trump any prophecies this news might trigger. “This does not need to spread through the Pittsburgh connection. He’s been on the road for a while and could use a home-cooked meal. That’s it. We’re just friends.”

“Mmm-hmm… Well, we’ll see what the angels have to say about it.” She picks up her purse and rummages through it. “I have a new angel card app on my phone…”

I shake my head, knowing there is no stopping her. “What dishes do you want to use, Mom?”

“Now that we’re having a rock star over for dinner, don’t you think we should use the Limoges?” She smooths her apron. “I wish you had told me sooner. I would have liked more time to prepare.”

“Mom, we’re having lasagna for dinner. We don’t need to use fine china. And please, he’s a normal guy. Don’t go crazy. I’m going to use the CorningWare.” I head to the butler’s pantry where she keeps her dish collection.

“No! Use the Pfaltzgraff. And the blue-checkered cloth napkins.”

“Fine. How many places?” I yell.

“Ten,” she yells back. “Aunt Patty and her gang couldn’t make it today. The kids weren’t feeling well.”

Sunday dinners are a long-standing tradition in Mom’s family, rotating from house to house every weekend. I actually missed them while I was in New York, though I’d never tell Mom that.

Dishes stacked in my arms, I walk to the dining room and am laying out plates at the long wooden table with benches on either side when the doorbell rings.

He’s here. My throat closes with nerves and, taking a deep breath, I head through the living room, where my brothers, Dad, and uncles Don, Steve, and Fred (Liv’s dad) are watching the Steelers play the Ravens on TV. Actually, to be fair, everyone is watching except my dad, who is reading the latest Ashley Gould Anderson medical thriller in the corner of the room.

“Hey, Boots!” Uncle Steve toasts me with his beer. “Long time no see!”

“Not since last weekend,” I say.

“Is that all it’s been?”

“Touchdown!” My brothers cheer, leaping up from the other couch.

“Get outta the way, Boots. We almost missed that play.” Trent throws a pillow at me as he falls back onto the couch.

I pretend-glare at him and keep heading for the door. “Hey. Mark from the Brightside is in town with his other band, and I invited him over. Be nice.”

“Really?” Evan perks up. “Awesome.”

“Is this a date?” Trent asks. “I’m going to have to make sure he’s good enough for my sister, you know.”

“Don’t you dare! It’s not a date.” Shuddering at whatever frat-hazing scheme he has in mind, I pass into the foyer and swing open the front door.

Mark is standing on the porch, looking both un-rock-star-like and un-zombie-like in a heavy winter coat, a pink bakery box and flowers in hand. Heat surges through me. He’s so delectable… And fizzles. Friends.

“Hey,” he says, seeming startled. “For a second I thought I had the wrong house. I was expecting whiskers.”

“No, you’re in the right place.” I smile. “And it’s a good thing you dropped the zombie act. We’re fresh out of brains.”

“I prefer meatballs, anyway. Or cupcakes.”

“Then you’re definitely in the right place.” I laugh.

He winks, thrusting the box and the bunch of delphiniums forward. “The flowers are for your mom and the cupcakes are for you.”

“Thank you. She’ll love them.” Accepting the box and flowers, I step aside to allow him to enter while I peek at the cupcakes. “Leopard-print frosting! Where did you find these?”

“I have secret sources in every city. You’ll see. Hopefully.”

“Maybe…” My hands now full, I bump the door shut behind him with my hip. I feel like I should hug him, but it’s awkward with the cupcakes and flowers, and I don’t want to clobber him. He hesitates, too, seeming unsure, so ultimately we do nothing.

“Nice house.” His eyes follow the sweeping wooden staircase up to the second story. My parents live in a stately brick manor with wraparound porches, nestled on a cul-de-sac. “You grew up here?”

“My whole life. It doesn’t get more suburban than this.” I point with the flowers at a closet on the way to the living room. “You can throw your coat in there. And I hope you like football.” We come to a stop at the threshold of the living room and take in the scene before us: a collection of my male relatives strewn across couches, beers in hand. “Welcome to Sunday dinner.”

“I love football.” He smiles.

“You guys remember Mark.” I introduce him. “That’s Uncle Steve and Uncle Don—my mom’s brothers. I think they’re the only ones you didn’t meet in Africa. And you remember Uncle Fred, Liv’s dad.”

“Good to see you.” Uncle Fred rises and shakes Mark’s hand.

“Hey there, Mark,” Uncle Don says. “Have a beer.” He takes a can of Iron City from the cooler resting at his feet and tosses it at him.

Mark catches it. “Thanks.”

Evan scoots over to make room on the couch. “You can sit here, man.”

Mark joins them, leaning forward and cracking open his beer. Still holding the cupcakes and flowers, I perch myself on the arm of the couch.

“You have a team?” Uncle Steve asks.

“I’m originally from Ohio,” Mark says. “So I kind of root for the Browns.”

“Ooooh, noooo. Give me back that beer.” Don laughs.

“Well, at least it’s not the Ravens,” Steve says.

“True,” Don replies. “We’ll let you stay. Boots says you’re a musician? What kind of stuff you play?”

“Bass, a little guitar.”

“You meet a lot of ladies doing ’at?” Don asks.

Mark laughs, glancing at me. “Some…”

“Uncle Don,” I complain.

“Oooh. Nice run.” Mark addresses the TV. “I have Bell on my fantasy team.”

He expertly changes the subject and starts talking Pittsburgh football. Before long they’re all chatting and laughing—except for my dad, of course, who looks up from his book and welcomes Mark for long enough to avoid being rude. He doesn’t look up again until Uncle Don pulls out a baggy and some rolling papers.

“Not in the house, please, Don,” Dad says. “Go to the back porch.” He long ago gave up trying to set my mom’s brother straight and has strangely come to accept the black sheep’s idiosyncrasies. It gives me hope that somewhere behind his surgeon’s mask he’s human, that he has the power to accept me, too.

“I won’t disrespect your rules,” Don says, standing. “Do you partake?” He waves the joint at Mark.

Mark’s jaw momentarily drops, and I’m dumfounded as well. Uncle Don doesn’t share his weed with anyone. Somehow Mark has managed to win him over in a matter of a few minutes.

“No thanks, man. I’m good.”

“Your loss,” Don says, but he nods his understanding before heading to the kitchen.

We go back to watching football.

“Do you guys play fantasy?” Mark asks my brothers.

“Of course. I’m in three leagues,” Trent says.

“I’m in two,” Evan says.

“Have you tried the ScareCenter app?” Mark asks.

“What’s that?” Trent asks.

“You have to try it. It lets you write fake football news and makes it look like it came in as an alert from Sports Center on your phone so you can send a screen shot to your fantasy opponents. Like last week I sent one to Berkeley ten minutes before kickoff that said his quarterback had the stomach flu and wasn’t starting. He freaked out.” He pulls up the app and hands his phone to Trent.

“Dude. This is awesome,” Trent says, laughing. “I’m totally getting this. My buddies are going to flip.”

Watching them together, I can’t help thinking Mark belongs on the couch next to my brothers. He fits perfectly. Sundays would be so much more fun if I had him to share them with. The thought warms me, but then I come to my senses. Friends. Knowing he’s comfortable, I excuse myself and finish setting the table, using his flowers as the centerpiece.

“Dinner,” Mom calls once the game ends. The Steelers win and everyone is in good spirits as we file into the dining room.

“Mark! It’s great to see you,” Aunt Kat says, coming into the room carrying a bowl of salad. Setting it down, she embraces him.

If I’m not mistaken, he goes a little pale. “Good to see you again.” He pats her back.

“Hello, Mark,” Mom says, her voice formal, like she’s entertaining royalty. “Please take a seat. I hope you’re hungry for an Italian feast. Sausage and peppers and lasagna.”

“Sounds great,” Mark says. “Thanks for having me.”

“We always have too much food,” I say.

“I got these sausages down at McGinnis Sisters,” Uncle Don says, helping himself. “Eat up. You’ll never taste anything like ’em. That’s real Pittsburgh there.”

“Can we please say grace before we devour everything?” Dad silences us.

We bow our heads and bless ourselves, mumbling, “Bless us, oh Lord, for these thy gifts…” in unison.

Blessing himself again at the end of the prayer, Uncle Steve raises his wineglass. “God bless the cooks, the providers, and he who gets there first-est gets the most-est.”

That’s the cue to dive in, and utensils clack as everyone starts filling their plates, passing along baskets of freshly made rolls and bowls of olives.

“So Mark,” Dad says, “how long are you in town?”

“Just until tomorrow. We leave for Alexandria in the morning.” Mark scoops a knife full of butter and spreads it on his roll before taking a big bite of it.

“Do you have a private jet?” Evan asks, buttering his roll and taking a bite as well.

Mark swallows. “Hardly. We do with the Brightside sometimes, but Coconut Teaszer is much smaller. We’re on an ancient tour bus.”

“Evan,” Dad says. “It’s rude to bite into your bread. Please place some butter on your bread plate, break off a piece of bread, butter it, and eat it that way. I know we taught you manners.”

Mortified by my father’s insensitive reprimand, my insides coil. Maybe Mark didn’t notice… But, like my brother, he drops his bread back onto his plate and follows Dad’s instructions.

I want to blurt, “Dad, please try not to offend our guests by pointing out they didn’t attend Dr. Conrad’s Manners Academy!” But I hold my tongue.

“And how is Berkeley?” Mom asks. “Liv says he’s been really busy with The Keystone. It’s a good thing she has the second wedding to plan to keep her busy.”

“She has her own career to think about, too. It’s not like she’s sitting around all day waiting for Berkeley to come home,” I say, feeling the need to defend my cousin, to prove she’s more than Berkeley’s wife, that it’s possible to have both things. It’s as much for Dad’s benefit as mine.

Mom falls silent.

“You’re going to the wedding, right, Mark?” Evan asks.

“Planning on it,” he says. “I think I’m best man again…at least last I heard. I haven’t talked to Berkeley much about it recently.”

“You are,” Aunt Kat says. “And Boots is maid of honor. It will be a repeat-performance of Africa. A second chance to make it perfect, if you will.” She grins at me.

Heat rushes my face and I quickly change the subject, addressing Evan. “Mark is being modest when he says Coconut Teaszer is small. You should have seen the crowd at the show last night.”

“It was Halloween,” Mark says. “It’s easier to get people out for that. You should come to Alexandria, see what it’s really like on the road.”

“Are you serious?” Aunt Kat asks, setting down her fork. “You should go, Boots. The angel card I just pulled for you was about trusting your intuition and traveling down an unknown path. No regrets.”

I remain silent, taking a small bite of lasagna.

“I’ve been trying to convince her to come with us,” Mark says.

“What about residency?” Dad asks.

Feeling his eyes hot on my face, I swallow, staring at my plate. “I don’t know about residency… I don’t know if I’m ready to go back yet.”

“This is what you do, now?” Dad takes his napkin off his lap and folds it next to his plate. “Go gallivanting with a band and shirk everything you’ve worked for? You think you’re your cousin, now?”

“I didn’t say I was going,” I reply, anger closing my throat. “And I’m not shirking anything. I’m still going to be a doctor; I just need some time to clear my head.”

“At this rate you’re never going to get into the plastics program. If I were head of the department, I wouldn’t take you.” His cheeks are flushed, and a vein is popping out on the side of his neck. “Follow through, Amanda. Keep your word. You know how important that is.”

Everyone is listening, and I wish he’d shut up. “Do we have to talk about this now?” I try to infuse infectious calm into my voice.

“I just expect more from you. You have so much to offer.” He scoots back his chair and stands. “If you’ll excuse me.” He stalks out of the room, leaving us in unsettled silence.

Embarrassed, I attempt to smile. “I guess that answers that,” I say, my voice gaining strength and my temper flaring. “Clearly, I’m going on the road with Coconut Teaszer.”

“Good for you,” Aunt Kat says. “The angels are rejoicing,”

“Kat, enough with the angels,” Uncle Fred says to his wife. “But I agree, Boots. It’ll do you good. Get out and see the country. The open road is a wonderful way to gain some perspective. Leave the medical journals at home and take some Kerouac with you.”

“Are you serious?” Mark asks, setting down his fork and knife.

“If the invitation is still open,” I reply, before I lose my nerve.

“It is as long as your dad lets me leave with you. I’m kind of afraid he might escort me out of here with a shotgun.”

“Don’t worry about him. He’ll come around. When do we go?”

“Meet me tomorrow morning at the Doubletree near the airport. We leave from there at seven.”

I glance across the table at Mom, whose eyes remain focused on her plate. She doesn’t speak for the rest of the meal.

Chapter Thirty-One

Mark VanCleer @BrightsideBP

Virginia is for lovers. I’m a lover of things that love. Let’s do this, Ginny. #HopefullyYouLoveWhiskeyToo

With my sleeping bag and pillow tucked under my arm, I follow Haynes onto the bus. He has my duffel bag slung over his shoulder—Mark told me to pack light—and I take a deep breath, preparing for the onslaught of eyes when I reach the top of the stairs. I hope the other guys are okay with this. I’ve dressed in jeans and my favorite vintage Michael Jackson T-shirt, piled my hair on top of my head, and opted to wear my glasses to give my red-rimmed eyes a break. I was up most of the night vacillating between going on tour and going back to New York, tossing and turning, unable to get comfortable with any of my options. In the end, though, the glimmer of excitement Mark incited trumped the dreaded NYU hospital halls. But now I wish I’d put more work into my appearance so it didn’t look like he was bringing a frumpy mouse on tour.

“We’ve got company,” Haynes announces. “Keep your shit together, lads. There’s a lady present.”

Nothing I can do about it now…

Climbing the final step, I’m assaulted with the scent of stale beer mixed with sweat. Guys are everywhere—watching TV from the cracked leather benches lining the walls and huddled behind laptops around the plastic kitchen table. Cell phones and tablets are strewn over every available surface next to discarded foam coffee cups. Beneath my feet, I feel the engine start to hum, and a blast of much-needed heat fills the chilly space.

“Boots! You made it.” Mark leaps up from a couch where he was examining his phone to give me a hug.

“I did,” I say into his shoulder, my traitor limbs wanting to linger in his. But he quickly releases me.

“Guys, this is my friend Amanda. She’s going to hang with us for a few stops.”

Friend.

“This is Gus, our driver; Ned, our drummer; Sam, the bass player; Jason, who’s on keys; James, guitar; Tim, our guitar tech; Julian, our drum tech; Rob, our sound engineer; and…where the fuck is Rory?”

No Vivian. Relief courses through me. “Hey,” I say with a small wave, greeting them all at once. “You can call me Boots.”

Some of the guys look up, waving back, and Ned and Sam stand to shake my hand. To my relief they seem unperturbed by my presence.

“Rory’s in the shitter,” Haynes says. “Should be along in a few minutes, and then we’re hitting the road.”

“Nice, Haynes,” Jason says, looking at me like I should be offended.

“It’s okay,” I say. “I have brothers.”

“Sweet. You won’t mind the fart house, then,” Ned says, propping his feet up on a couch and biting into an apple. “Welcome.”

The guys laugh.

“Where do you want me to put this?” Haynes takes my sleeping bag from me.

“You can put her on top of me,” Mark says.

I raise my eyebrows at him.

“You got it. On top of Mark it is,” Haynes says, disappearing through a sliding door at the back of the space.

“In the bunk on top of me,” Mark clarifies, elbowing me with a flirtatious smile. “It’s a middle bunk. Is that okay? We have two extras, but the top one has become a catchall for shoes.”

“Totally fine.”

“And while we’re on the subject, I should tell you the first rule of the bus is no sleepovers. Only one person is allowed in each bunk, and all guests have to be off the bus before we hit the road. You have to have a bed to be allowed to travel with us.”

“If you ever had to sleep in a bunk under Mark’s you’d understand why,” Jason says.

“Not cool, bro.” Mark playfully throws an empty coffee cup at him.

“I don’t think there’s any danger of me having a sleepover,” I say, knowing my cheeks are probably turning fuchsia.

“You never know,” Mark replies, and I’m unclear if he’s insinuating the sleepover could be with him.

“Are you hungry?” He gestures to a tiny kitchen that consists of a coffeemaker, ancient microwave, and a fridge. “Help yourself to anything you want. There’s granola bars and chips in the cabinets. Just don’t eat anything that has someone’s name on it. Sam ate Ned’s leftover breakfast burrito the other night and almost got thrown off the bus.”

“Our names do both have three letters,” Ned says, not looking away from the TV. “I can see how after eight tequila shots he got confused. You have to watch your shit around here. Nothing is sacred.”

“Fine. I owe you ten Hail Marys and a breakfast burrito, man.” Sam throws up his hands. “Geeze. I’ll buy you a new one.”

“I don’t want a new one. I wanted that one. It was from DeLuca’s Diner, and I hitched a ride on the back of somebody’s moped to get it.”

“See?” Mark whispers.

“Got it.” I smile. “I think I’m good on food for now. But I know where DeLuca’s is if you need directions.”

“Better not tempt him. We need to get to Alexandria in time for our show tonight.” He holds my eyes for a second, a smile behind his.

The tension in my neck eases, and I relax, knowing he wants me here. As a friend.

“Let me show you where everything else is.” Breaking the connection, he points to a list taped to the wall. “This is the day sheet. If you need to know where we’re going, or what time we’re leaving, you can check this. Haynes posts it every day. Like tonight—bus call is at two a.m. so be back here by then. I wouldn’t want you to get left behind—not that I’d let anyone forget you—but just in case you meet someone and are hanging out and lose track of time.”

I frown at his back as he leads me into the next corridor where we run into Haynes again.

Four sets of curtained bunks, each three beds high, line the walls on either side of us.

“I put you in here.” Haynes gestures to the middle bunk on my left. Mark is underneath you and the bed above you is empty. I threw your bag up there.”

“Perfect. Thank you. I’ll try to be a good neighbor—no clomping around in my heels,” I joke, gesturing at the tiny space.

“You’re the only one who could stand up in there,” Mark says, patting my head.

“Very funny.” I swat his hand away.

“Do you need anything else?” Haynes asks. “As soon as we find Rory we can get this show on the road. I want to make it to Alexandria by one so Rob has time for lights.”

“We’re cool. Thanks, man,” Mark says.

“Great.” Haynes heads back to the front of the bus.

“Here’s the bathroom.” Mark continues the tour. “And the rule is ‘I don’t care what you do, just no number two.’ And no flushing toilet paper, either. The driver will kill you.”

“I’ll be sure to stash my tampons elsewhere, then.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I wince. Too far.

But he laughs. “He’d definitely know it was you.”

Leading me past a shower, we walk into a room with a U-shaped couch, another small TV, and the back wall dominated by a large, glowing neon pig holding a pool cue next to the words “Nice Rack.”

“Back here is the lounge. And that’s pretty much it.”

“If no hookups are allowed in the bunks, is this where the ‘magic’ happens?” I ask.

He laughs. “In buses not trapped in the eighties, yes. This room is usually either the master suite or full of movies and video games. In our case, we don’t have that luxury. We just have the pig.”

“I like him.”

The bus sways into motion, and I brace myself on the doorframe.

“Rory must be back.” Mark looks over my shoulder. “He helps with the lighting cues during the show and does merch, too. He’s also our B-roll photographer. I hope you don’t mind having your life documented.”

“I don’t think I do…”

“Good. Make yourself comfortable.” Gesturing toward the couch, he heads for the door. “It’s about a four-hour ride to Alexandria. Short one today.”

“You aren’t going to stay with me?” I can’t hide the neediness in my voice.

“Sorry—I promised to write with the guys—I thought you’d prefer it back here. But if you want to come up—”

“That’s okay. It seemed crowded up there. I don’t want to be in the way,” I say, chiding myself for my show of weakness. “I’m fine right here.” I plop down on the couch. “Someone should keep the pig company.”

“Yeah. Relax. Enjoy yourself. But if the pig makes any moves, you come get me,” he says over his shoulder as he heads down the hall.

“We’ll see. It depends what he has to offer,” I call back.

I hear him laugh before he disappears.

So much for being one of the guys. Settling into my seat, I stare out the window as the city gives way to rolling hills. It doesn’t matter. I’m here for me. Whatever happens doesn’t have to be with him.

I just wish my heart would believe that.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Amanda Conrad @BootsMD

Pretty cool to have my book open to the section on urethral trauma when a cute guy stops to ask what I’m reading #ladydexter

Amanda Conrad @BootsMD

Nooooo! My coffee spilled on my book! It’s like watching my own blood pour out! Tragedy!!! #HopeItsNotaSign #DontAnswerThat @PsychicMom1

When we arrive in Old Town Alexandria, the bus doors snap shut behind me and it roars off, leaving me alone to explore the shops on King Street. The guys are headed to The Birchmere to load in and sound check. Mark thought I’d be bored waiting around there and suggested I take some time to explore the city.

Breathing in crisp fall air laced with cinnamon and clove, I snuggle deep into my coat and head toward the Potomac. As I shuffle along the brick sidewalk, peeking into eclectic shops and glancing down narrow streets lined with charming row houses, a wave of guilt washes over me. I should be at work. But I try to keep the thoughts at bay and live in the moment. My stomach growls, and grabbing a seat at a sidewalk café, I order a steaming latte and a chocolate croissant. Curious about what kind of people have the luxury to be out casually shopping on a Monday afternoon, I pull a medical journal out of my messenger bag—even though Uncle Fred told me to leave my books at home, I couldn’t resist bringing a couple along—and pretend to read so it’s not obvious I’m people watching.

A text buzzes, making me jump and spill my coffee. Harrison.

dr. kelly just quizzed me for forty minutes on my anastomosis time in a kidney transplant. what are you doing?

having lunch in alexandria, va. and sopping up spilled coffee, I text back.

vacation?

sort of … There’s no reason not to be honest with him…is there? i’m actually traveling with my friend’s band to a few shows. thought the change of scenery might do me good.

awesome. what band?

coconut teaszer.

don’t know them, he responds.

That’s a relief. I don’t want to have to explain my relationship to a super-group.

would download their album right now, but just got paged, appears on my phone. will check them out tonight.

good luck. and let me know what you think! I type, pushing aside the guilt at having “shopping” as the final thing left on my to-do list before the show. At least I spent lunch “studying” instead of reading gossip magazines.

Closing my soggy book, I pack up my things and continue down King Street.

Drawn in by a candy-pink storefront with crystal chandeliers twinkling beyond the windows, I wander into a small gift shop called the Cupcake Palace. I never could resist a cupcake. Inside it smells of fresh-baked cookies and spiced candles, and I peruse antique tables laden with mismatched dessert plates, pausing to examine a baking gift set with whipped frosting flavors ranging from blood orange to pomegranate. My mother would love it here. It’s one thing we share: a love of making dessert.

I walk past a coat-tree draped with frilly print aprons to the back of the store and am browsing a rack of flavored lip glosses when I step on something. Looking down, I discover a small book under my foot. In search of the shelf it fell from, I scan the displays around me, but it seems to be one of a kind, to have appeared from nowhere. Bending down, I pick it up, examining the hard, pale green cover with its whimsical floral butterfly print and “Happily Ever After” scrawled in metallic gold script across the front. The inside cover is filled with dozens of tiny illustrated people, girls in colorful shift dresses and guys in Bermuda shorts, all dancing as though they are in a 1960s beach party movie. The rest of the pages are blank. The drawings suck me in and, instantly connected to the little book, I buy it, along with some candy for me and cupcakes for the guys.

Back outside, I shove the book into my bag and pull out my buzzing phone, checking the display. It’s Liv. Heading for the water, I answer the call.

“Hey,” I say.

“Where are you?” she asks, skipping the pleasantries.

“Why do you ask?” I try to keep my voice innocent behind my smile.

“I heard a rumor through the Pittsburgh connection. Tell me it’s true.”

“I’m in Alexandria, Virginia.” Arriving at the marina, I walk along the water, admiring boats bumping at their docks.

“Yay!” she squeals. “You’re on the road! With Mark! I’m so happy.”

“Don’t get too excited. It’s just for a few days, and we’re keeping it friendly.”

“That’s boring. Says who?”

“Him. Me… Mostly him.”

“Sounds like there’s hope that it won’t stay friendly.”

“It will.” I sigh. “There are nine other guys on the bus—there’s no room for anything to happen. And even if there were, it’s against the rules.”

“Whose rules?”

“The bus rules.”

“But you’re interested? I knew it. It’s going to be amazing. We can share a bus—host tour-bus dinner parties…”

“You’re getting way ahead of yourself, as usual. I don’t think he’s interested. You know how much of a flirt he is.” Finding a vacant bench, I take a seat and put my feet on the railing in front of me, looking up as a gull squawks across the gray sky overhead.

“Well, I’m holding out hope. He’s different with you, I swear. My mom said you were really cute together. He’s met the fam! Not even Berkeley has met the uncles.”

“And Uncle Don asked him to ‘partake.’”

“Whoa.” She lets out a whoosh of air. “You know he doesn’t share with just anyone. Mark must have made quite the impression. I think it’s a sign.”

“Yeah? I’m telling your mom.”

“Don’t you dare!” She laughs.

I laugh with her. “I don’t know about it being a sign,” I say, giggles subsiding. “I’m just glad he said no. My dad would have had an embolism if he partook, and with the way Dad was acting, I don’t know if I would have saved him.”

“Mom said he was in one of his moods.”

“When isn’t he?” I frown. “I know he wants the best for me, that it makes him proud that I’m going to be a surgeon, but I wish he’d keep it to himself. It’s a lot of added pressure.” I stare at the water lapping against the boats, and a young mother passes in front of me on the promenade, pushing a stroller. What is she going home to? Naps and bottles, daytime TV? But then, she probably has time for cupcakes…

“But promise me you’ll stay open to possibility. See where it goes.” Liv is talking, and I tune back in to her, having missed the beginning of her statement.

“Yes,” I agree. “That’s what this trip is about. Possibility. A sign to point me in the right direction. Maybe by the end of it, I’ll know where I belong.”

“And hopefully it’s in Mark’s arms—”

I wish.

The phone goes silent for a moment before Liv returns. “Boots, I have to go. They want me on set. But call me from the road. I need updates. I’m going to be hanging out with Grumpy Cat for the next two days, and I’m sure I’ll need some human interaction.”

“The Grumpy Cat? I’m so jealous. You know all the stars.”

“Don’t be. She’s a total diva. She has fat-free cream in her rider. If Christina Carlton was a cat…”

“But as her costar, she must respect you.”

“Actually, I turned down the cat food commercial. I decided it wasn’t the best career move, but I ended up running into the wardrobe stylist at the grocery store and her assistant had just quit… I told her I could help out. I’m trying to keep busy while I wait to hear if I got the part in the Funny Girl remake.”

“Good for you. And I’ll call. Promise. But in the meantime, do you think you could get Grumpy Cat’s paw-to-graph for me?”

She groans, and laughing, I hang up the phone.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Amanda Conrad @BootsMD

Just plowed through a bag of Sour Patch Kids while reading about Type 2 diabetes and you know what? I LIKE BEING A REBEL

It’s three miles to the Birchmere, and I walk, hoping the chilly air will continue to clear my head. I stop by the tour bus to drop off the cupcakes and, having worked up a sweat, part of me wants to shower, but I decide to find the band first, fearing there is an unmentioned rule about showering when the bus is parked. I text Mark to see where I should meet him, but I don’t get a response. Unsure of where to go or how to find them, I cross the parking lot, smiling up at the sign that reads: tonight: soap disco and coconut teaszer. Soap Disco is the opening act.

A line of fans has already formed along the venue’s mural-painted exterior wall. Unsure of how I’m going to get in to see Mark, I try the doors.

“They aren’t open,” a girl at the front of the line tells me, her faint southern accent sweetening the words. “You have to wait. I’ve been here since ten o’clock this morning.”

“Oh, I’m with the band…”

“Really?” She looks me up and down, and I’m instantly self-conscious. Should have put in my contacts. “Then maybe you should talk to Lyle when the doors open. But they won’t do that until five.”

“Lyle. Thank you. I’ll find him.”

I walk to the end of the line and estimate that there must be two hundred people already waiting. Rounding the corner to the back of the building, I look for another entrance and find a door with a bouncer guarding it.

“You lost?” he asks, arms folded over his muscled chest. “You have to get in line. When the doors open they’ll give you a number so you can go in and have a drink but still save your spot. Best to start waiting. It’s going to be a full house tonight.”

“I’m actually with the band. If I could just talk to Mark or Haynes—they’ll vouch for me.”

“Do you have a pass?” He fingers a lanyard around his neck.

“No. They didn’t give me one. The bus dropped me off on King Street before they came here. They probably didn’t have them yet.”

He checks his clipboard, his good-natured vibe evaporating as he grows serious. “I don’t have any girls on my list, and it’s sound check right now. Dave takes sound very seriously. I can’t disturb them. Maybe you should get in line.”

I nod, knowing my story sounds weak. “Okay…”

Not sure of what else to do, I walk back around the building and take a place at the end of the line. Leaning against the wall, I commence waiting, listening to the excited chatter around me and checking my phone every two minutes for word from Mark.

He doesn’t text.

Reaching into my backpack, I pull out my medical journal and sit on the ground, resigned to studying. Rock and roll.

“I hope they cover some Berkeley & the Brightside songs…or a Ghost World song or two…”

“I heard Coconut Teaszer is getting too big, and Berkeley wants to act anyway. The Brightside is breaking up…”

I can’t help overhear the conversations around me, and for a second I feel sorry for Mark. It must be frustrating to have his artistry overshadowed by the other drama.

I check my phone again, but still no response.

Eventually the line moves forward, and when I finally get inside, where the walls are painted with more murals—these depicting a street lined with cafes—I cross the checkered floor to the ticket booth.

“Can I help you?” the lady behind the window asks.

“Yes. I don’t have a ticket—I’m with the band, but I don’t have any proof. I’ve been trying to get to them. Do you think someone can tell them Boots is here?”

“I have a list, but I don’t see anyone named Boots on it,” she says, running her finger down the slip of paper in front of her.

“Maybe Amanda?”

“Nope. Sorry, honey.”

Behind her a door in the ticket booth opens and an older gentleman appears.

“Hey, Lyle, this gal says she’s with the band. Want to ask them if they know someone named Boots?”

“Boots? I had a dog named Boots,” he says.

“Maybe tell them the girl is here, not the dog?” I ask.

“All right. You look like a nice girl. I’ll see what I can do.” He disappears.

“Here, take this number just in case. Lyle will come find you, but if he doesn’t take you back, you’ll still need a ticket to get in.”

“Thank you,” I say, accepting number 367.

I’m at the bar ordering a drink when Lyle reappears. “Your story checks out. Come with me.”

He leads me toward the theater.

“You from around these parts?” he asks.

“No. I’m from Pittsburgh.”

He lets out a low whistle. “A northerner. You ever been to the Birchmere before?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

He brings us to a stop in front of a wall covered with autographed photos. “This here is one of the premiere music halls in the south. Been here for ages. We’ve hosted everyone from Vince Gill to Alison Krauss, and we love showcasing new bands like these Coconut Teaszer guys. This place gets in your blood.” He gestures at the wall.

“This is really great,” I say, examining the photos. “So much history.”

“The music these walls have heard. Sixty years I’ve been doing this, and I tell you, I never could have imagined this life for myself—that a nobody kid could get to make music every night. If I’d had any idea what was waiting for me back when I started out, it probably wouldn’t have happened the way it did. But that’s the beauty—the surprises.” His eyes shine. “Never ruin the surprises. Take ’em as they come.”

I smile up at him. “I’ll try.”

The floor trembles beneath us, and for a second I’m afraid we’re having an earthquake. I look to Lyle to see if we need to take cover.

“It’s the bass check,” he says. “My favorite sound. Follow me.”

We walk into the theater, where Coconut Teaszer is in the middle of “Home,” and watch in silence for a few minutes. I let Mark wash over me, momentarily indulging in the fantasy that he’s performing for me, that he’s here with me.

The song ends, and Lyle and I clap, the snap of our palms echoing through the empty theater, bringing me back to my senses.

“Thank you,” Mark says into the microphone before setting down his guitar and hopping off the stage.

“I found this,” Lyle calls out. “I think you lost her?”

“That’s precious cargo you’ve got,” Mark says, walking up the aisle.

Arriving at my side, he puts his arm around me, and I hold steady, spine rigid, afraid the smallest crack in my facade will open the floodgates to the fairy tale.

“You make a nice couple. Watch out for her now,” Lyle says. “Before someone else makes her an offer she can’t refuse.” He looks pointedly at Mark. “She’s a keeper.”

“Don’t I know it,” Mark replies, tightening his grip on my waist.

Face hot, I hold my breath, refusing to give in to the bolt of pleasure that courses through me.

Lyle watches us for a moment then laughs to himself as he turns to address the rest of the band. “Dinner should be ready in the back, boys. We figured you’d be tired of pizza so we made you fried chicken.”

“How was Alexandria?” Mark asks, keeping me close as he leads me to the food, seemingly unperturbed by Lyle’s misconception of us as a couple.

“It was great. Beautiful. Quaint.” I wiggle my way out of his arms, fighting for distance.

He lets me go. “But?”

I start filling my plate from the large foil tins overflowing with fried chicken, macaroni and cheese, and biscuits.

“I don’t know. I felt guilty, like I’m not allowed to be having fun when everyone else is working.”

“We have to fix this,” he says, taking a wing and a biscuit and nothing else. “I’m going to make it my personal mission to loosen you up.”

“And just how do you plan to do that?” We head toward the long table where the Coconut Teaszer and Soap Disco guys are already seated.

“I have my ways.” He smiles a crooked grin as we sit. “Let me think about it. We have a long ride to Louisville ahead of us—”

“It’s gonna be a full house tonight, boys,” Haynes says, coming up behind us and rubbing Mark’s shoulders. “And girl,” he adds.

“It is. I was number 367 in line.” I crane my neck to smile up at him.

“What were you doing in line?” Mark asks.

“I couldn’t get past the bouncer.”

“Haynes, can’t we get her a pass or something so that she isn’t stuck sound checking with us and can explore the cities?”

“Shit. My bad,” Haynes says. “I meant to put her on the list, but Berkeley called and I got distracted. I’ll make sure the door knows to expect her next time.”

“How long have you been doing this, Haynes?” Rory asks, mouth full of coleslaw.

Haynes throws a biscuit at him. “I’m just used to the Brightside, where Berkeley won’t let anyone backstage. There is hardly ever a list. You guys are more laid back.”

Mark shrugs. “The more the merrier, that’s what I think. Keep the party going.”

“It probably keeps you more laid in general,” I say.

“Ha!” Ned laughs between bites of chicken. “I like her. Keep her around.”

I smile at him, grateful he initiated me into the traveling circus.

“I almost forgot,” Haynes says. “I have presents for you. Polaroid would like to sponsor the band.”

“Whoa,” Sam says. “That’s a good sign.”

“You guys don’t think it feels a little like selling out?” Mark asks, eyeing the cameras Haynes is distributing. “Geeze, I sound like Berkeley,” he adds under his breath.

“No strings attached,” Haynes says. “You aren’t obligated to use them, or say you’re using them. Just see if you like them. It’s the newest in their line. Use them, toss them, I don’t care.”

“Not interested.” Mark pushes his aside. “This band isn’t about corporate sponsorships.”

Rory aims his camera at us and snaps a picture. “I think it’s pretty awesome. Great for b-roll.”

Mark shakes his head. “They may say they don’t want anything from us now, but eventually they will, and if we become too dependent we might be willing to compromise creatively. I don’t want to give up our autonomy.”

“That won’t happen,” Sam says. “It’s a camera. How dependent can we become? Besides, it’s not like this band is making any money. We should take what we can get.”

“It’s true.” Jason grabs a camera. “Playing shows this size isn’t going to get us anywhere.”

“We’ve had this argument before. I don’t want to talk about it.” Mark wads up his napkin and tosses it on his plate.

I can feel the frustration wafting off his skin, and I wish there were some way to fix it.

“Do you want mine?” he asks me, sliding the camera my way.

“Really? I don’t want you to be upset if I take it…”

“I won’t be upset. It’s a nice camera. I’m not going to take it on principle, but I’d love for it to go to someone I like.” He smiles, and the tension in his shoulders visibly evaporates as he eyes me. “It’s yours.”

“Thank you,” I say, examining the camera. I peek up at him as an idea pops into my head. It’s perfect. Now I know exactly what to do with my Happily Ever After book…

Chapter Thirty-Four

Harrison Segal @DrSeeYouNow

@BootsMD Did you know bacon fat can be used to lure larvae to the surface of the skin for faster and easier removal in furuncular myiasis cases?

Amanda Conrad @BootsMD

@DrSeeYouNow I did not. Hipsters rejoice!

“Wake up, lads!” Haynes’s voice echoes through the silent bus, and I bolt upright, nearly hitting my head on the bunk above me. Scrambling for my phone, I check the time. 5:16. I’ve barely been asleep for two hours. The show at the Birchmere was a huge success, and even I fell victim to after-show adrenaline. We stayed until the bar closed, the party continuing after bus call as we began the drive to Louisville.

Pulling a worn Pitt sweatshirt on over my pajamas, I slide out of my bunk and join the rest of the guys in the kitchen.

“What do you mean we’re stuck?” Ned asks, rubbing his eyes.

It’s then that I realize the gentle swaying of the bus has ceased, and a glance out the window confirms we’re stopped on the side of the highway.

“We broke down,” Haynes explains. “Gus says it’s a problem with the engine. Apparently it, like the rest of the bus, is trapped in 1985. He’s not sure where we’ll get the parts to fix it. And I’ve got more bad news.”

“What’s that?” Mark asks, his voice thick with sleep. He appears behind me, barefoot, still in the process of pulling a T-shirt over his head. When his head appears through the neck, his hair is standing straight up and his bloodshot eyes are red-rimmed, but to me, he’s adorable, and I fight the urge to lean back against his chest.

“There aren’t any replacement tour buses available in the near vicinity and we’ve still got a seven-hour drive ahead of us. If we wait to get this bad boy towed and repaired, we’ll miss the show.”

“Shit,” Sam says. “Why did you schedule a show that far away anyway? I vote we cancel and go back to bed.”

“How many tickets did we sell for Louisville? Five hundred?” Jason asks. “Yeah. Let’s cancel and go straight to Asheville—”

“No.” Mark says. “We’re playing Louisville. We’re not disappointing our fans. No way.”

“How do you propose we get there, then?” Sam asks.

“What are our options, Haynes?” Mark turns toward him.

“I’m trying to see if there’s a new bus we can pick up in Louisville. Or maybe we can find one to meet us there. In the meantime, maybe we can rent a U-Haul and pile in with our stuff…”

“Where are we going to get a U-Haul?” Jason asks. “Hitch a ride?”

“Or call Uber?” Ned suggests.

“We’re in the middle of nowhere. There’s no Uber around here,” Sam says.

“We’ll call Triple A,” Mark says. “Maybe the tow-truck driver can take us to U-Haul instead of towing the bus.”

“Good thinking, mate.” Haynes is already dialing. “Do you want to get the U-Haul and I’ll stay here and work on getting the bus towed and a new one ready to pick us up in Louisville?”

“Sure.” Mark sighs and looks around at the other guys. “Anyone want to come with me?”

“Don’t look at me. I’m going back to bed,” Sam says, already retreating. “I still vote we cancel.”

“I’ll go with you,” I volunteer.

“You’re welcome anytime, sweetheart,” Sam pats the bed next to him.

“Not with you!” I say at the same time Mark says, “Back off, man!”

“With Mark,” I clarify.

“Suit yourself.” Sam yawns and disappears into the bunk.

“Are you sure?” Mark asks. “You don’t have to. You should sleep.”

“I’m used to staying up for ridiculous amounts of time. It will be good for me. I’ll maintain my tolerance this way.” I smile. “Just let me change.”

“I’ll get you some coffee,” he replies. “You’re off the hook, guys. Now I know who my real friend is.”

He doesn’t get a response. The guys are too busy crawling back under the covers, except for Rory, who takes his role as photographer seriously and stays up to document our departure.

When the tow truck shows up, I start to rethink my offer.

“Hop in.” Leaning across the front bench to open the truck door, the driver smiles, his lips stretching over half a set of moldy teeth, the rot creeping up from blackened gums.

Taking in the jowls sagging from his lined face and wild, deep-set eyes, I look to Mark for reassurance.

He’s gone pale, but he urges me forward, his grasp comforting and firm on my arm. Still anxious, I climb into the truck, keeping my distance from the driver, and Mark gets in behind me, locking us in.

Buckling my seat belt, I notice a set of handcuffs looped around the gear shift. Mark seems to see them at the same time, and he slips his arm around my waist, tucking me into his side, holding me close.

“Hey there, sir. How ya doing today?” Mark asks with forced pleasantry.

“Not too shabby,” the driver replies, his S’s whistling. “But the day is young yet. Plenty of time for it to get ugly.”

“That’s one way to look at it,” Mark says. “You don’t mind taking us to U-Haul?”

“Not so long as you don’t mind spending the next hour with old Terry, here.”

“Who’s Terry?” I ask, imagining a body in the backseat whose hands were once bound by the cuffs—when she still had hands, that is.

“That’s me,” he says, pointing to himself with his thumb. “Mighty fine girly you got here,” he compliments Mark as he pulls out into traffic.

“Um…thanks.” Mark looks at me out of the corner of his eye and pinches my hip in solidarity. “I’m a lucky guy.”

Even though I’m terrified of Terry, I’m enjoying the excuse to cling to Mark, and I inch closer.

“I’ll need you to sign that waiver there in the glove box,” Terry says.

Mark opens the compartment, and resting on top of a clipboard is a handgun. He tightens his hold on me. “Am I signing a waiver not to press charges if you shoot us?” he asks.

Terry laughs. “Sorry about that. Just push it aside. It’s not loaded. Back in my days with the fair, I always kept a gun on me. Old habit. You never know what kind of crazies you’re going to meet.”

Mark and I lock eyes again.

“You traveled with a fair?” Mark asks, carefully removing the clipboard and shutting the gun back in the glove compartment.

“Oh yeah. For years. Started when I was a teenager helping to put the rides together. I couldn’t get enough of the road. I was never much for putting down roots, but I loved building things. We’d show up in a town where there was nothing, and when we were finished with it, there would be a whole village filled with color and lights. We didn’t have no history—we were just building a place where everyone could feel at home, filled with people you’d like to knock back a few with. We were making our own history every day, trying to make it count.”

“I like that,” Mark says. “I feel that way sometimes, too. Traveling with a band.”

“You’re in a band?” Terry asks. “No wonder you got such a pretty girlie. The barkers at the fair always got the sweetest gals. They were showmen. Silver-tongued.”

“Oh we’re not—” I start to tell the truth, but Mark cuts me off.

“I don’t know what she sees in me,” he says, placing his hand on my thigh. “But you’re right. She’s beautiful.”

Even though I know he’s going along with what Terry says, trying to protect me, to my dismay, my stomach drops, and I blush. “It might have something to do with your silver tongue, actually,” I say, my mind drifting to our last night in Africa.

He grins, his expression full of innuendo, and I wonder if he can read my thoughts.

“Do you mind if I turn up the air conditioning?” I ask, certain Mark can feel the heat emanating from where his body is touching mine.

“Go right ahead.”

“Do you have someone special in your life, Terry?” I ask, savoring the much-needed blast of cool air.

“Oh gosh no. I had a thing going with Martha, the gal that ran the deep-fried Twinkie booth, for a couple years. It was good for a while, but then she wanted to start frying other things like pickles and Kool-Aid—I don’t know how you fry Kool-Aid—she got too wild for me.” He laughs a soundless cackle and his face lights up like a jack-o’-lantern. “And then I had to leave the fair on account of my hand.”

He waves the gnarled appendage at us, and I realize he’s missing three fingers.

“What happened?” I ask.

“It got caught in a wood chipper. But it could have been worse. At least I still got my wood, if you catch my drift.” Again he laughs that silent laugh, looking to Mark like they’re old pals.

“Wow, man. That’s rough,” Mark says.

“It is what it is, and it’s a blessing I can still drive. I couldn’t leave the road.”

“I’m glad you can look at the bright side,” I say, pressing my knee against Mark’s.

He hugs me closer.

“Oh yeah,” Terry says. “The hand combined with my gout—I’ve got a whole bunch of ailments—it’s better this way. But I do miss the fair.”

“Ailments? What else bothers you?” I ask.

For the rest of the ride he rattles off a list of maladies, and I offer suggestions for remedies.

When he finally drops us off and drives away, Mark swoops me into his arms in a big hug, swinging me around.

“We’re alive! Thank you for distracting him. I thought we were goners at first.”

I hug him back, giggling my relief at being out of the truck. “Me too! He ended up being kind of sweet, though…”

He sets me on my feet, not letting me go. “Oh yeah. He was an old softie. And he had a thing for you. Maybe life on the road is your true calling.”

“I don’t know about that. He’s not exactly my type. I’m glad you were there to protect me. You truly are my hero.” I pat his biceps.

“Hey, any time you need saving, I’m happy to oblige. Just give me a shout.”

“Thank you. I’ll keep you in mind.”

“Do.” For a second, he grows serious, and I feel like I’m being drawn to him. But then suddenly he releases me, backing away.

“We should hurry. I’m going to get the truck.”

I watch him retreat, confused by the push and pull. Maybe I’m not the only one protecting their heart…

“You took a Polaroid of Terry before he left,” Mark says. “What was that for?”

“You’ll think it’s silly,” I say, looking out the window of the U-Haul at the last of the golden leaves still clinging to the barren trees.

“Try me.”

“Honestly?” I pause and decide there’s no harm in letting him in on what I want out of this journey. “It’s part of a journal I’m keeping to document this trip. A record of the people we meet. I think it might help me figure out what my place is among them, where I belong.”

“That’s awesome. Will you show it to me?”

“I don’t have it with me.” I feign innocence.

He smiles. “Well, sometime. Later. Back at the bus. Unless you don’t want me reading your diary…”

“I don’t have anything to hide,” I say quickly, lest he think I’m journaling about him. “I’m happy to show it to you.”

The song on the radio catches my ear. Realizing it’s “Immune” by Berkeley & the Brightside, I turn it up. “I love this song.”

“It’s a pretty deep cut,” Mark says after listening for a minute. I can’t quite read his expression, but he has a small smile on his lips. He seems pleased. “Definitely a B-side. It never got much play. I’m surprised to hear it now.”

“It’s pretty different for a Brightside song,” I say. “But it’s my favorite—the song I most relate to. ‘You try to break me then catch my fall, but you never knew me at all. I’m not taking any chances. I can’t let you get to me. Before this disease advances, I’m seeking some immunity.’ It was practically my anthem in medical school.”

For a few minutes the only sound beyond the song is the whoosh of cars whizzing by on the highway. “You know I wrote it, right?” he finally asks.

My heart slams to a halt. “No.” I watch his profile, trying to compose myself, to keep from pondering the implications. “I guess I never thought about it. Do you write a lot of the Brightside songs?”

“I usually help write the music, but I rarely write the lyrics. Typically, the words have to come from Berkeley, have to be his truth in order for him to sing with conviction, but ‘Immune’ was the exception. Those are my lyrics. It’s the only time he sings my words.” He briefly glances my way, and a little shiver runs through me. I’m pretty sure the current travels on to him. It has to. We are bound together in the song.

“I love it,” I say softly. “I’ve always felt connected to it.”

“Thank you. That means a lot to me.” His voice catches, and he clears his throat.

“What is it really about?”

He thinks for a moment before responding with a smile. “I’ll never tell.”

“Why not?”

“I learned that from Berkeley. As a writer, once a song is released it’s not yours anymore. It belongs to the listener. I don’t want to change it for you; it could ruin it. Music is memories; it can transport you back in time, and that song is a moment for me—it’s what I needed then—just as it became for you what you needed then. It’s yours.”

I mull that over. “I understand. Thank you…”

He plasters a smile on his face, the moment of sincerity gone. “So what’s it about for you?”

“Ha!” I smile back. “It’s the greatest gift you’ll never know you gave me.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

Mark VanCleer @BrightsideBP

Our bus broke. Our beer is on borrowed refrigeration. Tonight’s show might be a real Louisville Glugger.

“Are we there yet?” Rory asks.

“Three more hours,” Ned says. “This is torture.”

Slowly I wake from where I’m sprawled on my sleeping bag, and my eyes adjust to the dark. We’re stuffed in the back of the U-Haul surrounded by amps and instrument cases. Two flashlights pilfered from the bus serve as our only light, most cell phones having died long ago. The time it took for Mark and me to get back to the bus combined with transferring the equipment has put us seriously behind schedule. We’re going to be cutting it close getting to Louisville. Haynes is riding up front with Gus, making sure he keeps his foot on the gas.

I rummage through a nearby cooler, looking for something wet to ease my parched throat. All I find is beer. It’s better than nothing… I crack one open.

“I like the way you think,” Sam says, gesturing for me to toss him one.

“Anyone else?” I ask.

“Yup,” Mark says.

Pretty soon we’re lounging in a circle at the center of the U-Haul, beers in hand.

“This would never happen in Ghost World,” James says, taking a swig. “We charter a jet whenever possible.”

“Doesn’t it remind you of the old days, though? When you were just starting out?” Mark asks.

“Yeah.” Jason shrugs. At least I think he does; I can barely make out the outline of his shoulders in the dark. “I don’t know if I need to ride that roller coaster again, though. Once was enough.”

“I don’t think we’re going in the right direction,” Sam says. “Our buses should be getting nicer.”

“It’s not about luxury, bro. It’s about music,” Mark replies.

Feeling the tension rising, I interrupt. “Let’s play a game.”

“What kind of game?” Ned asks.

“Well, we have all this beer and the ice is melting. It’s just going to get warm. We should drink up.”

“Drinking games it is!” Rory says.

Everyone is silent for a moment.

“Fuck it. I’m down.” James breaks the silence, raising his beer. “To the good old days and getting ripped before a show.”

“We’re really going to do this?” Ned asks, tapping his beer against James’s. “We have to all be in.”

“I’m down,” Sam says. He adds his can.

“Me too.” Jason joins.

“Mark?” Ned asks.

“All right. Just remember we have to put on a show.” Mark completes the pact.

“It will be the best show we’ve played yet,” Sam says. “Guaranteed.”

“Which game?” Rory asks.

“How about ‘True or False’?” I suggest.

“I’ve played that before,” Tim says. “But we don’t have any dice.”

“My phone still has battery life,” I say. “I have a dice app.”

“Good enough,” he replies.

“Does everyone know how to play?” I ask.

“Nope,” Rob says.

“Okay. It’s easy. We’ll go around in a circle and the person to your right will give you a noun. For example, if I said ‘frog,’ Mark would have to roll the dice. If he got an even number he’d have to tell a true story involving him and a frog. If he got an odd number, he’d have to tell a false story about him and a frog. Then we each vote if he’s telling the truth or a lie. For every person who guesses correctly, Mark has to drink. And every person who guesses incorrectly, they have to drink. Got it?”

“Got it,” Ned says. “I’ll start. Rory, your word is ‘groupie.’”

“You know very well Rory has never been with a groupie,” Sam says, and the guys laugh.

“Hey! Let him tell his story,” Tim says.

I hand Rory my phone and he rolls, making sure the others don’t see his number. Taking a deep breath, he begins his story. “One night when I was on tour with Mandalay, this girl came up to me after the show and said her car was stuck in the parking lot. She’d driven over one of those cement blocks bolted in front of the parking spot and it had ripped out of the ground and was wedged under her car. I offered to help, and when I followed her outside, it turned out she was at the show with her twin sister.”

“Bow-chica-bow-wow,” Julian sings while everyone else groans.

“False!” James declares.

“Give him a chance,” Mark silences him. “Go on, Rory.”

“Thank you. So I had the girls lift the back of the car while I slid the cement block out—it was really heavy, by the way.”

“Are you flexing right now?” Jason asks.

Rory ignores him. “And they were so grateful for my help that they asked if they could buy me breakfast. I agreed to go with them to Denny’s—the bus wasn’t leaving for a few hours—but once we got in the car, the one twin decided she wasn’t hungry. And the other twin revealed the truth. She said, ‘We’re actually groupies. And we’re hungry for only one thing.’ We never left the backseat of the car…”

“Okay, false,” Sam says. “No self-respecting groupie would call herself a groupie.”

“And no self-respecting twin would sleep with a guy who looks like Rory,” Rob chimes in.

“But the cement block thing is pretty specific,” Jason says. “I don’t think he’d make that up.”

“Yeah, that happened,” Mark says. “The rest he just wishes happened. False.”

“Yup. False,” Ned agrees.

No one believes him. Until it comes to me. “I think it’s true,” I decide. “I believe you, Rory.”

“That’s everyone,” Mark says. “What’s the verdict, Rory?”

“False.” He grins. “Drink up, Boots!”

“Aw man.” I pound the rest of my beer.

We continue around, and it turns out I’m pretty bad at this game. Bad enough that I’m sufficiently buzzed by the time it’s my turn to tell a story.

“Her word should be ‘immune,’” Mark says, even though Sam is supposed to give me my word.

“Immune isn’t a noun,” I reply. “It’s an adjective.”

“So what?” Sam says. “Immune. I like it. And I’m too drunk to think of a word.”

Even though I know he can’t see me, I pretend-glare at Mark. “Fine. Immune. Here it goes.” I roll the dice and take a deep breath as I start to tell my story. “When I was a freshman in college I dated this guy. He was older, handsome—a resident in neurosurgery at Pitt—which is the equivalent of being a rock star to me.” I fall silent, remembering that I’m surrounded by real rock stars. “Okay. Bad example.” I laugh. “But I was in awe of him, that he asked me out. At first he swept me off my feet, taking me out for expensive dinners, whisking me away on weekend getaways, when he had time, of course. He was pretty busy with residency, but I fell for him really hard. I gave up everything—hanging out with my friends, going to parties, studying, just to work around his schedule. My grades were slipping, and people in my dorm stopped asking if I wanted to hang out because they knew I’d drop them if it turned out he had a moment free. He became my world. And then one night he took me to this hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant and told me he couldn’t see me anymore. You see, his wife—who I didn’t know about—was pregnant, and he was trying to do the right thing. He dismissed me like I was some nobody little girl and basically told me I’d find someone else to take care of me. And I got mad and told him I was going to be a surgeon, that I didn’t need anyone to take care of me, that I was going to take care of everyone else. He just smiled this sad smile, like he didn’t believe I would become a doctor, and said, ‘well, then you better build up your immunity.’ And that was it. He got up and walked out of the restaurant, leaving me there, devastated. But that was when I decided I would make it. I’d prove him wrong. And I would be immune. Immune to guys like him. And I’d never let another guy get in my way.”

The guys are silent until Jason speaks. “True.”

One by one they go around, each agreeing, “true” until it comes to Mark. He hesitates before deciding, “False. Boots would never let her grades slip or let a guy get to her that easily.”

I smile to myself, flattered.

“What’s the verdict?” Mark asks.

“False. Drink! All of you! Except Mark.”

“Oh man. Seriously?” Ned asks.

“Yes. Seriously. Drink!” I tip up the bottom of his can to help him along.

“I thought I had you pegged as immune to love,” Ned says when he’s done chugging. “It had to be true.”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t immune to love,” I reply. “But Mark is right. I would never have let a guy like that get to me in the first place. I’ve known what I wanted for a long time, and I made the decision when I was a teenager that I would not be deterred. Nothing was going to get in my way of becoming a surgeon, especially not some smooth-talking guy.”

“Wait. The resident was real?” Mark asks.

“Yes. He took me to Rosie’s for dinner, but it didn’t work out because he tried to grope me under the tablecloth.”

“Then there was some truth to your story,” he says.

“So?”

“So? I think that means you drink!” He tackles me, forcing a beer to my lips and, squealing, I try to escape his grasp.

“No!” Giggling, I fight him off. “There has been some truth to all of your stories!”

“Mark’s right,” Rory agrees. “Drink!”

The guys take up a chant. “Drink! Drink!”

“Fine!” Laughing, I pound another beer, but I drink only half of it, the space around me starting to pleasantly blur.

“Okay, Boots, you’re up,” Sam says. “What’s Mark’s word?”

Before I can think, I say the first thing that comes to mind. “Leopard!”

Thankful for the darkness so Mark can’t see my burning cheeks, I immediately wish I could take it back.

“Bold choice,” he says, rolling the dice on my phone. I hear humor in his voice, though I imagine I’ve shocked him to some extent. “Here it goes.” He cracks his knuckles. “I was on safari in Africa once and I saw nearly all of the big five—water buffalo, lions, elephants, rhinos—everything but a leopard. I’d gone on this trip wanting to be alone after being on the road for a long time, after constantly being surrounded by people. But then I met a girl…”

“Of course.” Sam snorts and everyone laughs. “What else is new?”

“But she was different,” Mark says. “She scared me. She made me feel things I’d never felt before, and I was intrigued. I couldn’t let her leave without seeing where it could go, so I bribed the guard at the hotel to make her miss her flight.”

Despite the stuffy air in the truck, goose bumps shoot up my arm and suddenly I’m really dizzy. He made me miss my flight?

“And on our last night at camp, it was just the two of us on a game drive, and it happened. Between both of us wishing with all our might to see one, we conjured a leopard. It was magic.”

Everyone is silent, and I am reeling. Hope and denial wage war in my mind.

Finally, Ned announces his verdict. “True.”

We go around the circle, everyone choosing true until it comes to me, and I feel strongly that I’m being asked a question. That he’s asking me to admit I felt it, too, that I’m not immune to him. All of the emotions that have been bombarding me from that night until now, all of my questions, my reservations, come at me, and I know this is the moment I choose. My answer will determine which path I go down.

He made me miss my flight.

Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath, finding the courage to let my heart answer. Hope prevails, and when I exhale there is only one word on my lips. “True,” I say softly.

It’s so quiet I can hear a fly buzzing somewhere by the speakers, until Mark finally speaks. “I guess that means I drink.”

The guys whoop at their victory, and I don’t know what to do—what happens next—so even though I won, I drink, too.

“Okay, Tim, you’re up,” Mark says, too loudly. “Your word is ‘girl.’”

Tim rolls the dice. “That’s easy,” he says. “There’s a girl in this truck who I think is really cute. I was wondering if maybe she’d want to have a drink with me in Ashville tomorrow.”

“True!” Ned says, laughing.

“I have to pee,” I announce, before I have to answer.

“I’ve been peeing in an empty Gatorade bottle,” Rory says.

“Is there any room left in it? Give it here,” Julian says.

“Hey, I don’t have that luxury. I don’t know how much longer I can hold it!” I say.

“I’ll tell Haynes to pull over.” Mark saves me, already dialing on my phone.

A few minutes later, I’m out on the side of the road, relieving myself in a bush while the guys “cross streams” nearby.

“Hurry up, lads! We don’t have all day,” Haynes bellows, walking along the side of the road, our fearless leader gearing us up for battle.

“Yes, drill sergeant!” I giggle, climbing out of the bushes and tripping over the brush.

“You’re a mess.” He catches my arm and pulls me up, depositing me next to Mark. “Take care of her.”

“If she’ll let me,” Mark whispers, lacing his fingers in mine.

My stomach drops, and I’m in awe that this is really happening. That we’re going to pursue this. I’m torn between running and collapsing in his arms, but instead I close my fingers around his.

We stand like that—half in the shadows of the setting sun but not hiding—while the guys buzz around us.

“We’ve got work to do, boys. Pull yourselves together and let’s get this show on the road!” Haynes says. “And no more beer.”

He’s greeted with a collective groan. “You’re no fun,” Rory says, stumbling back into the truck.

I’m dying to know what is next for Mark and me, but for now, the show must go on. Mark leads me toward the U-Haul, and Tim and Julian help me up, giving my backside a shove before piling in themselves.

Once the metal door is secured behind us, Gus pulls back out into traffic, but our progress is short-lived. Conveniently forgetting Haynes’s command, we’re cracking a fresh round of beers when we feel the truck come to a stop.

“What are we stopping for?” Julian asks.

“Haynes is probably coming back here to make sure we’re hydrating,” Ned says.

Just then the back gate of the U-Haul lifts to reveal the flashing lights of a state trooper with his gun drawn.

“Oh shit,” Sam says.

“What seems to be the problem, sir?” Haynes asks, coming around to the back of the truck.

“Stand back!” the officer says, pointing his gun toward Haynes. “You’re under arrest for kidnapping.”

“What?” Mark, Ned, and Jason say at the same time.

“Hands up! All of you!” the officer commands. “Except for you. You’re safe now. You can come with me, miss.” He gestures me forward with his gun, adding, “If any of the rest of you makes a move, you’ll regret it.”

“Me?” I stare in shock, though I know I’m the only “miss” here. “There must be a misunderstanding.”

“We had a report that a young woman was being forced into a U-Haul by a bunch of guys back on the highway. That’s called kidnapping. Do you know these gentlemen, miss?”

“Oh my goodness. Yes! I know them!” I place my hands over my heart, pledging my allegiance. “They didn’t kidnap me! We’re in a band!”

Slowly the officer looks around at the guys and recognition lights his eyes. “Hey—I know you. You’re from Berkeley & the Brightside. My daughter has a poster of you on her wall.” He holsters his gun. “Sorry for the confusion. Do you think I could get your autograph?”

We make it to the Mercury Ballroom twenty minutes before the Coconuts are set to perform, and it’s a drunken free-for-all, trying to get their equipment unloaded. In the end, they use the opening band’s instruments and play their sloppiest, most raucous show ever.

And I love every minute of it.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Amanda Conrad @BootsMD

I might need an IV drip.

Harrison Segal @DrSeeYouNow

@BootsMD I’ve got one waiting for you. Slow and steady. Step into my exam room…

We pull into the parking lot of The Orange Peel in Asheville just as I’m putting the finishing touches on my tour journal. I’ve pasted in the Polaroid picture I took of Lyle in front of his wall of fame next to my backstage wristband and written Day #1: The Birchmere. Alexandria, VA. “If I’d had any idea what was waiting for me back when I started out, it probably wouldn’t have happened the way it did. But that’s the beauty—the surprises. Never ruin the surprises. Take ’em as they come.”—Lyle Wolf.

On the second page under a picture of Terry I’ve written: “We didn’t have no history—we were just building a place where everyone could feel at home, filled with people you’d like to knock back a few with. We were making our own history every day, trying to make it count.”—Terry, the tow-truck driver.

And on the third page, I paste a picture that I got from Rory of me, Mark, and the police officer, but I refrain from writing “He made me miss my flight.”

My insides leap at the notion, and I smile to myself, lost in a cloud of giddy possibility, staring out the foggy bus window at the brick building that houses tonight’s stage. Outside, the skies are misty gray and the air is thick with humidity, so I’ve decided to stay with the band today rather than explore the damp city alone—though if I’m being honest, it’s really because I prefer to stay close to Mark. Having yet to find a moment alone, we haven’t discussed what was revealed last night, and part of me chalks the whole thing up to drunkenness. But I can’t stop looking for a sign that he meant what he said, can’t help hoping he truly believes Africa was magic, too. Last night awakened something in me that I’ve long been denying, and in that moment of truth I admitted to myself that I want this. Even in the sober light of morning, my truth remains the same. I want to give us a shot. I’m willing to take a risk, to trust him—however cautiously—with my heart. My only hope is that he will protect it. I think he will.

Today Mark has been all business. Perhaps to make up for last night’s loose show, he’s being extra particular about tonight. He and James are recording the venue’s podcast at two, and I’ve secured an invitation to listen in, banking on the off chance I might get him alone for a moment, though I know I will likely have to wait until after the show.

Once inside, we take over one of the two green rooms. I stay in the background, lounging on a couch while Mark and James put on headphones and lean into microphones situated around a card table. We’re introduced to Heidi, who runs the ticket booth and the podcast. She’s cool, like really cool, wearing her long ombré hair parted in the middle and a cut-up Radiohead T-shirt that shows off a circle of feathers tattooed on her tiny upper arm. When she’s introduced to Mark, her fingers linger in his for a bit too long, and I watch their interaction with interest, wondering if she’s the sort of girl he would normally end up with tonight. Bummer about the frumpy doctor cockblock. Not that there is any rule saying he can’t bring a girl back to the bus…just that she can’t sleep over… And my belief in last night’s truth starts to waver. What would I do if he brought her back? I shudder at the thought. But he wouldn’t. Would he?

“Welcome to The Orange Peel.” Heidi begins the interview, her raspy voice low and slow. “Today we have Mark and James of Coconut Teaszer with us. Welcome.”

“Thanks for having us,” Mark says. “I don’t know if we’ve ever played a ‘Social Aid and Pleasure Club’ before.”

“That just means we’re here to provide care, comfort, support, and entertainment,” she says. “You’re the entertainment, we’ll take care of the rest.”

Her eyelashes flutter, and my fears are confirmed. She’s a cat batting at her prey. Part of me doesn’t want to watch, but most of me is morbidly curious to see how Mark will react. Trying to hide my interest, I flip open the latest issue of TMI Weekly.

“But this is a music hall tour, right?” she continues. “Smaller stages than you’re used to playing with your other bands. How is it different?”

“It’s way more fun,” Mark says. “We’re used to big stadiums with tons of lights and endless crowds. I love the intimacy of playing stripped-down shows. I mean, people sit down for slow songs and really listen. It’s unheard of.”

“And we actually get to play slow songs,” James interjects.

“Right,” Mark says. “And seeing faces, reactions, connecting with the audience—it’s just not possible at a stadium show. I love that if there’s a guy eating a hot dog in the crowd, we can see him eating his hot dog.”

“Did you see the guy last night with his meatball sub?” James asks. “That was amazing.”

“I think he wanted us to know he was enjoying it.”

“The sub or the music?” Heidi asks.

“Oh, the sub, for sure,” Mark says. “I know I wanted a bite, but I didn’t go to the lengths some of the guys did to get one. Last night was crazy.”

I glance up from my magazine with a knowing smile, remembering Ned and Sam diving off the stage and crowd surfing, and I’m struck by how much I like being on the inside of the story.

“Meatball subs? This is what you think about while you’re playing slow songs?” Heidi asks. “That’s funny.”

“Sometimes,” Mark says, laughing with her.

My smile evaporates, and my heart begins to pound as I watch an unspoken moment pass between them.

“This album has a very New York feel,” she finally continues the interview, their mirth subsiding. “It’s gritty but polished. It’s frank—it doesn’t hold back. That’s where you recorded, right?”

“We did. I think wherever you record, the city seeps into it. I’d love to try out other cities, too,” Mark says. “Like if you record in Chicago, maybe it’s going to sound like an elevated train.”

“Totally,” she says. “Love that. My band recorded here in Asheville, and it came out having this kind of bluegrass folksy feel, but with an edge. It’s really clean sounding—it must be the mountain air—I don’t think we’d get that anywhere else.”

Band talk. I could never connect with him like that. I swat at the magazine, flipping to a new page and tuning the podcast out when I spy a photo of Liv branded with the label “Hollywood’s New Clone.” She’s pictured next to an image of Christina Carlton, and they’re wearing the same Balenciaga dress. The “Who Wore It Best” poll in the margin indicates 94 percent of the votes are for Christina. Certain Christina is trying to sabotage my cousin and her career, my fangs come out. I may need someone to sink them into. I return my gaze to the scene in front of me. Heidi is twirling her hair, nodding with rapt interest as Mark talks. Any volunteers, Heidi?

“I’ll have to check out your band,” he says. “You should come up and play with us tonight. I love surprises in a show, creating an experience that will happen only once, that you have to be present in the room for.”

“Until someone puts it up on YouTube,” Heidi says.

“True. I wish we could prevent that.” He frowns.

“Really? Don’t bands need YouTube to survive? That viral element to get them out there?” she asks.

“How did bands do it before the internet?” Mark counters. “It was word of mouth. And for me, I’d rather have fans present to experience our shows. There’s nothing I hate more than staring at the back of a bunch of phones while I sing. To be experiencing life through a lens when the real thing is right in front of you is a crime.”

She nods along, and James might as well be in another room. “I know I’d personally relish a live session with you.”

The hair stands up on the back of my neck, and I flex my fingers, claws out, snapping the magazine shut.

“Then you should absolutely come up and play tonight.”

“Really? That would be a dream come true. Like a real ‘Under Pressure’ moment,” she says, and I imagine they are connecting through a telepathic language known only to musicians.

“Sure, we’re on par with Queen and Bowie,” Mark says, laughing. “Or maybe we will be someday. We’ve got to start somewhere.”

James clears his throat, and Heidi seems to come to her senses, remembering they aren’t alone.

“So, James, you’re from Charlotte originally, right? Is this like a homecoming?” Her voice takes on a professional tone.

“It is. This place is going to be packed with friends tonight. I’ve been looking forward to this show. I’m pumped.”

“Me, too,” she says. “And on that note, I should let you sound check. Thanks to Mark and James from Coconut Teaszer for joining us. That’s all for ‘Live from the Peel.’” Her voice is heady in the mic before she clicks off the recording on her laptop and removes her headphones. “Thanks again, guys.” She shakes out her hair, but if she’s trying to be coy, it doesn’t come off that way. Even I have to admit she’s totally natural, real.

Ugh. They’re probably a perfect match.

“I was serious about tonight,” Mark says, removing his headphones. “What do you play?”

“The banjo and harmonica.”

They stand, heading for the door, and it’s like I’m not even in the room.

“Pick a song and come on up. Getting to play with different people is one of my favorite things.”

“Cool. I’d love to jump in on ‘Home.’” She smiles.

I frown. “Home” is my go-to when I want to hear Mark’s voice, and her connection to it tarnishes it for me. It’s like it’s not mine anymore.

“It’s a plan.” He smiles back.

Haynes walks into the room. “Sound check, guys. We’ve got to get to it—no time to waste.”

“And I should get downstairs,” Heidi says. “We’ll be sure to get Pulp ready for your after party, James—that’s our VIP club in the basement.”

“I’ll see you onstage, then?” Mark asks her.

“Absolutely.”

“Let’s go, guys,” Haynes says. “Rob is waiting.”

“Boots, do you want to come?” Mark seems to suddenly remember my presence in the room.

“No, I think I’m going to shower.” I gesture at the restroom. And find something decent to wear… I’m overcome with the need to make myself more attractive than Heidi, to find my inner cool girl, wherever she is. I think about Liv and Christina side by side in the magazine, mentally putting myself in Liv’s shoes but pitting myself against Heidi. Fearing she’d win the “who does Mark belong with?” poll, I vow to step up my game.

“See you for dinner, then?” he asks.

“See you then,” I confirm.

With a nod he follows Haynes and Heidi out of the room.

“We’re having fried chicken,” I hear Heidi say. “We figured you’d be tired of pizza.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Amanda Conrad @BootsMD

May I suggest we start calling the removal of Foley catheters “ex-foleyation”? #ThankYouAndGoodNight

“Home is at a distance from my shoulder to my hand, home with you is all that I have planned…”

Mark and Heidi harmonize the last notes of the song, looking at each other like no one else exists, connecting in a space that I don’t have access to. Wearing a floral print dress that again shows off her tattoos, Heidi is the perfect combination of tough and approachable: a salty-sweet combination I imagine is hard to get enough of. I tried to emulate her style, to fit in with the Asheville crowd, but my duffel bag came up short, and I’m stuck in my old jeans and a thin Urban Outfitters T-shirt. It was the best I could do. I shouldn’t have taken the pack light manifesto to heart. Or I should have spent the day scouring vintage stores. I can almost hear Parker shaking his head and saying, you couldn’t have conjured a flirty little dress?

Seeing them bound together in song sends my usual competitive drive on the fritz, and I retreat to my frumpy doctor refuge, biting my lower lip to keep it from trembling. I’m a fool for believing. Wrapping up my heart and restoring it to its rightful, protected place, I’m thankful I didn’t have the opportunity to gift it in the first place.

Heidi exits the stage, eyes fluttering with suggestion at Mark as they part. I shift my weight, analyzing his smiled response, wondering if there was an invitation in it, while he takes a seat on a stool next to Sam, and they start to play “Fall with Me.”

“And I say the moon and the stars

Are aligned just fine the way they are.”

Attempting to bury my insecurities, I concentrate on the show. Surrounded by James’s family and friends, each of them vying for position, I’m wedged in front of the stage at Mark’s feet. Face turned up, I watch his hands, admiring the power in them, the firm grip he has on the guitar, the veins protruding as he strums. So different than a surgeon’s hands, Harrison’s hands. I compare my own delicate fingers, seemingly made for performing operations, harnessing the ability to slice through muscle, to find bone. Maybe they aren’t that different…maybe they both are meant to impact lives. Oh, to feel his hands on me again…

Heidi interrupts my thoughts, inserting herself beside me as the band finishes to cheers from the crowd, and I feel my cheeks flush, as though she was privy to what I was thinking.

“After party?” she asks.

“Sure. Do you have any bourbon down there? I’m sure Mark will want some.” I can’t help but reinforce that I know him better than she does.

“Of course.”

I follow her downstairs into a small, dark bar, its gray walls lined with music posters.

“What’s the deal with him anyway?” she asks, slipping behind the bar and shaking a bottle of Bulleit at me in offering.

“That’s perfect. I’ll have one, too.”

Nodding, she pours me a glass.

“Who do you mean?” I ask.

“Mark.” She hands me my drink, and I sense that she sees me as competition, too. “Is he available?”

My stomach contracts. “Technically?” I can’t lie, can’t speak for him until he speaks to me. “I guess so.”

“You’re not here with him, then.”

“Me? Oh, I’m here with him…just tagging along for a few shows.” I purposely keep my answer vague, but she doesn’t back down.

“You’re not his girlfriend?”

“No.” I sigh. “Not his girlfriend.” It pains me to say it, but I have to be honest. “Just a girl who’s a friend.”

“So you don’t mind if I hang with him tonight?”

My stomach rebels at the thought of them together, and I take a big swig of my drink to calm it. “He can hang with anyone he wants to,” I reply, the whiskey searing my throat, keeping my senses alive, and I refrain from scratching her eyes out.

“Awesome. I just wanted to make sure. I meet a lot of guys in bands, and you never know the situation, but he’s one of the coolest I’ve met in a long time, and I’d like to get to know him better.” She pours a small glass of Aperol for herself.

“Yeah. He’s pretty special.” I swallow another sip of my drink. Claws in. Be nice. Kill her with kindness. “This is a pretty great job you have.”

“I love it.” She puts away the bottle and comes around the bar to join me. “The pay isn’t great; I guess that’s the trade-off, but I get to do what I love—make music my life.”

“Are you in school or anything?”

“Not anymore. I went to Duke for undergrad and was about to start law school, but I had to be honest with myself. Could I really spend my days glued to a desk? My parents were pretty upset, but when it comes down to it, it’s my life. When else am I going to get to focus purely on my passion? Music is what makes me feel most alive, and I figure I can go to law school later.”

Ugh. She’s totally perfect for him. “That’s brave of you.”

“I don’t know about brave.” She takes a small sip of her drink. “My dad calls it stupid, but I can’t worry about what people think. I have to do what speaks to my soul. Find what makes me whole and go after it. That’s what’s great about this place—everyone here loves what they’re doing. We don’t have a ton of stuff or luxuries, but we’re having a blast.”

“I like your perspective.” I find myself relating to Heidi despite her plans for Mark, and I have to concede that her lifestyle is a better fit for his than mine, even though it irks me.

“What’s on tap?” Mark asks, appearing at the bar next to me. He doesn’t touch or indicate possessiveness over me in any way, and I mark his inaction as a point for Heidi.

“Bulleit,” I say, playing the role of “buddy,” nudging my empty glass toward him.

“I’ll have one of those,” he tells Heidi.

“I already poured you one.” Hopping off her stool, she heads to the back of the bar and picks up his glass, topping off mine in the process. “Do you want to grab a table?”

“Sure.” Mark takes my arm, even though I prefer sitting at the bar. I’m just thrilled he’s touching me.

We follow her to a small round table in the center of the room.

“Awesome show,” she says, taking a seat. “I had an amazing time up there.”

“You sounded great,” he says. “Love that riff you did on the bridge.”

“Thanks. I hope the stage lived up to your expectations.”

“Oh yeah. This place is one in a million. I’d play here anytime.”

“We’d love to have you again. The crowds are always like this—they bring big energy. It’s pretty special.”

“It’s rare to find such a great scene,” he says. “I wish there were more venues around the country like this. It reminds me of when the Brightside was just starting out. L.A. was great back then—I could go out any night of the week and see bands, hang with people who were all about the music, but everyone has moved on or grown up. And New York is pretty much the same. Everyone is so focused on making it, on making money, it’s all they talk about. It’s hard to find the places that are packed with friends who want to make music on a Tuesday night. I miss that.”

“Maybe you should start your own scene,” I say.

He smiles at me, and his fingers brush my arm as he reaches for his whiskey. “Maybe. But that would require putting down roots. It’s a big commitment. I think for now the road is my home. I’ve always taken comfort in belonging nowhere.”

Point taken.

Heidi rests her chin in her hand and leans toward him. “Being part of The Peel is like being on tour without having to go anywhere. We get to make music with new people every night.”

“That does sound tempting.” He’s totally engrossed in her, and part of me wants to wave my hand in front of his face to see if he’d notice, to prove whether or not I’m invisible. “This might sound nuts, but sometimes I wish for a weekday routine—to be excited because it’s Friday and the weekend is starting and I’ve slaved away all week to get there. Is that crazy?”

“I think it’s normal,” she says. “The grass is always greener. And touring requires you to keep up this perennial adolescence. It makes it hard to grow up.”

“Totally.”

Their heads get closer as they talk, and I’m pretty sure they’ve forgotten I’m here. I keep drinking, unable to relate. It’s the opposite of my life. I don’t get any Fridays. I’m so grown up…

Before I know it, my glass is empty, and I scooch back my chair. “Anybody need a refill?”

Both of their glasses are still full—they’ve hardly touched them, being lost in conversation. In each other.

“We’re good,” Heidi says without looking up.

I stand, hovering over them, waiting for Mark to acknowledge me. “I’m going to get another one, then. See you in a few.”

Finally, I get a response. Mark reaches into his pocket and pulls out a stack of orange raffle tickets. “I almost forgot—Haynes gave me these drink tickets. You should take them.”

“Yeah. You don’t need those, Mark,” Heidi says, sliding her chair closer to his. “Your drinks are on me.”

“Thanks,” I say to the back of his head, snatching the tickets out of his hand. “Just a drink for me then.”

“So, your voice has a really unique tone,” he says to her like he didn’t hear me. “Have you ever thought of bringing in more of a blues influence to your music?”

Invisible, I head for the bar. Tears sting my eyelids, and my chin takes on a wobbling life of its own, but somehow I manage to keep walking and not dissolve into a puddle of tears.

Last night was definitely a bunch of drunken nonsense.

My lungs seize, trapping my breath in my chest and, fighting for air, a sob nearly escapes my throat. But then I somehow remember I’m a doctor. I have strength enough to spare. Swallowing hard, I square my shoulders and hand my drink tickets to the bartender.

Once I have my refill I opt to join Haynes and the rest of the guys on the other side of the room, needing to distance myself from the twosome.

“I just got an email saying that Fallon wants to book you guys,” Haynes says, scrolling through his phone as I sit.

Ned puts down his drink. “Are you shitting us?”

“Nope, boys. This is your ticket to the big time.” Haynes grins.

“Maybe. We’ve got to get you-know-who to agree,” Sam says. “I don’t know why he’s so hell-bent on keeping us small. What is his deal? Why is he afraid of success?”

“I don’t know,” Jason says. “But we’ve got to get him to come around.”

“Where is he anyway, Boots?” Ned asks.

“Over there.” I nod in his general direction, attempting to keep my expression neutral.

Ned follows my gesture. “Ah. Typical. We should probably clear off the top bunk then.”

I frown. “I thought there were no sleepovers?”

“Not exactly,” Sam says. “The rule is everyone has to have a bed.”

The thought of being sandwiched between them is sickening, and the room starts to spin. With one last confirmation that Mark is still cocooned with Heidi, their heads bowed close across the table, I stand, my frustration taking over. Seeing red, I excuse myself from the guys and march across the room.

Coming to a halt behind Mark, I tap him on the shoulder.

He looks up. “Hey Boots, what took you so long? Grab a seat.”

“That’s okay,” I say, hands on my hips, fully aware of how passive aggressive and petty I’m being, but I can’t help it. “I’m calling it a night—I have to get up early if I want to catch the first flight out of Nashville.”

His face goes pale. “You’re leaving?”

“Yeah. It’s time for me to get back to reality. I have a ton of catching up to do at work, and I really shouldn’t waste any more time. It was really nice meeting you, Heidi.” I offer her a short wave before turning on my heel. “Good night, Mark.”

With that I head for the bus.

And I don’t look back.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Mark VanCleer @BrightsideBP

@BerkeleyBrtside Does your bloom believe in magic?

Berkeley Dalton @BerkeleyBrtside

@BrightsideBP NOW she does. But it was a tough sell.

Mark VanCleer @BrightsideBP

@BerkeleyBrtside I might need to borrow your bag of tricks…

When I climb aboard the bus, Gus is inside watching a movie. He moves to get out of my way, but I wave him off, promising that I’m just going to bed anyway. Trying to keep the tears from falling, I trip over the backpacks and piles of shoes in the aisles and heave myself into my bunk. Flopping onto my sleeping bag, I pull out my phone, needing distraction, but the battery is dead. Frustrated, I wiggle out of my jeans, kicking them off, and slide into my sweats, my elbows bumping the walls in the tight space. I’m so over this.

I stare at the ceiling. The realization that I’m really leaving, that it wasn’t an empty threat, seeps into me, and everything about it feels wrong. The tears I’ve longed to cry all night arrive, but I hold them back. I’m going. I have to keep my word, own my decision. Once I’m back to work I’ll know it was the right choice. Refusing to regret it, I try to keep my mind busy. Putting on my glasses, I go to work on my Happily Ever After book. Pasting Heidi’s Polaroid picture next to my last drink tickets, I write, “I have to do what speaks to my soul. Find what makes me whole and go after it.” As much as I don’t want her in my Happily Ever After, I don’t edit her out. She is there as evidence that I don’t speak to Mark’s soul, a reminder that I’m choosing the right path.

Suddenly the curtain next to my bed slides open, and I jump.

Mark pokes his head in. “Boots?” he whispers. “Are you okay?”

He hovers above me, the twinkle lights that line my bunk casting his face in a soft glow.

“I’m fine. Just trying to get my things together.” I slam my book shut on Heidi’s face, waiting for her actual head to appear over his shoulder. “You didn’t have to come check on me. Go back to the party. You seemed like you were having fun.”

“It’s much more fun with you by my side.”

“It is? You seemed to be enjoying Heidi.” I raise my eyebrows, knowing I totally sound like a resentful girlfriend.

“That was business,” he says. “She has an interesting voice, and I think she has a future in music. I wanted to talk to her about it, but believe me, I’d much rather spend time with you. I’ve been hoping to get you alone all day, but we can talk tomorrow if you’re tired. You’re not really leaving, are you?”

The earnestness in his voice catches me off guard, and despite my resolve to go back to real life, some of my anger dissipates. “Yeah. So let’s talk now.” Ready to get off the seesaw once and for all, I slide out of my bunk. “Where do you want to go?”

“To the lounge?” Taking my hand, he tugs me toward the back of the bus.

“We won’t exactly be alone—Phillipe is in there—but sure.”

“Who is Phillipe?”

We arrive in the lounge and everything that needs to be said overwhelms me. “The pig.” I wave at the neon sign that the guys insisted we bring in the U-Haul. “We got to know each other on the drive to Alexandria. Who knew he’s French?”

“Do you know how cute you are?” Mark doesn’t acknowledge the pig. His eyes are only for me, and they are almost my undoing.

Flushing, I disentangle my fingers from his and sink onto the couch. Hugging my knees to my chest, I’m certain I look like a college freshman in my T-shirt and sweats. “You must not have very high standards.”

“On the contrary. I have the highest.” He pours himself a whiskey and offers me one. I decline, wanting to keep my wits about me. “In fact, I’ve never met anyone who could live up to them. Until now. Well, until Africa… And I think it’s high time I was honest with you about that.” He sits down next to me so we’re facing each other, and my decision to make tomorrow my last day begins to waver. Not that I’m going to tell him that.

My pulse thundering in my ears, I take a deep breath and bravely walk through the door he just opened. “What do you want me to know now that you couldn’t tell me then? What changed?”

“Me. You. I didn’t think I had a shot with you until yesterday. You’ve always seemed untouchable, driven. Don’t get me wrong, it’s sexy, but I was afraid I’d slow you down.” His fingers inch up my foot until they are locked around my ankle.

My throat goes dry, and I grab his drink, taking a sip while I process everything. “I’ve always hated how I left things when we got back from Africa,” I admit, swallowing fear. “At the airport, when you walked away, I had the urge to take it all back, to run after you.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I didn’t know if you wanted me to. I wasn’t certain I wanted to.” I let the words hang between us.

He nods, slowly.

Clearly it’s not an immediate “Yes! I wanted you to come with me, too!”

“I know what you mean,” he finally says. “After everything that happened… After the leopard…” He shakes his head. “It was crazy.”

“That’s just it. It wasn’t real. It was like some fantasy born out of the love in the air that weekend. My real life isn’t anything like that. Maybe yours is—”

“Boots.” He stops me and takes a deep breath. “I’ve never experienced anything like that. Not with anyone. Anywhere. It scared me. I felt like if I went with you, I’d be done for. Like you were ‘it.’ I wasn’t sure I was ready for that.”

“Really?” Overwhelmed by the implications of what he’s just revealed, I resist nibbling on my thumbnail and keep my hands on his drink. “But it seems like your life is like that all the time. You could have had that experience with anyone. You’re happy with whoever you’re with.”

His eyes cloud over, and I sense that I’ve hurt his feelings.

“I’m sorry if it comes across that way. It’s part of my job to be engaging. And I genuinely like meeting new people. I’m not trying to sleep with every girl I meet, I promise. I meet so many of them. Maybe there was a time…but not now.” His hand moves up my leg to my knee, his fingers tracing a circle. “To be honest, there’s just one girl I’m interested in…”

He sucks me in.

“And you left her back in the bar?” I ask, my voice little, unable to resist bringing up Heidi so I don’t have to give in to the squeezing in my chest.

“Don’t sell yourself short, cupcake.” His fingers tighten, pressing into my flesh, massaging me, and I want to feel them everywhere. “What happened in Africa wouldn’t have happened with anyone else. And I don’t think the leopard would have appeared if I were with anyone else. I think we have magic, can make magic. Don’t you feel it?”

We could be anywhere, bombs could be exploding around us, and he’s all I’d be able to see.

“Sometimes,” I admit.

“Do you want to know what the texts I sent you said? The ones you never got?”

“Yes…”

“I said I couldn’t stop thinking about you—about everything that had happened. It changed me. Changed what I wanted, and I thought we should give us a shot in New York. See what we could make happen there.”

“But I never responded.”

“And then I saw you with that guy, and I thought you’d moved on. I couldn’t believe that my feelings were one-sided, that you could be so callous to not dignify me with a response. I’d never put myself on the line like that before, and I was crushed when I didn’t hear from you. I wasn’t about to do it again.”

“But you were there with Amelia…”

He sighs. “I told you, we’re old friends. We were having breakfast after a night of commiserating over broken hearts.”

“Who broke your heart?” I ask, not considering myself an option.

He frowns. “You can’t see yourself at all, can you?”

Blushing, I shake my head. “I guess it’s just hard to imagine that everything isn’t perfect for people like the two of you. You’re so special. Everything you do is beyond the average person’s wildest dreams. I can’t see how I fit into that when I’m so ordinary.”

Reaching up, he tucks my hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering on my jaw, bringing me in closer to him. “What will it take to make you believe we’re possible?”

“I don’t know,” I whisper, and tears spring to my eyes. I want so badly to be able to give in, to believe, but it’s not that easy. “I’m scared.”

“I am, too. But we can take it slow. Please don’t leave. At least stay for a few more days. Give me a chance?”

Outside the lounge, voices fill the corridor as the guys trickle back from the club, and I know our time is running short, but I can’t answer. Even though every piece of my heart knows I’m staying, my brain has to make an informed decision. “Can I sleep on it?”

Just then Rory bursts into the room and snaps a picture of us. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt, but it’s my job.”

He’s hammered, and he pounces on the couch, tackling Mark.

“To be continued,” Mark says, pushing him out of his lap and onto the floor. “Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” I agree, standing and stepping over Rory, not wanting to be caught in the middle of a drunken free-for-all when I have so much to process.

“Good night, cupcake.”

“Cupcakes! Yum! I want cupcakes!” Rory says from the floor.

“Good night.” Smiling to myself, I slip out of the lounge and pad back down the corridor.

Once I’m safely in my bunk, I stare at the ceiling, listening to the guys settle in, replaying everything Mark just revealed. I search for dissent, for the part of me that wants to run, but I find only the parts of me that want to stay. With him.

In the distance the engine roars to life, and the bus sways into motion. A few minutes later I hear Mark slide into the bunk beneath me. Hyperconscious of his proximity, I roll onto my side, imagining my cheek pressed against his. Minutes tick by, and my mind is in overdrive. Not even the gentle rocking of the bus can lull me into slumber. I’m too busy measuring his closeness, remembering how his lips felt on mine, even though Africa seems like ages ago. Twice I’m almost bold enough to find out if he’s thinking about me, too, but then my practical side creeps in, holding me in place. It’s against bus rules… But finally I can’t take it anymore and lean over the side of my bunk, peeking into his.

“Are you awake?” I whisper.

“Yes. I’m not going to sleep a wink until I get an answer.”

Biting my lip, I look both ways to make sure the coast is clear, and I slip out of my bunk, sliding into his.

He pulls me down next to him in the cramped space, and we lie there, nose to nose, chest to chest.

“So what’s the verdict?” he whispers.

I can’t contain it; I break into a grin. “It would be my play-sha to stay for a few more days.”

His lips find mine in response, coaxing my mouth open, and I kiss him back. All of the pent-up longing and emotion rushes forward, and he fills me with sweetness that overflows from every pore. Holding me tight, supporting every inch of me, his tongue presses against mine, and he takes us deeper. I surrender to the flood, allow myself to be carried away in a dizzying whirl, transported back to our last night in Africa. And the stars shine down. It’s just the two of us in the world. We’re all that matters.

His fingers trace my collarbone, moving lower to my chest, and I curl in to him, unable to get close enough. His hand grips my backside, and I lose my breath. Knowing we’re reaching the point of no return, I fight to come up for air.

“You’re a bad influence,” I murmur against his lips, slowing his momentum. “You make me forget everything I’m supposed to be doing.”

He pulls away but keeps his forehead connected to mine. “I think that’s the best kind of influence. Giving in to what you want.”

“Maybe,” I say, treasuring the impression his mouth left on mine, the heat lingering, keeping me warm. “But is this how you plan to loosen me up?”

“Not quite.”

His eyes crinkling at the corners, he kisses me again, and for a second I give in, but I want to take it slow this time, to explore our relationship beyond the physical.

I pull back.

“I guess we’ll have to wait until I’m a little looser, then. You have work to do.”

He groans.

“Sorry, bus rules. No sleepovers. Good night.” Giving him a quick peck on the cheek, I climb back into my own bed.

And hearing him grumbling in the bunk beneath me, I’m smiling when I fall asleep.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Felix Sheridan @TMINewsNow

Berkeley Dalton: ENGAGED Sorry Berkladies, he’s off the market. Follow #Berklivia for all the details about his fiancé, KEYSTONE stand-in Liv Adara!

Christina Carlton @Celebrightly

Berkeley will always be trying to fill my shoes…but Cinderella’s slipper was custom built for one. #UglyStepsisterBeware

“No way,” Ned says, looking out the window. “Guys. Come here. You’ve got to see this.”

I join the band, clamoring for a spot at the window as they wipe sleep and last night’s haze from their eyes, trying to focus.

“Shit,” Mark says. “Crazy.”

“We sold out the Cannery Ballroom?” Sam says. “Holy fuck.”

Sure enough, the marquee in front of the brick building reads: tonight: coconut teaszer, and it is stamped out with bold red letters. sold out.

Mark wraps me in a giant hug. “This is one of the best music venues in Nashville—it seats one thousand.”

“Congratulations.” I rest my head against his chest, hugging him back, basking in his excitement.

“We’re doing something right,” Jason says.

The guys reach for their phones and start snapping pictures. For a minute, they’re on the same page, their spirit contagious. And I’m right there with them, except, letting go of Mark, I document the moment with my Polaroid camera.

Mark smiles his approval.

Once we’re inside the venue we’re ushered into one of the Cannery’s loft-style hospitality suites to get cleaned up before the guys head down for the pre-show meet and greet.

Opting to stay behind, I settle onto a couch and dial Liv’s number, knowing she’s the only person who can relate to the giddiness I’m feeling right now.

“Boots!” she says, picking up after the third ring. “Where are you?”

“Oh, you know, in the green room at the Cannery Ballroom in Nashville, sipping champagne.”

“It sounds so glamorous! How is the tour?”

“It’s been really fun. A true adventure.” I sigh, certain she can hear that I have stars in my eyes. “Don’t get me wrong, being the lone girl on a bus full of hot rock stars is nowhere near as sexy as you’d imagine. It’s about as provocative as emptying a colostomy bag. Most of the time it smells like a frat house. Fortunately, a lot of the venues have showers, but if they don’t, look out after a show. Sweaty band guy central.”

She laughs. “I still can’t wait to go with Berkeley someday.”

“I’m sure it will be nicer with Berkeley. The two of you will probably have your own bus equipped with a spa and aromatherapy. You’ll be traveling in style.”

“I guess bunks don’t leave much room for hanky-panky, huh?”

“Actually, there’s room enough…”

She squeals. “What happened?”

I can’t hide the truth from my best friend any longer. I need her perspective. “To be honest, it all started in Africa—”

She pounces. “I knew it! You’ve been holding out on me. Tell me everything.”

I laugh. “We hooked up a little…or maybe a lot…” I say, unsure of where to start. “At first I thought we were caught up in the moment. You and Berkeley are so powerful together it’s impossible to be around you and not want to taste what that’s like, but then it was just the two of us left. It seemed like the universe was pushing us together, if only for a night. I didn’t expect it to last, though. I thought we’d have a whirlwind weekend and then go back to our separate lives.”

“But…”

“But when I got home it was like he’d unlocked a fairy tale and everything unraveled from there. And here we are, both of us willing to give it a shot.”

“Boots, I’m so happy for you. I could tell there was something between you in Africa—something special. I’ve never known Mark to want a relationship—he’s a live-in-the-moment kind of guy—but there was something different about the way he looked at you, the way his eyes followed you around the room. He’s going to roll out the red carpet for you, I know it.”

“We’ll see,” I say, warmed by her words. “We’re going to spend a few days together to see where it goes, but…I’m terrified.”

“Why?”

“I’ve spent almost my entire life dreaming of being a doctor, and now everything I’ve worked for is within reach. All I have to do is stay on the path in front of me. I’m afraid of getting sidetracked, that falling in love will throw everything off course and then my dreams will be impossible. Doctor first, then comes love… I can’t give up everything I’ve always believed just like that.”

“Then comes tour dinner parties!” She laughs before turning serious. “Boots. You can have it all. Trust me. Love won’t ruin anything—it will only make you better, more compassionate. Isn’t a doctor who loves the best kind?”

“Maybe I’ll find out…” I chew my thumbnail as another niggling fear from the back of my mind presents itself. “But how do you do it? How do you sleep without constantly wondering where Berkeley is at night? I’ve never had a real relationship, especially with someone who is constantly on the road with girls throwing themselves at him. I’m afraid of getting hurt, of being overly possessive.”

“It’s not easy to get used to, that’s for sure.” She lets out a long exhale. “It took a lot for me to overcome the throngs of women constantly stalking Berkeley—to believe that he’d choose me over them. I still struggle with it, but at the end of the day, when it’s just the two of us and we look at each other and can laugh over everything, I realize he’s him. We fit. It feels so right, there’s no denying it, and I truly believe he would never do anything to hurt me, so I trust him.”

“You’re a braver soul than I, Liv.” I sigh. “I feel like I’m standing on a ledge, willing myself to jump, but I don’t know if the bungee cord will hold. I might crash on the rocks below. How do I know he’ll catch me?”

“You don’t. It’s called a leap of faith for a reason. But jump, please. I know you won’t regret it. Seriously, even if for some reason he doesn’t catch you, it will have been worth it to experience that kind of love, even for a minute, I promise.”

That kind of love? “I wish I knew what you were talking about,” I say. “Right now I’d settle for comfortably going to second base. But we’ll see… I’m going to try.”

“Yay!” She claps her hands. “That makes me happy.”

“Good. My work here is done.” I smile. “How are you doing otherwise? I saw you’ve been officially leaked to the press. That Christina Carlton! She doesn’t quit.”

“Ugh. I know. Let the circus begin,” she says, her voice turning dark. But then she brightens. “I’ve actually been meaning to ask you—will you be my date to The Keystone world premiere? It’s in December in New York, and Berkeley will be super busy. I would love to have someone with me who is on my side.”

I don’t have to think about it. “Liv! Are you serious? Me on the red carpet? Of course I’ll be your date! As long as you don’t mind being seen with a frumpy doctor.”

The door to the green room opens and Mark steps in. A little thrill shoots through me at the sight of him.

“Oh, we’ll get you red-carpet ready. We have teams for that,” Liv says in a mock-superior tone. “I’m excited, now.”

“Can I borrow you for a few minutes?” Mark whispers.

Smiling up at him, I nod as I reply to Liv. “Me, too. Hey—I’ve got to go chaperone sound check. Talk to you in a couple days?”

“Sooner!” she says. “I need details.”

“Okay.” I laugh. “Bye.”

I end the call and cross the room to Mark. “I’m all yours.”

“I like the sound of that.” Taking my hand, he leads me out the door and across the loft space to a ladder that is hooked into the wall. “I finagled a little free time before sound check and there’s something I want you to see.”

I follow him up the ladder until we emerge on the roof where two chairs are set up near the edge of the building, offering sweeping views of the Nashville skyline. The rosy sky is dotted with puffy white clouds, and the air is crisp and cool, but Mark has one of his sweaters waiting for me, along with steaming hot chocolate and a dozen mini cupcakes.

“Courtesy of the Cupcake Collection,” he says. “I told you I have secret sources in every city.”

Butterflies flap to life in the pit of my stomach. “This is beautiful. Thank you.”

“And tomorrow I cleared the afternoon. It’s you and me versus Baton Rouge.”

“I can’t wait.”

We take our seats, and I sample the red velvet, snuggling into his sweater, marveling at how things have changed. Hyperaware of his presence next to me, I bite back a laugh. “This is kind of weird, isn’t it?”

“It’s totally weird,” he agrees.

“I’ve spent so much time resisting you, I don’t know what to do now that I can have you.”

“I didn’t say you could have me. I was planning to play hard to get.”

“You are hard to get. No need for an act.”

“It’s not hard for you.”

My heart skips a beat, and I warm my hands on the hot chocolate cup. “Can I ask you a serious question?”

“Sure. But I might not answer.”

“Okay.” I smile. “Here it goes.” I take a deep breath. “Did you really make me miss my flight?”

Sipping his hot chocolate, he contemplates his answer. “What if I say yes?” he finally asks.

“I don’t know.”

“Then I’ll tell you later.” He grins.

“You can’t do that.” I swat his arm. “It’s not fair. Be serious.”

“Serious is no fun. But I’ll make you a deal. I’ll tell you if you tell me what ‘Immune’ really means to you.”

“That’s against your own rules.”

“Some rules are meant to be broken. You should try it sometime.” He nudges me with his elbow.

I consider my options. “Will you tell me what it was about for you?”

He shakes his head. “You get only one answer, cupcake. It’s your choice. But I’d rather not tell you about ‘Immune.’ I prefer to preserve your memory of it.”

Watching the sun dip behind a building, I realize I have nothing to hide. I want him to know everything about me. “Derrick, the bartender at Rosie’s, used to play it all the time. It reminds me of when I first started hanging out there, back when I had this crazy bravado, this pride, when everything was new and my dreams were coming true. I thought I was invincible. I still feel invincible when I hear it, even though now I know I’m not.”

“Thank you. I love that.”

“Your turn.” I raise my eyebrows expectantly.

“Okay.” He inhales, his gaze intently locked on mine. “I made you miss your flight.”

A bolt shoots through me even though I’ve entertained the idea that it was true. “Why?” I flounder. “Because you wanted to sleep with me?”

“Yes.” He laughs.

“Did you hire the elephant?”

“No. The elephant was unexpected, but I’d already bribed the guard to take us to Jake’s tent. I would have found another way to suggest it.” He turns serious. “I wasn’t lying about what I said in the U-Haul, though, Boots. I was dead serious when I said I’d never felt like that. I didn’t want it to stop then, and I don’t want it to stop now.” Digging into his pocket, he pulls out his phone and hands it to me. “Here. I made this to send to you in case I woke up one morning and realized you’d snuck off tour in the middle of the night before I could tell you how I felt. He points at the screen. “It’s a playlist.”

Tapping the playlist icon, I giggle at the title that pops up. “‘Music to Operate to’?” I scroll down the list of songs, reading them out loud. “‘Africa’ by Toto, ‘Smooth Operator’ by Sade—that’s you to a T—‘Operator’ by Jim Croce, nice. ‘Private Eyes,’ Hall & Oats—totally creepy. I’m going to be very popular in the OR.” I scan the rest of the list—“You Can Do Magic” by America, “Working My Way Back to You Babe,” “Respect”—until I land on the last song, “I’m a Believer.”

Tears spring to my eyes. “I love this.”

He puts his arm around me and rests his head against mine, holding me tight under the darkening sky. And he doesn’t say it, because he doesn’t have to.

I love you.

Chapter Forty

Amanda Conrad @BootsMD

Dear Sleepless in the OR, if you were a princess, who would you be? Hmmm. Suture-ella? Blood Red? #ItWouldTakeASpecialPrince

“Sorry we’re getting such a late start. I wish we’d gotten into town earlier, but I thought we could grab some pizza.” Mark opens the door to Fleur de Lis Pizza in Baton Rouge and ushers me inside the rundown cocktail bar. “I don’t know about you, but I’m not sick of it.”

“I’m absolutely not sick of it. If I see one more piece of fried chicken, though…” Looking around the packed dive, I inhale the scent of freshly baked dough.

“Tell me about it. I’d even eat at Chuck E. Cheese.” He laughs. “I haven’t forgotten that you owe me a Pittsburgh pizza experience, and I’m sure it’s not as good as Mama Rosie’s, but the pizza here is supposed to be phenomenal.”

“Mama Rosie doesn’t do pizza, actually. She says she can’t do it as well as they do in Naples so she doesn’t try. But you nailed it. This is my kind of spot.”

“Anywhere you want,” a waitress says, passing by.

“Should we sit at the bar?” Mark suggests. “I usually prefer it.”

“Me, too. That’s where the action is.” I take his hand. “It’s the best way to get to the heart of a place.”

Pulling up two cracked red leather stools, we take our seats and order a couple pints of Stella and the Round the World pizza, the house specialty. We spend a few minutes chatting with the bartender, who recognizes Mark and, it turns out, is coming to the show tonight, until he leaves to take someone else’s order.

“See that waitress over there?” I say, sipping my beer.

“The blonde in the striped shirt?”

“Yeah. I think she and the bartender are an item. Or at least she wants them to be. Did you see the way she lingered at the computer station when she was putting in her last order, making a big show of trying to remember the toppings? She kept scratching her head and biting her lower lip.”

“I did. And when she picked up that last round of drinks, she was totally strutting. But I think she’s got some competition. That other waitress—the Little Mermaid-looking one—is the one he’s into.”

I check her out. “Oh yeah. He might have already been there, done that.”

“No. He hasn’t. Not yet. Trust me. When she picked up her round of drinks he took his time making the last one so he could make her laugh. And then he made sure he brushed her arm with his when he handed it over. He’s trying to get in there.”

“Is that how it works? When you’re into someone?” I ask. “A giggle followed by a tickle?”

“Oh, yeah. Pour on the charm and then…” He grabs me around the waist, tickling me. I shriek, swatting him away. “At least that’s how it usually works.”

He’s teasing me. Last night I again managed to hold him to the bus rules. “Don’t worry. You’re still on your game. I can’t hold out forever.”

“I know. I’ve just met my match, is all.”

My skin heats, and the pizza arrives, crispy and blistered on the bottom, gooey on top.

We each grab a slice.

“I’m surprised you’re eating,” I say, taking a bite of pizza, cheese clinging to my chin. I immediately wipe it off, opting to go forward with a fork and knife instead. “Even though you’re playing tonight.”

“I guess I have a good feeling about tonight’s show. I’m feeling strangely relaxed,” he says, wiping my chin with his thumb. “You missed a spot…”

I thrill to the warmth of his fingers. “That’s good. Maybe it’s a sign that things are clicking. The guys all seem to be in good spirits. And I heard Fallon wants to book you…that’s huge.”

“It is, but I don’t know if we should do it.”

“Why not?”

He shrugs. “Are we supposed to? Probably. It’s the next logical step. Being showcased like that defines success, right?”

“For most people I’m sure it does. It must be great exposure.”

“It is. And it’s probably what’s best for the band, but to be honest,” he says, “I’m scared.”

I put down my fork. “Of what?”

He looks to the ceiling, choosing his words carefully. “It takes tremendous ego and energy to make a band work on that level. You have to be willing to play the game, and I don’t know if I am. I thought I was, but the closer I get to massive success being a reality, the more I start to doubt my original aspirations. I’ve seen what superstardom has done to Berkeley’s life. He can’t say anything without it getting twisted. I’ve been pretty sheltered from that, and I want it to stay that way, for this to be about the music and not about the spotlight.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t do it,” I say. “You don’t have to be Brightside level to be considered a success. It’s easy to let one group of people define who you are when their world is all you know, but there are a million other definitions of success out there. You’ll find the one that suits you.”

“It’s true. And I’m finding out that, at the end of the day, I like small stages. When it gets too big, sometimes I’m tempted to quit it all and run away—go live a simple life somewhere where I could make music as a hobby.”

“What would you do for work then?” I help myself to more pizza. “Was there ever something else you wanted to be? What came before music?”

He thinks for a minute. “When I was a kid I probably wanted to be that guy.” He points at the bartender. “I have all these memories of my mom chatting with the staff at restaurants. She liked being a regular—it made her happy when they remembered her—and I thought it would be cool to be the guy everyone came to see because he recognized them, made them feel special.”

Watching him think about his mom makes my eyes mist. “That’s cute.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone that…” He falls silent then shakes his head as if he’s clearing his mind and grabs another slice. “Sometimes I wonder what it would have been like if she were still around. Would I have gotten into music? I don’t know. My life would have been completely different.”

“Sliding doors. Sometimes I wonder what it would have been like if I never wanted to be a doctor. Would I have been satisfied becoming my mother?” I finish off the last of my beer.

“But isn’t that part of the reason you’re here?” He gestures to the bartender for the bill. “Has being on tour helped you decide if you’re on the right path?”

“In some aspects of my life, yes.” I run my finger along his thigh. “But in others I’m still confused. You’re not going to make it easy to go back to hospital life.”

“But you can’t go yet. I still need to loosen you up.” He tickles my waist, and I jump, swatting his hand away.

“I don’t want to, but I probably should go soon. It’s what I’m supposed to do.” So much has to be figured out to make this work. Can I go back to the hospital and still keep him? I push the doubts away. “But let’s not worry about it right now.”

“Deal.” The bartender returns with our check, and Mark pays. “But seeing as time is of the essence, what do you say we start walking? We’ve got dessert plans.”

Chapter Forty-One

Mrs. Bloom @PsychicMom1

It’s a Spanish moon night @BootsMD. The spirits are speaking!

“You know this place is totally haunted, right?” Mark asks, guiding me through the crowd to the bar at the Spanish Moon, tonight’s venue, where two empty chairs wait with reserved signs on them. “The manager was telling me about it when I set this up.”

“I don’t believe in that stuff,” I say. “It is pretty creepy, though.” I look around the old waterfront bar with its decaying wooden walls and uneven floor, and it’s easy to believe murders happened here a century ago. The hairs stand up on my arm, and I shiver.

“He said it was a morgue in the twenties when the Mississippi River flooded, and a little girl was trampled here back when it was a feed store.”

“That’s right. The glasses restock themselves and sometimes pool balls jump off the tables.” The bartender pulls out an unmarked bottle and pours us two small glasses. “Sweet blackberry tea. The house moonshine,” he explains. “And when you finish those, we’ve got cinnamon apple pie up next.”

“A moonshine tasting?” I ask, sipping the burning liquid and coughing. “Oh my.”

“Step one in loosening you up. Plus, it’ll help you see the ghosts.”

“What if I don’t want to see ghosts?”

“Come on. Where’s your sense of adventure? I’ve been told they sometimes hear women chatting late at night at the bar when there’s nobody else here—look. What’s that in the corner?”

He squints into the distance, and I’m trying to figure out what he sees when something tickles my arm. Creeped out, I scream.

“Sorry.” Mark laughs, snatching his hand away. “I couldn’t help it.”

I smack him even though I couldn’t be mad at anything right now. “You’re not funny.”

“Drink up. One more of those and I will be.”

“You about ready to hit the stage?” Haynes comes up behind us.

“Yep,” Mark says, swallowing the last of his moonshine. He leans over to me. “I’m sorry to leave you, but I’ll come right back as soon as the set is done.”

“Go. I’m going to enjoy every minute of the show. I like watching you work.”

“I hope so.” He smiles. “And like I said, drink up.”

“Are you trying to intoxicate me, sir?”

“No, just take the edge off. Have one more. You might need it for step two.” With that, he heads to the stage, a mysterious smile on his face.

Pondering step two, I accept a glass of raspberry-lavender moonshine and take my place in the crowd as Coconut Teaszer starts to play. Pleasantly buzzed, I give in to the music, hanging back and watching their fans sing along. Having been such a part of the Coconut’s world for the past few days, it’s like I’m on the inside of the songs looking out, and suddenly I get what Mama Rosie misses about the Neon Pineapple. I understand what it’s like to be part of the inner circle, one of the family—to bring a colorful band of personalities together for one purpose: to make the room sing. I wish it could be like this all the time…a party in our living room every night. A sing-along fueled by a love for life, filled with friends and new adventures.

The show takes on a hazy glow, and my heart swells to bursting as I try to memorize what it feels like to be Mark’s other half—to be walking on moonshine—to be lost in his song.

“I once told a girl that music is memory—it can take you back in time,” Mark says as they near the end of the set. “I want to take her back now. Back to when she told me she believed. Back to Africa… Boots…”

I’m hovering in a daze of possibility so I don’t register what he’s saying right away.

“Get up here, Boots!” The lights come up, and he squints out at the crowd.

Ned starts a drum roll.

“Boots! Come on, Boots!”

Slowly I start to realize he’s calling my name.

“Boots! We’ve got to loosen you up somehow. Come sing with me!”

Oh no… Everything sharpens into razor focus, and my insides quake. Ducking down, I look for a place to hide.

“Where is she?” With his hand shielding his eyes from the lights, he scans the audience. “Boots! Guys, help me out. She’s shy.”

Soon the entire room is chanting “Boots,” and with the power of the crowd behind him, I start to think I might actually have to get up there.

“Don’t disappoint us, Boots!”

Do I have a choice?

Haynes finds me in the audience.

“’Ey, Boots. I promised Mark I’d find you.” He takes my arm and starts dragging me toward the stage.

“I really don’t want to go!” I dig in my shaking heels, but I’m no match for him. Laughing, he pulls me forward.

“There she is,” Mark says when I appear in the wings.

Haynes gives me a shove, and I stumble forward, dizzied by the hundreds of faces staring up at me.

Kissing my cheek, Mark hands me a microphone and the crowd erupts in deafening cheers.

“I hate you so much,” I say into the mic, my knees wobbling, surprised to hear my voice reverberating from the monitors at my feet.

Mark laughs and starts to strum the opening bars to “I’m a Believer.”

“Come on, you know the words,” he says, his eyes only for me. “…Love was only true in fairy tales… Keep your focus here.” He points to his eyes. “Don’t worry about anything else. This is all that matters.”

I want to glare at him, but he’s right, and when our eyes connect, I’m transported. That locked-away little girl gets her wish, and those old feelings I left in Africa well up until they’re overflowing.

Slowly, I join my voice with his and the crowd goes wild. At their reaction, unbelievable energy crackles through me, buoying me to heights I didn’t know possible, and I let myself get carried away.

He grins, singing straight to me. “Then I saw your face…”

And I’m happier than I could have ever imagined. It’s like saving a life—in fact it’s better than that—because the life is mine.

From there I go with it, matching him note for note, probably off-key but rejoicing in the unexpected experience. It speeds by too fast, and I’m disappointed when the guys play the final notes of the song.

Taking my hand, Mark raises it in the air. “Thank you, Baton Rouge. Good night.”

I don’t want it to end!

But we take a bow, and he sets down his guitar. Keeping a hold of me, he drags me offstage.

“I can’t believe you did that!” I say as soon as we’re out of sight.

He doesn’t respond with words. Instead he pulls me close, locking me in his arms, his lips finding mine, full and hot, persuading, igniting my skin.

I answer with the energy of the stage, pressing myself against him. I don’t want this to end! And I don’t care where we are.

Breathless, he pulls back. “Not here… Want to explore a little?”

I can only nod.

“Don’t worry, if we run into any ghosts, I’ll protect you.” His voice is full of mischief as he rushes me out of the stage wing.

“If we do, I’m leaving you as a sacrifice,” I say, gathering my wits.

“Deal, but I don’t know if that will satisfy them. After all, you possess my heart.”

“With lines like that, how could they resist? I’m sure they’ll gladly accept my offering.” I swat his arm, but my heart still flutters.

We head down the little hallway toward the restrooms, where people lean against ancient brick walls, waiting in line.

“But it was fun, right?” he asks, still holding my hand tight. “You’ll never forget it?”

“No I’ll never forget. It was exhilarating.”

“Hey, great show,” a guy says, clapping Mark on the back. “You sounded great, Boots!”

“Thanks, man,” Mark says with a half smile, expertly sidestepping him and keeping me moving.

He leans down, and his breath tickles my ear. “I’m looking for a little privacy… Maybe the green room?”

“We can try it.”

I follow him up a set of rickety stairs to the little space behind the stage. It consists of two couches crammed next to a small refrigerator, and there isn’t space for much else. Flicking a switch that illuminates the rope lights strung across the ceiling, he closes the door and pushes me back against it, lowering his face to mine. He kisses me, parting my lips, his insistent tongue mingling with mine.

Buzzing from the spotlight mixed with moonshine and his proximity, I unleash the entirety of my desire. My fingers grip the back of his head and, letting out a low growl, his lips move to my neck while his hands circle my waist, traveling up under my shirt. Longing to wrap myself around him, I press my body against his, my fingers trailing down below his belt.

Behind me the door swings open and I jump, breaking our connection, certain a ghost is invading.

Mark pulls me away from the door.

“Excuse me,” the janitor says. “I didn’t know anyone was in here.”

“Sorry.” Mark composes himself, holding me at arm’s length. “I thought I lost my lucky pick in here, but I can’t find it anywhere.”

“What color is it?”

“Orange. Neil Diamond gave it to me. It means a lot.”

“I’ll keep an eye out,” the janitor says, firing up the vacuum.

“Thanks, man.” Hand gripping mine, Mark leads me out of the room.

“Should we try the bus?” he asks. “Maybe we can beat the guys.”

I bite my lip, following his train of thought. “It’s against the rules…”

He gives me a knowing look. “Don’t you remember? The magic doesn’t happen in a bunk…”

“Phillippe!” I gasp as we hurry down the stairs.

He laughs. Arriving at the entrance to the bar, he leads me through the iron gates out into the night.

“Is that true about the pick?”

“I didn’t lose it, but yeah—Neil Diamond did give it to me. We met him in Vegas once.”

“That’s incredible.”

“It was one of my favorite nights,” he says. “But it doesn’t come close to this. You’re far superior to Neil.”

“Thank you. I’m flattered.” I laugh.

We run around the corner of the building to the bus, and he’s in such a hurry to get inside, he punches in the wrong code twice.

“There you are,” Haynes says, when the door finally opens. To my disappointment, the promise of a few more stolen moments evaporate with his presence at the top of the steps. “Did you forget we have an early bus call tonight? I’m doing a head count. Do you know where the fuck Rory is?”

“Haven’t seen him,” Mark says, climbing aboard, not hiding his frustration.

Haynes moves out of our way as we slide past him toward our beds, where I wish we could slip inside a bunk, even if they are off-limits.

Mark seems to have a similar train of thought and whips open the curtain to his bed, revealing Rory soundly asleep on the other side.

“Found him!” he announces, poking Rory with his foot. “Rory. Get into your own bed.”

Rory doesn’t budge, and I check his vitals.

“He’s still alive,” I say. “Just completely passed out.”

“Dick.”

“You can take his bunk,” Sam suggests, coming into the corridor.

Mark glances at Rory’s bed and scrunches up his nose. “No thanks. I’d rather sleep with the shoes.”

He starts pulling out the bags and shoes that occupy the bunk above me and putting them on Rory’s bed. “Serves him right. He can clean it up in the morning.”

Jason comes out of the bathroom, and suddenly the bus is feeling very crowded.

“Rain check?” I say to Mark, resigned to falling asleep alone.

He narrows his eyes and whispers, “I’ll think of something.”

With a nod I climb inside my bunk to wiggle into my PJs and get out of the way.

Beneath us the bus’s engines roar to life, and we get on the road to Memphis. The party in the bunks starts winding down, with some guys retreating to the lounge to play poker. I stare up at my ceiling, knowing Mark is just above me, adrenaline still coursing through my veins. Sleep is going to be impossible. I roll onto my side, forcing my eyes shut, willing myself to stop thinking about the possibilities.

Fortunately, he seems to be thinking the same thing, because once it’s quiet and the lights have dimmed, he leans out, peeking behind my curtain.

“Want to come up?” he whispers.

My eyes flutter open.

“Step three…” he says.

I don’t respond, just smile and crawl out of my sleeping bag. He’s right. The after-show high makes you do things you wouldn’t normally do. I slink up the ladder into his bunk before anyone sees me, then wiggle down next to him as he closes the curtain.

He slides his arms around my shoulders, holding me close in the cramped space. Lit by the string of twinkle lights that surround the top of the bunk, we stare silently into each other’s eyes.

“I wanted to give you that feeling,” he whispers, and I feel his heart pounding against mine. It’s like we’re knotted together, humming along to the same tune. “Do you know what I mean, now?”

A tear rolls down my cheek. “I know exactly what you mean… When everything clicks, when you feel like you can fly, like your heart is so swollen it might burst…”

“Exactly.” His hand lightly slides down the length of my body, leaving tingles in its wake.

“But it wasn’t being onstage that did it. It’s you. You give me that feeling.” And I don’t want to stop feeling it.

“You give me that feeling, too.”

He stops talking. Turning onto his side, he pulls me against him. His lips find mine, savoring, tongue probing, his fingers tangled in my hair. All the longing, the dreaming, comes to a pinnacle, and I lose myself to him. It’s back to being just the two of us in the world, intent on each other with dizzying focus. Our breath mingles, becomes urgent, and he breaks away from my mouth, moving lower to my neck, sucking, caressing, his hands on my belly, moving upward, sending delighted shivers down to my toes.

“You’re perfect,” he whispers, lips against my collarbone.

I have no words—can’t think in coherent sentences. All I know is him, his essence enveloping me, my skin tingling at his touch. I tilt my head back, and he slips my shirt over my head, revealing my breasts. His mouth finds them, his tongue teasing my nipples, sending ripples of pleasure through me. Emitting a soft moan that I’m rapidly caring less about anyone hearing, I go to work on his boxers, slipping them down to his ankles with my toe. Disentangling himself from them, the final barrier is my underwear, and he makes quick work of those, sliding them off my hips, his fingers finding their way to softer places. He teases me open until I am arching against him, fingers digging into his back and begging for more. I can’t get enough, and my hips curl against him, craving him with pulsating need.

“Did you bring supplies?” I exhale in a rush, struggling to contain the desperation in my voice.

Grinning, he looks up into my eyes, reaching into a pouch on the wall above my head, and produces a condom. “The bus is always stocked.” He rips it open.

I take my time rolling it onto him, gripping him as I go, wanting him to feel what I felt onstage, to propel him to new heights. Biting back a moan, he loses control, slipping me onto my back and pushing me deep into the bunk, lips pressed to mine. Our movements are restricted by the walls, our bodies mashed together, hips grinding, but I like feeling his weight on me. He gives me what I want, penetrating swollen spaces with ease until he is filling me and I want to cry out. His eyes locked on mine, his mouth drowns out the screams that I try to swallow as he moves deeper and deeper until I’m so full I might burst.

Breaking away from me, he straightens his arms as much as he can to drive himself even farther, harder, shattering my walls, and it is my undoing. He is decisive and unrelenting, and neither of us can hold on. I press my fingers to his lips as he releases, and we surge together in splintered shivers.

As the ripples subside, we try to catch our breath, and he takes me in his arms, kissing my cheeks and rolling us onto our sides just as the bus makes a sharp, unexpected right and throws us left. Grasping at the sheets, and then the curtain, I slide out of the bunk—and Mark isn’t fast enough to catch me—before I crash with a squeal in a naked heap on the floor of the bus.

Above me heads poke out of bunks, and the guys, who if I’m not mistaken were already giggling, are staring down at me. I try to cover up, and Mark throws a blanket down over the top of me before descending, boxers back in place, to help me.

“Oh my God,” I say, burying my face against his chest, wanting to disappear as he wraps the blanket around me.

“Boots got booted!” Ned says to a chorus of laughter.

“And she has a pretty nice booty,” Tim adds.

Thankful for the dim light, I’m nevertheless certain my cheeks are glowing, illuminating everything.

“Cool it,” Mark says, holding me close, but in a sudden irrational display, I push him away, wanting to play it off like I happened to be naked in my own bunk.

“A girl’s got to change somewhere,” I say, holding my head high and climbing back into my bed.

This is met with more laughter.

I yank the curtain shut and bury my burning face in my pillow. That didn’t just happen…

“Good night, guys,” Mark says loudly. “Show’s over. See you in Memphis.”

Once he’s safely back in the bunk above me, he texts me: sorry about that!

apparently the spanish moon wasn’t the only moon tonight… I reply. dying. are they going to kick me off the bus now?

no way. i’ll make sure of it.

even if they do, it was worth it.

absolutely worth it…but they won’t. sleep tight, cupcake.

i don’t have a choice, I type. you, too.

Clicking off my phone, I smile to myself, momentarily content despite the embarrassment.

And then the night comes rushing at me. I stare at the ceiling, replaying it in my mind. The highs—being onstage, being wrapped in Mark’s arms—and the lows—ending up naked on the bus floor. But it doesn’t matter. If I know one thing for certain, it’s that being a doctor has never given me that feeling. Even the rush of saving a life is no match for what it’s like when Mark looks at me. It’s like he truly sees me—and I’m hooked.

Chapter Forty-Two

Amanda Conrad @BootsMD

COFFEE IS MY BOYFRIEND. My actual boyfriend. #ThereForMeEveryMorning

I awake to a chorus of laughter.

“I can’t believe that’s the second time that’s happened to him,” Ned says.

“I can’t believe I missed it,” Rory replies.

“Lay off the moonshine, mate,” Haynes says. “That’s what happens when you hit it too hard. You miss out on life.”

“Seriously. It’s not unlike what happens when Mark hits it too hard,” Jason says. “You end up naked on your ass.” They crack up.

“Vivian definitely had more to cushion her fall than Boots did,” Sam says, his voice retreating to the back lounge where the guys are probably gathered and enjoying their morning coffee from the smell of it.

Vivian? The burlesque dancer? Lying in bed, I grip the covers to my chin, my stomach churning. Vivian fell out of a bunk, too? My heart pounds, and I try to make sense of it. I think back to the Playboy Bunny at Halloween—was that Vivian?—so easily discarded when something new came along. The terrifying thoughts come at me, and everything I believed last night starts to unravel. He must say those things to everyone, do those things with all the girls. After all, he brought Heidi onstage, too… Fighting the hysterical urge to burst into tears, I gag, sick to my stomach, and hold my hand over my mouth, trying to keep it all in. That feeling. That feeling was a lie. I’m just a number, and he’s a player. And I almost gave up everything for a guy…

I have to get out of here.

I shoot straight up, hitting my head. The crack rebounds me to my pillow, and I cradle my forehead, trying to breathe, to compose myself. But the bus continues to rock, and I can’t find steady ground. Stifling a sob, I take out my phone and start searching for flights from Memphis to New York that leave today. I book the cheapest one I can find.

My plan to leave in place, I grasp onto it as a lifeline and lie back, staring at the bottom of Mark’s bunk above me, my neck stiff with tension. I try not to picture him sleeping, wanting to erase him from my memory as soon as possible. Hot tears streaming down my cheeks, I hold my breath and listen to the silence. Once I’m satisfied I won’t run into anyone, I dry my eyes, slip out of bed, and hurry to the bathroom. Keeping my focus on getting dressed lest I dissolve into hysterics, I pull a T-shirt over my aching head and splash some water on my tear-stained face before returning to my bunk to silently start packing. One foot in front of the other.

“Hey.” Mark emerges sleepy-eyed from the bunk above me, climbing down and gathering me in his arms. “Good morning, cupcake.” He kisses the bump on my forehead.

I stiffen against him, and the tears begin again.

“What are you doing?” he asks, and I hear alarm in his voice as he notices my duffel bag sitting on my empty bunk.

“Going back to New York,” I reply, disentangling myself from him, my throat burning. “I have to get out of here.”

“Why? What happened?” He looks at me with wide eyes. “Is Mama Rosie okay?”

“She’s fine.” Shaking, I keep packing. “I just have to get back to work. After last night, I realize that’s where I belong.”

He frowns, his eyelashes fluttering like he’s trying to make sense of me—or like he’s blinking back tears.

“But last night was…” He reaches for me, stumbling over his words. “Special…incredible… I’m sorry about the way it ended.”

Steeling myself against him, I refuse to let him be my undoing. “Why? You should be used to it by now.” I sidestep him and zip up my bag. “Did Vivian leave right afterward, too? Or did she stay for more punishment?”

Understanding lights his eyes before he closes them. “It’s not what you’re thinking.”

Willing my heart to harden against him, I’m ready when he reopens his eyes, and for once I do just as Dr. Kelly instructed: I get over it. “I’m sure it’s complicated, but it doesn’t change the fact that I’m not anything to you. You made me think I was different, and I was a fool to trust you.”

“You are special, more special than anyone I’ve ever met.” He grips my arm, forcing me to face him. “I’m not going to lie. Vivian was on tour—”

“So you got rid of her to make room for me?” I cut him off, choking on the words. “I’ve been sleeping in her bunk, occupying her place… Was she the Playboy Bunny in Pittsburgh?”

“What?” He squints at me, like he’s wracking his brain to figure out who I’m talking about. Finally, he shakes his head. “No. That girl was Ned’s friend. Vivian and I were over before I even met you—”

“But you still talk to her. She texted you while we were at Pardus!”

He lets out a long exhale. “We’re still friends, yes, but that’s it. What happened with her wasn’t on this tour, and it wasn’t like ‘us,’ not even close. I promise.”

His hands are shaking, and I know he wants me to believe, but it’s too late. The door to my doubts has blown off its hinges, and my mind is flooded. There have been too many girls he’s given “that feeling”—his world is too different from mine, his lifestyle too unconventional. Without him coming home to me every night, I know I’ll never be able to trust him.

“Are we an ‘us’? What is this?” I gesture between his chest and mine, confident in the knowledge the words to make us work don’t exist.

“I don’t know, but I’d love the chance to find out, wouldn’t you?”

“No. I don’t want to.” I twist the knife, ignoring the hurt that contorts his face.

“You can’t be upset about something that happened before we were together. And even if I was with Vivian—or someone else—you made it clear you didn’t want to be with me. Did you expect me to wait around?”

“Yes. I know that’s irrational, but yes. In a perfect world…you would have.” The bus pulls into a hotel parking lot, and I throw my bag over my shoulder. “Were there others? You weren’t exactly begging me to follow you.”

“No there weren’t others. You know it was complicated.” He groans. “Have you ever been with someone who passed the time? Who you kept around because it was easier than feeling alone—because it was easier than having to feel?” He stands in the aisle so I can’t escape. “It sounds callous, but Vivian was a placeholder. Every girl I’ve been with was a placeholder because, guess what, I have been waiting around. For you. The second I thought there was a chance for us I made room in my life.”

“But how do I know I’m not just another placeholder?”

“Can’t you feel it?” He grips my arm. “Boots, what we had in Africa—what we have here—it’s once in a lifetime. I thought I proved that to you.”

Tears roll down my cheeks, and I dig into my heart for a place that’s open, but I come up empty. My decision to leave is made, and I’m going to follow through with it. “I can’t feel anything.” Shaking my head, I try to move around him.

Unwilling to let me go, he tightens his hold. “Listen, I know you’re scared. I’m scared, too. I’m not good at relationships—have never been half of an ‘us’—but I want to try. With you. What will it take to make you believe?”

I stop struggling, allowing silence to settle. Is there a way? How do I trust him? Can I calculate the risk to everything I’ve worked for? “But where are we going? What’s our end goal? I can’t blindly believe, Mark. I need to know what we’re shooting for, need proof, scientific evidence that love exists for people like us.”

Letting go, he runs his fingers through his messy hair. “It’s impossible.”

“You’re right.” I purposely twist his meaning. “We’re not Liv and Berkeley.”

“Boots.” He tips up my chin. “We don’t have to be Liv and Berkeley to be meant to be together. In fact, you’re right. We’re not them, we’re us. We’re unique, and I think we have a shot at everything they have and more. Why do we have to decide what we’re going to ‘be’? Why do we have to fit into a category? Can’t we just get to know each other and figure it out?”

He almost sways me, but picturing Vivian—picturing him with her in a bunk on a tour bus—his hands stroking her creamy white thighs, I shut down. How do I know he didn’t say the same things to her? How do I know he won’t drop me the second something better comes along? I wiggle free from his grasp. “I can’t give up everything I’ve worked for, and neither can you.”

“We don’t have to give up anything to be together. We can find a way. It doesn’t have to be traditional.”

His words meet a wall. “I just don’t see how it could work. I’m sorry. Traditional is all I know. I can’t live like this. Always wondering if you’re hooking up with someone, not knowing where you are every night. Besides, you said yourself you like the chase. What if you get sick of ‘us’? You live for the road, thrive on constant change, and I’m boring, really boring.” The bus pulls into a parking space, and the engine turns off. Again I try to move around him.

“I won’t get sick of us. We can find something to chase together. I’ve never wanted to go after life with anyone by my side until now…I mean…we conjured a leopard.”

This brings me to a halt. “That’s just it. Stuff like that doesn’t happen every day. We may never have an experience like that again. Maybe that was it. And without magic to keep us going, how do I know you won’t get bored and leave to chase something fresh and new?”

“You don’t. You just have to trust.”

“I can’t,” I whisper. “I can’t stay by your side and be the dutiful groupie. I’m bigger than that.”

“I never said I wanted you to be dutiful, and I love that you’re a doctor.”

“Exactly. That’s all there is to love about me, so that’s what I have to go be.”

The door to the lounge slides open, and I know the guys will be upon us soon.

Successfully pushing Mark out of the way, I scramble down the steps toward the exit. “Listen. Don’t come looking for me. Don’t try to find me. It’s okay. You’re off the hook. I’m sure I’ll see you around—at the next wedding—we can pretend this never happened.”

“Don’t go, Boots,” he pleads. “It’s a mistake.”

“Yes, it was.”

My words cut deep, and there’s no reversing them. He puffs up his chest, a vein pulsing in his throat.

“Fine. If that’s the way you want it, go. I won’t come after you.” There is a finality in his voice that chills me, sinks into my darkest depths. It’s over. Decision made.

The doors swing open, and a blast of cool morning air eases the stinging in my eyes, numbing me. “This is the way I want it.”

With that, I step out into the misty Memphis morning.

Chapter Forty-Three

Amanda Conrad @BootsMD

Catch you on the flip side 4:00 a.m. I used to stay up until you! #PJLife #Tea #LilOlLadyBedtime

“Good morning, sunshine.” Harrison hands me a bagel and a steaming black coffee when I walk up to the nurses’ station. “Are we still on for tonight?”

“Absolutely. I can’t wait.” I try to muster an appropriate amount of enthusiasm, as in any enthusiasm at all. Lifting the cup to my lips to cover for my lack of spirit, I wonder why I’m not more excited for dinner at Estela, to linger over ricotta dumplings, steak tartare, and sunchokes, savoring a thoughtfully chosen wine with a handsome resident. Isn’t this what I always wanted?

“Be careful, it’s hot.”

He moves to intercept the cup before it reaches my lips, but I dodge him.

“I’ve had coffee before. I’m pretty sure I know how to navigate my way around it without getting burned.”

Snatching his hand back, his eyebrows arch, and I move to soften my words, to portray the dutiful resident he expects me to be. “Besides, I’m in the right place if I need someone to treat my lips… Wanna visit bed four?” I inject an ounce of naughtiness into my words, knowing that little bit of color is secretly why he likes me. I make him feel dangerous.

“Bed four is occupied. Construction accident. He fell out of a bulldozer and it almost crushed him.”

“So, you think he’d feel like a third wheel?” I grin.

He doesn’t crack a smile, instead keeping his impassive doctor face in place. “Reservations are at nine. I’ll pick you up at eight thirty.”

“Sure,” I say, deflated. Turning serious, I punch my sign-in code into the computer system.

“See you then.” He lightly brushes my forehead with his lips before heading out.

I’ve been back in New York for a few weeks now, and I’ve thrown myself into work. Picking up extra shifts, I worked straight through Thanksgiving, and I think my dad is proud. He’d rather I be proving myself by working than have me home.

And I need to make up for lost time if I’m going to get that plastics position. It’s all I’ve been concentrating on—aside from Harrison, but we’re keeping things casual, taking it slow and steady—and for once life is meeting my expectations.

Sometimes I read my Happily Ever After journal before bed, the inspiring words scrawled on the pages usually having the power to lift my spirits, to validate that my momentary tour exodus landed me where I was meant to be. Otherwise I study and keep focused on work, with the occasional escape to dinner with Harrison, where we compare cases and debate treatment options. If it lacks the novelty and passion of life on the road with Mark, I try not to think about it. Status quo is the new rock ’n’ roll.

“Code ICU bed sixteen. Code ICU bed sixteen,” sounds over the loud speaker, jumpstarting my pulse. I spring to action.

Dr. Kelly and I arrive at the bed at the same time, and he steps aside. “After you, Dr. Conrad.”

Rushing to the patient’s side, I assess the situation, checking the fifty-year-old male’s vitals, already beginning my ABCs. A, airway. He’s clearly not breathing. “What happened?”

“He’s status post liver transplant,” the nurse says, pumping his chest. Behind her another nurse wheels in the crash cart. “He wrestled free of his restraints and pulled out his breathing tube.”

“He’s arresting,” I say, noting his heart rate is dropping, his skin cast in chalky blue. I place an oxygen mask over his face, but it does no good. “His airway must be obstructed.” I glance at Dr. Kelly for confirmation. “He’s not moving air. We need to get that breathing tube back in.”

He nods, mouth set in a firm line, eyes void of emotion, but it’s all the confirmation I need to continue.

The nurse hands me the tube, and I force it down his throat. My fingers are not my own, it’s as though they are thinking for themselves, know just the right amount of pressure to apply, but the tube won’t go in. “His throat is too swollen,” I say, after several attempts. “I can’t see the airway. We need to do a cricothyrotomy.”

“I concur,” Dr. Kelly says.

Pouring Betadine on the patient’s neck, the nurse hands me a scalpel, and I feel for his Adam’s apple, slicing into the skin just below it. The flesh separates, and I plunge the blunt end of the scalpel into the incision and give it a ninety degree twist to create a space big enough for the breathing tube. After that I’m able to push the tube in with ease and fluidly hook it up to an Ambu bag. With every squeeze of the bag, his chest rises and falls, oxygen finally flowing into his bloodstream.

Glancing up at the cardiac monitor, I’m rewarded when the green line stabilizes, and my own lungs expand, filling with relief. “He’s stable,” I say, euphoric waves washing over me. And now Dr. Kelly will see that I’m capable. Maybe this will make up for Emily. Even though I know nothing can ever make up for losing that girl, I savor this little victory, as I will forevermore savor every life I have the honor of impacting.

I step away from the table, leaving the nurses to clean up, and move to begin my paperwork.

Dr. Kelly pulls me aside. “Good work, Dr. Conrad. You kept your wits about you. I’m impressed.”

“Thank you,” I say, wanting to remain professional but unable to hold back my smile.

“You can tell the family.”

“I will.”

He leaves me to my notes.

My capable fingers fly over the keys as I insert the details of the close call, and I am in awe of the power my hands contain. A weight has been lifted—I feel like I can do anything—but at the same time I’m humbled. The thrill of saving a life balancing the despair at losing one, for the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m right where I’m supposed to be. I’m meeting my inner thirteen-year-old’s expectations. My path has aligned: plastics residency, a comfortable relationship with Harrison… I can have it all.

Except Mark. He pops into my mind, and my pulse throbs in my throat, bringing with it a dull ache. A week ago while doing rounds I watched Coconut Teaszer perform on The Tonight Show, staring up at the screen in my patient’s room, and it was the nail in our coffin. I realized I’d been secretly holding out hope that as long as he embraced small stages, there was a chance for little old me. But seeing him up there solidified how different his world is, and I officially let him go.

He’s where he belongs, and so am I. Swallowing, as if that could drown his memory, I bury him again, hoping he’ll surface in my mind less and less.

I concentrate on finishing my notes before pulling the curtain shut on bed sixteen and heading to the nurses’ station, in search of my next distraction.

Chapter Forty-Four

Amanda Conrad @BootsMD

Getting my red carpet body in shape: Apple juice & graham crackers from recovery room, 12 sit-ups, 2 episodes of Friends in the call room.

“‘With the sun in Taurus at your birth, you possess a strong will and easily charm those around you. It is your preference to avoid the spotlight, but if you do find yourself in a public role, you will hide your true self behind it. You shine—’”

Liv bats the scroll out of Parker’s hand without moving her head, which she is holding still while the makeup artist sweeps charcoal glitter across her eyelids. Liv, Berkeley, and crew flew in last night on a private jet for The Keystone premiere, and we’ve taken over the Liberty suite at the Standard to get ready. “I’ve heard enough! Where did you get that?”

“Your mom sent it to me. She thought you might need some encouragement tonight, this being your first big outing as Berkeley’s fiancée. Just know your place on the red carpet is meant to be. It has been written.”

“I can’t believe she sent you to do her bidding.”

“Peptalking is one of my celestial gifts,” Parker replies, looking in the mirror and smoothing his hair. “And I called her to get a little advice for me—I’m nervous. Part of me hopes Tux backs out.”

“He won’t,” Blair says. “We’re officially outing all of you tonight. Just remember, you don’t need to speak. Your job is to smile and look pretty. This is his night.”

“Just another pretty face in the crowd.” Parker winks at himself in the mirror. “You could at least give me one line so I can earn my SAG card.”

“Baby steps. We’ll work up to letting you talk,” she says. “For now, you’re the supportive background boyfriend.”

“I know my place. You don’t need to worry. How do I look?” He turns to the bed where I sit pawing through the latest issue of TMI Weekly, scanning the article about “Mark VanCleer: Teaszer Turned Producer, The Front Man Backstage,” trying not to let my misting eyes smudge my already applied makeup.

“Like trouble.” I toss the magazine aside.

“Perfect,” he replies. “You know, Psychic Mom sent your chart, too, Boots. Shall I?” He takes another scroll from his messenger bag. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“What is this from?” I don’t hide the exasperation in my voice, though my frustration is not directed at Parker.

“From when you were little girls! It’s your star chart.”

“Where did she find those?” Liv asks.

“The attic?” Parker says. “I guess she was cleaning and they revealed themselves. She thought they must have decided to remain hidden until they were needed.”

“Of course she did.” Liv shakes her head. “Sorry,” she adds, apologizing to the makeup artist for moving.

“So? Boots? Are you ready?” he asks.

“I guess. Go for it.”

“‘With the sun in Aries at your birth, you are ambitious and know what you want. First to start and first to finish, you use your body to get things done.’” He eyes me over the paper. “Scandalous.”

“I am a doctor—my hands are very important, and last I checked they were considered a body part.”

“Well, how about this?” He continues reading. “‘With Pluto in Scorpio, expect great sexual activity.’” Cocking his head to the side, he bats his eyelashes at me.

“It doesn’t say that.” I fly off the bed and peer over his shoulder.

He thrusts the scroll at me.

“Oh. It does,” I say, seeing the words for myself. “That’s a weird thing to tell a six-year-old.”

“Like Psychic Mom said, maybe it didn’t want to be found until you were ready for it.”

“Then I really don’t want to know what mine says,” Liv interjects.

“Yours was boring. It didn’t have any sex stuff.” He fakes a yawn. “Anyway, moving on. ‘You have high ideals and keep your eyes on the horizon, but sometimes it is necessary to look inside and remember what your inner child wants. Indulge her.’ What was your favorite game when this was written?”

“I was six years old, and we were at Chuck E. Cheese. I’m pretty sure all I wanted to do was play in the balls.”

“A girl after my own heart. Perhaps urology should be your specialty?”

“Don’t think I didn’t consider it.”

“Alas.” He picks up where he left off. “‘You need emotional security, a person who is especially attractive, charming, intimate, deep, and intensely loyal.’”

Behind him the door opens and Berkeley and Tux walk in.

“Wherever would you find one of those?” Parker asks. “What have you heard from Mark?”

I feel my cheeks redden, and I return to my seat on the bed, busying myself smoothing my jeans, as if that could make me more presentable. Having not seen Berkeley and Tux since the wedding, I’m unaccustomed to having movie stars walk into a room that I belong in. Wishing Parker would shut up, I whisper, “Nothing. We haven’t talked since the tour.”

“That’s a shame. We need to remedy that.”

“No we don’t. Besides, I’m not sure I believe he’s ‘intensely loyal.’”

Tux comes up behind Parker and kisses his cheek.

“Phew! Where have you been?” Parker asks, wafting his hand in front of his face. “The pheromones are kicking!”

“We were playing indoor soccer with Mark and a couple of the Coconut Teaszer guys,” Tux says.

“How convenient.” Parker looks at me with a knowing smile. “I knew I smelled man musk on you. Go wash it off.”

“Hey, Boots, good to see you.” Berkeley greets me with a wave before walking over to Liv. He kisses her forehead, careful not to disturb her makeup. “Hi, beautiful.”

“Hi, love. You need a shower, too.” She wrinkles her nose.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“How is Mark?” Liv asks, and I know it’s for my benefit.

“He’s okay—still recovering from that Twitter war with Felix Sheridan. The TMI fans went into attack mode.” Berkeley shakes his head, a veteran licking old wounds.

“That’s why I avoid tweeting,” Tux says.

“Yeah, he’ll learn not to speak his mind soon enough,” Berkeley says. “I told him it’s a good sign that people care about what he says that much, but he’s having trouble seeing it that way. The Coconuts are on hiatus, because Ghost World is heading out on tour, and I think he’s going to lie low for a while.”

I try to make it look like I’m not listening too hard, to force myself to remember Harrison and the sweet little things he does—like how he slipped a box of Mike & Ike’s in my lab coat pocket yesterday with a note reminding me to take my medicine—but my curiosity about how Mark is really doing stamps him out with ease. I, of course, followed the Twitter war like it was my job—all Mark said was that celebrities deserved a little privacy, after Felix broke a story about a celeb pregnancy from an illicit affair that ended in a miscarriage—and everyone pounced on him, claiming the choice to be a celeb gave the public the right to know every dirty detail. I agreed with Mark, though deep down I’m starved for any gory detail of his private life.

“He should come to the after party tonight,” Liv says.

“I invited him, but he said he was going to play it by ear,” Berkeley says.

“Maybe we can find a way to persuade him,” Parker says.

I glare at him.

“I’ll let you all finish getting dressed,” Berkeley says. “I’m going to go get ready.”

“The next time I see you, you’ll be a movie star,” Liv says.

“So will you.” He squeezes her hip.

“Not exactly,” she says. “Since I haven’t officially acted in anything that’s been filmed.”

“You will. Holding Out is going to happen.”

“What’s Holding Out?” I ask. “Have you been ‘holding out’ on me?”

“No.” Liv laughs. “It’s the working title for this book I want to adapt. It’s a coming-of-age love story, but it has all these great fashion moments, too, and I think it could be a big, fun movie—or TV show. Anyway, I fell in love with it, and now that Berkeley has a production company and a first-look deal with Universal, I want to see if I can make it happen. I want to build it from the ground up, kind of like he did with Keystone.”

The makeup artist indicates I need a touch-up, and I take Liv’s place as Kay Pritcher, our stylist for the evening, sweeps into the room with a rolling rack full of dresses. She is followed by Blair.

“And she’s going to star in it,” Berkeley says. “She’s perfect for the role.”

“But I want to have a hand in all of it—the costumes, sets. Everything,” Liv says, thumbing through the rack. “And I want to cast unknown actors—to make other people’s dreams come true.”

“It’s the next big step for Team Adventure.” Berkeley puts his arms around Liv from behind, kissing her neck.

“Oh my goodness! Go shower!” She swats him away.

Laughing, he gives her one more kiss before he retreats.

“Too cute,” Parker says. “How about you?” He takes Tux’s hand. “Shower?”

“I’m coming with you two,” Blair says before Tux can respond. “It’s your big night, and we need to go over exactly what you’re going to say.”

“Okay, but for any hard-to-reach places you’re on your own. And you’re going to have to bring your own shampoo,” Parker says. “Mine is specially formulated for man-hair.”

“Oh, Parker…” Blair groans, heading for the door and adding, for the rest of our benefit, “The car will be here in an hour and a half. Goforth will escort you downstairs.”

They exit, and Kay pulls out Liv’s dress: a sixties-inspired Chanel sheath with a black-sequined, strappy top and a slim white column skirt. In an effort to reinvent herself for her debut, Liv dramatically chopped her hair, and her blond locks now graze her collarbone, giving her a tussled, grown-up edge. Gone is the sweet little girl Christina Carlton thought she could walk all over.

“Which dress are you going to wear, Boots?” Liv asks.

“I don’t know. They’re all prettier than anything I could ever imagine.” Help! I say, ventriloquist-style, as the makeup artist touches up the berry-colored stain on my lips.

Liv leafs through the dresses, pulling out a dark blue gown and holding it against herself. “How about the Ellie Saab?”

Before I can offer an opinion, my phone starts buzzing in my pocket. A glance at the screen reveals it’s the hospital. I’m not on call, and I can’t imagine what they want, but I immediately assume there is an emergency.

“Hello?” I put the phone to my ear, careful not to muss my expertly waved hair.

“Dr. Conrad, this is Dr. Kelly.”

“Hi, Dr. Kelly.” I stand, not caring if the makeup artist is finished, and move to the corner of the room.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m calling,” he says. “And I don’t want to bother you on your day off, so I’ll get right to it.”

“Okay.” I sink down on a chair next to a floor-to-ceiling window and stare out at the sun setting over the New York skyline.

“We’ve come to some conclusions about the plastics position for next year, and it was a very difficult decision. As you know, we have only one spot available, and we’re highly selective as to who will fill it.”

“I’m aware of how competitive it is,” I say, trying to keep the warble out of my voice.

“Yes, well, this year was extra competitive.” His voice betrays zero emotion. “I wish we had spaces for all of the candidates, but we don’t, and unfortunately, we won’t be able to bring you into the program. You’re welcome to apply again next year, but it might be best to decide on a new track.”

A lump forms in my throat, threatening to cut off my airway. This isn’t happening. I’ve worked so hard. Can’t a person make one mistake? I want to curl into a ball and die. “I understand. Thank you for letting me know,” I manage to say.

“You’re a good doctor, Dr. Conrad. This is just a minor setback. Don’t let it get you down.”

“I’ll try not to.”

He is silent for a moment, and I think he’s figuring out how to end the call, but then he says, “You know, this job is a lot to balance with outside life. You might want to consider your options and settle on the path that is the best fit for you.”

He thinks I’m a slacker. I haven’t tried hard enough…

“I’ve wanted to be a surgeon since I was thirteen years old.” My voice breaks. “And I intend to continue on that path.”

“Of course, Dr. Conrad,” he replies, remaining unaffected. “I didn’t expect anything different, but it doesn’t hurt to consider some other options. Maybe dermatology?”

Dermatology? Where the heck is that coming from?

“Of course.” I hold back a sob. “I’ll consider it.”

“Excellent. I’ll see you in the halls.”

“Yes, you will. Have a good night.” I don’t give him a chance to respond before I hang up, which is probably unprofessional, but right now I don’t care. Fighting the urge to burst into tears, I swallow my anger, steeling myself against the disappointment threatening to demolish me, and put on my doctor face.

“Is everything okay?” Liv asks. “You’re not getting called in, are you?”

I watch Kay zip her into the Chanel and can’t help but admire the long, lean effect it creates. “No. I’m not. The exact opposite, actually. That was my chief resident calling to tell me I didn’t get the plastics position.”

Liv gasps. “But you’ve worked so hard! After all those years of school, the late nights studying, putting medicine before everything else—you deserve that position.”

“Not hard enough apparently. I thought if I did the work…” I stare out the window, my eyes fixed on a frosty building across the way, city lights blurring as a crushing weight descends on my chest. My incompetency rises in my throat, and my lungs heave. I want to gag, but I force myself to swallow, trying to keep everything I believed from disintegrating in front of me. Taking a deep breath, I whisper, “But I guess it’s not meant to be.”

Liv hurries to my side and kneels, hugging me. “I’m sorry, Boots.”

“Don’t be sorry.” Numb, I squeeze her back before taking her hand and holding her at arm’s length, shifting my teary focus to her, the shining star. “What’s it like to have everything going your way?”

Her eyes widen in surprise. “I don’t have everything going my way. Not by a long shot. Those photographers are going to eat me alive tonight. I’m terrified, and I can’t wait for it to be over.”

“You don’t show it.”

“I’m an actress.” She rolls her eyes. “Though I didn’t get the part in the Funny Girl remake that was supposed to be meant for me, so calling myself that is a lie.”

“Liv! I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” Her confession brings my heart back to life, and now it’s aching for both of us.

“It’s okay. I actually think it’s a good thing. Not getting the part opened me up to Holding Out, and I may not have been receptive otherwise. I’m really excited about it—and maybe that will happen for you, too. Maybe not getting the plastics position is the universe opening you up for something even better.”

“Maybe.” I want to believe her, but right now I can’t imagine what else could be out there for me. The tears threaten to overflow. “But I don’t want to talk about it. I’m not going to let it ruin tonight.” If I allow even one tear to escape, everything I’m thinly trying to hold together will begin to unravel. I grip her hand and, spying the rolling rack over her shoulder, I make a decision. “That dress. I want the big poufy one. This may be the only Sex in the City moment I ever get, and I’m going full Carrie Bradshaw.”

“Oscar de la Renta, excellent choice,” Kay says, bringing the strapless, dove gray gown over to me. With its silver beaded bodice and full tulle skirt, it is pure fantasy.

“That’s my Boots,” Liv says. “You know what it needs?” Letting go of my hand, she crosses the room and opens a closet. “A little edge. I think you should wear it with this.” She holds up a fitted black leather jacket. “We are going to funk up that red carpet, you and me. It won’t know what hit it.”

Chapter Forty-Five

Amanda Conrad @BootsMD

I am the luckiest frumpy doctor there is having such a glamorous cousin @BloomOlivia #glambyosmosis

The car pulls to a stop outside Lincoln Center. Thankfully, Parker has kept a running dialogue for most of the ride, chatting about who’s going to be at the after party at the Edison Ballroom, so I’ve been able to keep from dwelling on tonight’s disappointment. All I want to do is crawl into bed and cry, but Liv needs me, and I refuse to ruin her big night. Biting my cheek, I fight to keep a smile on my face.

Outside the door, throngs of greedy photographers are ready to pounce, but even they are overshadowed by the relentless, screaming Keystone fans. Despite the December cold, hundreds await.

At least when I fail, I don’t have to do it publicly. Imagine if all those people knew I didn’t get into plastics? Were laughing at me? Judging me? I shiver, my skin too thin to keep me warm, and I feel for Liv, knowing how nervous she is.

“This is how it’s going to work,” Blair says. “Parker and Tux go first. Let the paparazzi take as many pictures of the two of you together as they want, and then, Parker, you stay with Boots while Tux works the line. Everyone has been instructed to stick to movie talk, so answer only those questions. I’ll go with you to make sure they keep to the script. Berkeley and Liv, same for you. Let them photograph the two of you, and then Berkeley goes to work the line. The one difference is I’ve okayed questions about Liv and the engagement. Liv, you be ready, stand close behind him. It’s okay for you to talk. I trust you.”

“Stay with me,” Berkeley says, slipping his arm around her waist and tucking her in next to him. “I always want you by my side.”

“I’m not going anywhere without you,” Liv replies, balling her hands into fists. “My mouth has a mind of its own. Who knows what will come out of it?”

“You’ll do great,” he says. “They’ll love you, just like I love you.”

“Just keep that up and you’ll do fine. What you have can’t be faked, and the cameras know it,” Blair says. She claps her hands. “Is everyone ready?”

We nod, and Blair opens the door, getting out to hold it open for Parker and Tux.

Tux steps out first and is met with a roar.

Parker follows, and the flashbulbs go ballistic, popping off in staccato ripples across the mob. I get out next and am practically blinded by the strobes, but I admire Parker and Tux, silhouetted against the shimmering display, holding their heads high and their hands firmly clasped in the midst of the media frenzy.

Tux starts down the red carpet, not letting go of Parker despite Blair’s instructions, while behind me Berkeley steps out, followed by Liv, and the screaming cranks to deafening.

I jump out of the way, throwing myself against the car to get out of the line of fire. As the photographers devour them, Berkeley holds Liv close. Together they step forward into the light and nearly disappear before my eyes. Blair hurries ahead to chaperone Tux, leaving me alone to follow in Liv and Berkeley’s wake. I try to stay close so I won’t get lost, but not so close that I look like a weird stalker. They pause for a picture.

“Hey, you in the tutu. Get out of the shot.”

I look around, trying to figure out where the voice is coming from so I can comply, but there are voices coming from every direction.

“Yes, you. In the elephant dress. OUT OF THE WAY.”

I trip backward, stepping on my dress and almost ripping it in an effort to get as far away from my cousin and Berkeley as possible. In my haste, I back into the person behind me.

“OH!” Christina Carlton says, mid-interview, her freshly bobbed hair splashing across her face as I plow into her. “Watch it,” slips out before she recovers herself.

“I’m sorry,” I say, staring in disbelief at how beautiful she is. “Clumsy,” I mumble.

“Are you? You look like—”

“No one. I’m no one.” I stumble away, too far off my game to attempt to mess up her rhinoplasty, as I once promised to do for being mean to my cousin. Picking up my dress so I won’t trip this time, I search for Liv, leaving Christina to the reporter.

Up ahead I spy Liv being photographed with Berkeley and Hailey Kattaden, the author of The Keystone. Slinking up behind them, I try to stay out of the way, but a photographer lets me know in no uncertain terms that I’m an eyesore that “somebody” needs to take care of. Catapulted by his insults, I take flight, dodging flashes like a WWI hero with his sights set on the next trench, and hightail it inside the theater, where, blessedly, a bar has been set up. I pick up a glass of champagne to keep my hands busy and sequester myself to a corner to wait out the interviews.

Sipping my drink, I try to fade into the wall, not knowing what to do with myself and feeling like a loser, all alone, eavesdropping on the rich and famous. If only Mark were here…we’d be having fun eavesdropping together, I’d belong… I push him out of my head, knowing there’s no chance of us becoming a reality.

“I’m great now,” I overhear a lady say to her friend as they walk by. “I’ve had three glasses of champagne, and I just ate a dozen macarons. It suppressed all of my emotions. But don’t tell my shrink—or my trainer.”

A moment later a waiter appears carrying a tray of macarons. Maybe I could use one of those. Macarons and champagne, it’s what all the cool kids are being prescribed. He walks past me, stepping wide around my dress, and offers them to a small group standing to my right.

“Are those gluten-free?” one of the girls asks.

“They are.” He nods.

“Oh, I can’t have it, then. I’m allergic to gluten-free.”

Raising my eyebrows, I take another sip.

They’re all so plastic…

Inside my handbag I feel my phone vibrating and, grateful to have something to distract me from the vapid conversations surrounding me, I check to see what it wants.

I freeze when I see the text from Derrick. It simply says: thought you should know, mama rosie just got out of the hospital. the doctor says she’s legally blind.

My eyes welling up, I respond: what happened? who’s going to take care of the bar? My throat constricts as I imagine how lost she must feel right now, and suddenly it’s hard to breathe.

Derrick replies: me?

I type: that’s very nice of you … I leave it at that. He can’t run the bar. Neither can she. What is she going to do?

Another couple walks by and I hear, “My herbalist, astrologist, and acupuncturist said I shouldn’t, but my chiropractor, life coach, therapist, and clairvoyant said I should. So I tried it, and I got so depressed I lost twenty pounds. I’m the happiest I’ve ever been.”

I have to get out of here. Now. The room around me starts to close in, and I know I can’t spend another minute surrounded by these superficial people when my friend who actually means something to people—who they rely on to give them a sense of home—is alone in the dark. Terrified of drowning in the glamorous sea, I fight to come up for air.

“Boots!” Liv comes up to me. “You made it. That was crazy.”

“It was crazy. How did it go, though? You survived?” I suck in a tiny breath, attempting calm.

“It was better than I thought. The reporters were really complimentary for once. Either that, or the new me is better at handling the spotlight. Did you see Christina’s hair, though? It’s like she had me followed to the hairdresser.” She accepts a glass of champagne from a passing tray, and I notice her hand trembling. “What have you been up to?”

“Just waiting here.” Dizzy, I place my hand on her arm and lean in. “Liv, I’m not feeling well. I really want to stay to support you and Berkeley and the movie, but I think I have to go…” My voice cracks as the night comes rushing at me. It’s not fair. Rosie is broken and I can’t fix her…can’t fix anything. My dreams are done. I worked so hard for nothing. I am nothing.

“And miss all those celebs at the after party? I don’t know who you are anymore,” Parker says, coming up behind us.

“You look really pale.” Liv grabs my hand. “Can I get you anything? Tea?”

“No. Thank you. I just need to be anywhere but here.” Clutching my forehead that is damp with cold sweat, I breathe in little puffs of air, trying to focus, but the room blurs around me, and my lungs refuse to expand.

“Do you want to go outside?” she asks. “I’m sure we can find an empty patio.”

“It’s more than that,” I whisper, my nose burning. Squinting through the fog in my eyes, I frantically search for an exit. “It’s just this day…”

“Maybe the movie will distract you? It’s really fun.” She wraps her arms around me, and I can tell she wants me to stay.

I don’t want to let her down, but certain I’ll suffocate if I have to sit through the movie, my shaking fingers grip my skirt in bunches, and I’m ready to run. “Liv, I can’t. I need some space—some time alone.”

“Then go. Do whatever you need to do.” The lights dim, signaling it’s time to take our seats.

Berkeley returns from whatever press he was doing and snakes an arm around Liv’s waist. “You were perfect out there.” His lips brush her forehead. “This is it. It’s finally happening. Are you ready for The Keystone?”

Resting her head on his shoulder, she looks up at him. “You did all of this. Dreamed it and it came true. I can’t wait.”

Watching them together, the emptiness in my chest expands. Everything Mama Rosie has always told me about getting out and living life, not holding back or putting off what’s important, bursts forward, and I’m overcome with a crushing need to see Mark. He’s the only person I’m okay with seeing me in this defeated state—the only one who can make it better—can help me find the joy through the tears. The only one… He was right. What we had was special, and I can’t let my brain hold me back any longer. The tough doctor act isn’t working for me. When you find something that gives you that feeling, you don’t let it go…

Suddenly I know exactly what I need to do. My sinuses clear, and my breath flows free.

“I need a little time to pull myself together,” I whisper to Liv as everyone else makes their way to the theater. “But I’m going to do my best to make it to the after party.”

“I understand. Hopefully I’ll see you there.”

Giving her a quick hug, I head for the front doors.

Outside, the air is icy against my skin, but I welcome it; it reminds me I’m alive. Knowing I’ll never get a cab, I wrap my leather jacket tight around my shoulders and turn my back on the Hollywood lights. New Yorkers on their harried foot commute dodge me, probably thinking I look like a pathetic Cinderella trudging down the snowy street in her ball gown. But I don’t pay them any attention, because I’m a girl on a mission. A cupcake mission.

Chapter Forty-Six

Amanda Conrad @BootsMD

I’m surrounded by celebrities who didn’t go to college, but they’re rolling in fame and money. KEEP RUBBING IT IN, GUYS. I’ll just roll in my student loans.

I walk down the stairs into the ballroom, which has been transformed from its 1930s glory into a swanky sixties nightclub in honor of The Keystone’s mid-century aesthetic. Low couches covered in pillows surround amoeba-shaped tables, and paper lanterns hang from the ceiling. A full band is playing the Rat Pack’s hits at one end of the room, and at the center, a turquoise lacquer dance floor poses as a swimming pool. Shocked to have arrived from the dead of NYC winter and been transported to Palm Springs, I’m instantly self-conscious, certain my poufy dress is all wrong for the occasion.

Clinging to the cupcake box containing the banana cupcake with glittery pink frosting I secured from Magnolia Bakery, I help myself to a cocktail with a paper umbrella in it, searching for a familiar face while trying to refrain from gawking at the famous ones. In the distance I see Liv and Berkeley chatting with Mr. Digger, The Keystone’s director, and Blair is deep in conversation with an alabaster woman rocking a severe chignon. Not wanting to interrupt, I find safety in the shade of a potted palm.

“Boots,” a warm voice says from behind me, and I turn to see Justin, a guy I met while visiting Liv on set when they were filming in Pittsburgh.

“Hi.” I give him a hug, grateful for some company. “How are you?”

“I’m great,” he says. “How are you? Some party, huh?”

“It is, but I’m feeling a little out of my league.”

“Nah. You fit right in. I’m sure everyone is wondering who the fresh face is.”

“You’re very kind.” I flush, starved for any form of validation on this day of disappointments. “Someone trained you well.”

“No training necessary. I speak the truth.” He smiles.

“So, what’s new with you?” I ask, cocking my head like I’m having trouble hearing him so I can continue to scan the party for one particular face. “Do you still work for Mr. Digger?”

“He just promoted me to second AD on the Funny Girl remake, actually. I’m super excited about it.”

Over his shoulder my eyes finally find what they’ve been seeking. A missile pursuing its target, Justin fades away as I hone in on Mark. Wearing a navy button-down shirt under a hooded wool jacket, he is ever the casual bartender, and my arm erupts in goose bumps at the sight of him. The tugging begins, and I wonder if he can feel the pull, the longing building, drawing me toward him. His head is lowered, and he’s talking to someone, laughing at whatever was said, though I can’t make out who his companion is.

“We start shooting in a couple months,” Justin continues, regaining my attention for a moment before I’m back to straining to see who Mark is with. I watch as he straightens, and immediately wish I could unsee his date. To my horror, Heidi is on his arm. Dressed in a form-fitting vintage sixties cocktail dress that shows off her tattoos, her indie-cool look fits perfectly into the scene. By contrast I feel like an overembellished wedding cake.

His hand pressing the small of her back, he guides her forward to the bar, and for a moment our eyes meet, catapulting mine back to Justin. “That’s exciting,” I say. “Will you be on location?”

I don’t hear his answer. My focus is short-lived as, beyond Justin’s shoulder, Heidi excuses herself and Mark starts making his way toward me.

Champagne and macarons collide in my stomach, suppressing nothing. I feel it all—hope, fear, anger, excitement—a powder keg of emotions wanting to burst free.

“I’m sorry, Justin.” I place a hand on his shoulder, the cupcake box burning hot in my other hand. “I see an old friend. Can we chat again later?”

“Sure…”

I don’t give him a chance to finish. Driven forward by an unseen force, a need to apologize, I run toward the lion’s mouth, meeting Mark halfway.

“Hi.” Breathless, I come to a halt in front of him.

“Hi.” I can’t read his expression; it’s frustratingly neutral. “I thought you might be here.”

“I thought you might be here, too, but I still came.” The joke lands with a soft thud, and he doesn’t laugh. “How are you?” I ask to fill the ensuing awkward silence. “Things seem to be going well. I saw you on Fallon. You were great.”

“Yeah. Thanks. Everything seems to be falling into place. The band is growing—we just signed to a new label—and I’ve been doing some producing. I’m really happy.”

“Doing Fallon must have been the right decision, then.” My heart pounds, hope evaporating as I search for an underlying glimmer of magic and come up empty.

“So, how are you, Boots?” He shifts his weight from one foot to the other like he’s impatient, like he wants to get this encounter over with. “Are things going well at the hospital?”

“Not as well as I’d like.” Dropping my chin, I’m unable to keep the sadness from creeping into my voice.

“Sorry to hear that,” he says, unmoved. “But hey—when things don’t work out the way you expect them to, maybe it’s just life pushing you in another direction. Look at me.” He shrugs. “All that stuff about taking it slow… I decided it was ridiculous. I was holding back because I was scared. When opportunity presents itself, you have to take it.”

I nod, wrinkling my nose. “You’re right.” It’s now or never. Taking a deep breath, I say the words burning in my throat, “I made a mistake, and I want to apologize to you.”

“Okay.”

“On the tour bus…I was scared, and I think I chose poorly. Do you think there’s any way”—I hold up the cupcake in offering—“that you could forgive me?”

Just then Heidi walks up, snaking her fingers into Mark’s.

He smiles at her. “Heidi, you remember Boots?”

“Of course. Hi, Boots,” she says sweetly.

“Hey.” I drop the little box back to my side.

“It turns out Heidi is an incredible talent,” he says. “I knew the second we played together in Asheville we had to work together, and it’s been beyond what I imagined. She’s opened me up to parts of myself I didn’t know existed, unlocked my potential. We have some big projects coming up, some huge news…”

She cuddles in close to him, her expression adoring.

My eyes flit back and forth between them, and hot bile rises in my throat, my insides crumbling. “That’s great. I’m really happy for you,” I manage to say, somehow remaining rooted in front of them even though I want to bolt. “Well, I should get going. I have early call tomorrow. It was nice to see you both.”

“Wonderful to see you, too,” Heidi says.

Mark remains silent.

Backing away, I turn to make my escape, but at the last minute my competitive side kicks in and I whip around, handing Mark the cupcake. “I almost forgot. This is for you. Maybe you guys can split it.”

Not giving them a chance to respond, I hurry out of the ballroom before they can see the tears coming hot and fast.

The cab leaves me at the Standard, where I drop off the Oscar de la Renta, packing the last of my Hollywood dreams into a garment bag and leaving them in the suite. Once I’m in my own clothes, returned to the normal girl nobody would take a second glance at, I catch the subway to my side of town. I don’t want to go back to my lonely linoleum apartment, though. The thought of sitting there, staring at the bare walls with only my thoughts to keep me company is depressing. But at least I can see. My thoughts turn to Rosie and the darkness settling around her. Resting my face in my hands, I will my mind blank, but it doesn’t comply, and, antsy to keep moving, I get off at the next stop, not caring where I am.

Head down against the biting wind, I emerge from the belly of the city and walk, aimless. Mark and Heidi… I can’t stop picturing them together. What did I expect? He’d bite into the cupcake and forgive me? Of course he ended up with her. They’re perfect together. I knew it all along… Assaulted by a barrage of self-pity, I nearly dissolve into a miserable heap on the sidewalk, the tears beginning anew, but at the last minute I pull myself together. You’re a doctor. You can have everything you ever wanted if you’re willing to fight for it. Go after what you want.

With renewed vigor, I head for the hospital, intending to track down Dr. Kelly and plead my case for the plastics position.

Hurrying through the hospital doors, I set out to find him but instead happen upon Harrison first. Out of supreme goodness, he’s covering a general surgery night shift for a resident who had a death in the family.

“Boots,” he says when I pass by the call room where he’s changing into his scrubs, not hiding his surprise. “You look incredible.”

Even though my eye makeup is likely beyond smudged, my movie-star hair and tear-stained face is still a sharp contrast to my usual minimalist look.

“What are you doing here?” he asks. “Shouldn’t you be walking the red carpet? Trying out for your role on the next version of ER?”

That sounds like something my dad would say. And something inside me snaps. “Why? Because that’s the one role I’m capable of getting? I can’t be a doctor, I can only play one on TV?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“What did you mean, then?”

“I was trying to pay you a compliment. You look gorgeous, like you belong on TV.”

“Well I don’t. I don’t belong anywhere. And that’s not a compliment. Why don’t you try praising my surgical skills for a change? My ability to make an incision and leave a nearly invisible scar? My diagnostic skills? Tell me you love me for my mind. That’s a compliment.”

“Geeze. Calm down. You’re being irrational.”

“Irrational? So what if I am? I think I’m allowed to be.” My frustration boils over, tears flowing, surely sending rivers of black racing down my cheeks, but I don’t care. “I didn’t get the job I’ve been working toward since my thirteenth birthday, one of my best friends just found out she’s legally blind, and I was insulted by a bunch of Hollywood photographers.” Not to mention getting my heart crushed by a certain rock star. “I’m at the end of the road. Where am I supposed to turn now? Dr. Kelly says I should reconsider my path.”

I want him to put his arms around me, but he doesn’t. Instead, he folds them over his chest.

“Let’s calm down and think about this logically.” Taking a seat, he pats the bunk next to him. “Plastics is demanding. Maybe this is a sign that you’re supposed to do something else.”

Refusing to take a seat, to submit, I hold my ground. “I’m sick of being pushed down another path. I’ve always wanted to be a plastic surgeon, and I will be.”

“Don’t be stubborn, Amanda. There are other specialties worth considering. Like dermatology. Think about it. You could have more control over your time, could have a family. Isn’t that something you want?”

“Why does everyone suddenly think I should be a dermatologist? I’ve never expressed any interest in skin care. Ever.” Suddenly the lightbulb illuminates. “You.” I point at him. “You don’t want me to be in plastics.”

“I want whatever you want. I want you to be happy.” He delivers the line so perfectly I almost believe him. Almost.

“Who got the position?” I ask. “I know you know.”

He looks away.

“Tell me.”

“Carrie,” he says softly, not meeting my eyes.

“Why her?”

“How should I know?”

“Just be honest with me,” I whisper.

“I think Dr. Kelly felt she was better suited for it.” He finally looks at me and sighs. “He thinks you’re too emotional.”

“Thank you for telling me.” I suck in my breath. “At least you voted for me? Right?”

He is silent, and my intuition is confirmed.

“Of course you didn’t. That’s what I thought.” Hanging my head, I stare at my toes. I have to get out of here, but where do I go now?

“I had to do what I felt was right. I thought about it long and hard, and in the end, I decided she was the best person for the job.” He clears his throat. “Besides, we don’t both need to be in plastics. I can support us.”

“What?” My head snaps up so fast I strain my neck. “Don’t you think that’s a little premature? We barely know each other. You have no right to determine my future. Plastics is my dream, and if you’re so certain we belong together, wouldn’t you go out of your way to make it come true?”

“I suppose you could look at it that way.” His voice is eerily calm. “But I’m not in the business of making dreams come true. This is the real world, not some land of make-believe. People’s lives are on the line.”

“And because I dare to dream, I’m dangerous. I’m glad I know where I stand.”

He shrugs. “I have to be responsible and do what’s in the hospital’s—and the patients’—best interest.”

Taking a ragged breath, I nod and back out of the room, my legs wobbling, on the verge of collapse. I have never been a liability. I’m usually the one people turn to first when they want something done right. It’s as if doors are slamming shut all around me and the walls are closing in, suffocating me, pinning me down. Fearing if I wait one more second I’ll be trapped in this world that wants to break me, I run, needing to get as far away from him as possible. Turning my back on all I’ve worked for, I know only one thing for certain: everything about Harrison, this place, and this city, is wrong.

Chapter Forty-Seven

Amanda Conrad @BootsMD

Does anyone else find cerebral angiograms just beautiful?! I used to.

Sore throat, face bloat, piss Coke: Acute post-streptococcal glomerulonephritis, classical presentation. My head against the bus window, I watch the New York night pass by, reciting medical mnemonics to keep my mind from traveling down dark paths. I know that by leaving I’m probably closing the door on New York, on residency, on plastics, but right now I don’t care. I have to get out of this city. It’s not home, and I have nowhere to run except the only home I know: my parents’ house. Longing for comfort, I try to think of who I can talk to, who would understand. Liv is busy at the after party, Mama Rosie is sick, who does that leave? Derrick and Stephanie? My brothers? Even my old medical school friends have been kept at a superficial arm’s length. In school we went out for drinks, commiserated about patients, but they aren’t the sort of friends you can call in the middle of the night when your world is crumbling. I have no one. And the only person who could make me believe it’s all going to be okay, because with him anything is possible, hates me. Not that it matters. He has Heidi now…

Soaked in loneliness, I pull out my Happily Ever After journal, hoping to reset my perspective. But the first page I open to is Heidi’s, and with my fears about the nonexistence of Happily Ever After confirmed, I toss the book aside, opting to attempt sleep.

I must be successful, because the next thing I know, the bus is pulling into the terminal in Pittsburgh, and I hurry to gather my things and find a cab.

It’s after three in the morning when I arrive at my parents’ house, slipping inside, careful to silently latch the door behind me. On tiptoes, I attempt to sneak to my bedroom without being heard, but my father has the ears of an owl, and I’m halfway up the stairs when the chandelier lights come on, spotlighting my progress.

I freeze, refusing to meet his eyes.

“Boots?” Dad asks, still tying his bathrobe. He squints at me from the top of the stairs. “What are you doing here?”

“I didn’t get the plastics position,” I announce, exhausted from keeping the disappointment inside. “And I don’t want to talk about it and, even more, I don’t want to hear about it. I don’t want you to pull any strings. I don’t want your opinion on what I should do with my life now that I’ve ruined everything. I don’t want to hear how disappointed you are, how I screwed up, how I couldn’t handle a patient dying because I have a heart, so clearly I’m not cut out for this industry—I just want to go to bed. Diagnosis: fail.” Without waiting for a response, I shove past him into my bedroom and shut the door behind me.

In the sanctuary of my old room, I slide down against the door, feet locked against the nearby dresser, ignoring the soft tapping on the other side from my father, keeping him out like I once did my younger brother when he wanted to invade my play space. Sobbing noisy, gasping cries that shake my rigid shoulders, I finally let go, and I hear Dad retreat down the hall. I greedily suck in air, my jaw clenched with tension, my shoulders pressed to my ears, trying to gain control. Hiccupping, I start to find my breath, but then I think of Mark with Heidi. The wound reopens, and I dissolve into a fresh round of sobs.

Eventually I manage to crawl into bed and bury my face in my pillow, as I’ve longed to do all night. But plagued by the unceasing swirl of disappointments, sleep doesn’t come, and as soon as the first rays of cool winter sun find me, I’m up. After splashing water on my face, hoping it will soothe my puffy eyes, I head out. I don’t want to see my dad, to talk about my outburst, so I find a coffee shop and prop myself up with strong black brew.

Wanting to look busy and desperately needing a pick-me-up, I dig through my bag, searching for my Happily Ever After journal, but it’s nowhere to be found. Shit. I must have left it on the bus. Feeling the stab of yet another loss, and with nothing to occupy me, I settle for watching the line of early-morning commuters get their fix, wondering where my place among them might be, until it is an appropriate time to go see Mama Rosie.

Knocking lightly, I enter her small apartment without waiting for an answer. The normally cheery kitchen with its vintage red Smeg refrigerator and cherry-print curtains is dark, smelling strongly of coffee. Hearing the soft strains of The Price is Right coming from the television, I cross to the living room and find Rosie sitting on the couch. Wearing a pink zip-front velour track suit, she is without makeup—a rarity for her—and she is staring at the screen, catatonic.

“Rosie?” I say softly, not wanting to startle her.

“Boots?” she asks, eyes not moving. “How the hell are you? What are you doing here?”

“I came as soon as I heard. How are you doing?”

“About as well as can be expected with this damn disease.” She shrugs, her lower lip trembling. “I’m blind as a bat in my left eye, and I’m seeing double in my right. Half the world gone, just like that.” She attempts to snap her fingers. “I still can’t believe it. I’ve been sitting here trying to preserve my memories. Thank God for them—I never knew they’d be this important. They’re all I have left.”

“I’m sorry.” Wishing I had more words, feeling like, as a doctor, I should know the perfect thing to say, I take a seat next to her on the couch.

She squints at me. “Both of you look terrible—even I can see that. What are you doing here? What happened to New York?”

Sighing, I watch a contestant spin the wheel. “It’s more what didn’t happen. I didn’t get into the plastics program, I don’t fit in Liv’s crazy world—or more importantly, Mark’s. I messed up, Rosie. He found someone else.” I slump into the couch. “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. I’m seriously considering moving back here and giving Botox injections out of my parents’ living room. My dad would love that.” The words tumble out, and I instantly feel guilty for unloading on her. “I’m sorry. I don’t need to burden you with this. You have enough going on. How are you?”

“You could never be a burden, sweetheart. I know it sounds daunting right now, but we’ll figure it out. That’s something I can still do.”

With a sad smile, I push the focus back to her. “I’ll figure it out. You don’t need to worry. That’s enough about me. Tell me what the doctors say.”

“You know, Boots, sometimes it’s okay to put yourself first.”

“Look who’s talking.” I nudge her arm with my elbow.

She gestures at the TV instead of responding. “Tell me, is that refrigerator $1079 or $11,079?”

“Either way, I think you’re overbidding.”

She laughs. “Probably.”

“Is the blindness permanent?” I ask.

She takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. “Oh, those damn doctors—no offense—they keep giving me the runaround. The blindness might not be permanent—the lesions are more on my spine than my brain—time will tell. Lucky me, I have primary progressive MS. Things will just keep getting worse without the hope of remission, so my chances of ever living pain-free are slim.”

“Primary progressive is rare. What are you taking?”

“Steroids, steroids, steroids. There is no treatment for what I have.”

At a loss, I watch the showcase showdown, wishing I had the answers to comfort her.

“What am I going to do, Boots?” she asks. “I can’t wash my face without it feeling like someone is stabbing my cheeks. And every time I turn my head it feels like bees are stinging my legs, so I try not to move. How am I going to live like this? I’m going to be a disabled person, destined to live out my life in this earthquake of a body. The day will come when I can’t walk, can’t see, and I don’t have anyone to help. I’m going to have to sell the bar so I can afford to go into a home. I have no choice.”

“You always have a choice.” My eyes well up, and I struggle to find a bright side for her.

“The bar is all I have, though. It’s my baby, my life. I can’t imagine going on without it. Making it successful has been my fuel. It’s why I wake up every day. At this point in my life, I can’t imagine something else exists that can drive me like that.”

“There has to be another way, Rosie. We’ll think of something.”

“I just hate imagining what they’ll turn it into,” she says, like she didn’t hear me. “Some sort of newfangled sushi place? All of my memories are wrapped up in it. My happiest times…”

“You’re surrounded by people who love you, Rosie. Me, Stephanie, the regulars—even Derrick. We’re here for you. You’re the life of that place, and we’re not going to let it die. We’re going to keep it open, keep making new memories for you.”

“And just how to do you plan to do that?”

“I’m not sure yet, but I’ll think of something.” I put my arm around her. “Why don’t you let me run the bar for a few days? That will give you some time to relax, to try to get some perspective.”

She shakes her head. “I can’t ask you to do that. You have a life in New York. Go out and live it. I don’t want you to waste time slaving away at that place.”

“I don’t know what’s left for me in New York. It’s not my home, I know that much.” As I say the words, they ring true. “I have to find out if I’m required to finish residency in New York—if they still want me—or if I can start new somewhere else, but in the meantime I could use some time to think. The bar is the perfect place to do that. It will give me something to focus on besides what a mess I’ve made of my life. Please, give me a chance. I need this.”

On the screen Drew Carey says, “And please help control the pet population; have your pet spayed or neutered.”

“And I promise I’ll uphold your traditions,” I add. “Just like Drew Carey did for Bob Barker.”

Mama Rosie laughs, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. “Okay, kid. Give it a shot. The keys are in the kitchen. Let me know if you have any questions. I’ll call Derrick and tell him you’re in charge. And for heaven’s sake, put on some lipstick.”

Chapter Forty-Eight

Amanda Conrad @BootsMD

Trading my hospital goggles for beer goggles.

Parker Mifflin @IsIndulgent

@BootsMD Good choice, I think. Unless hospital goggles let you see through McDreamy’s lab coat. Then color me intrigued.

Amanda Conrad @BootsMD

@IsIndulgent I wish! No, when you’re up for 36 hours straight, you think all kinds of dudes are hot. #ExceptPatients

It’s not the same without Rosie here, but I’m doing my best to stand in her shoes. After the lunch rush, which consisted of five customers, I’ve bussed the tables and finished polishing the glasses. It was so slow I sent Stephanie home, and now I’m alone in the restaurant except for the cook and Jim, who sits silently sipping his afternoon martini and reading the paper at the other end of the bar. Strangely, I find myself looking forward to when Derrick comes in so I’ll have some company. Trying to find ways to stay busy, I’m wiping down the liquor bottles when behind me a sliver of light slices through the dimness.

“Is this seat taken?” Mom asks, pulling out a stool.

“No. All yours,” I say, not hiding my shock.

She sits. “Hi, Jim.”

She knows Jim? I openly stare.

“How are you doing?” she asks. “I haven’t seen you in a long time. How’s Betsy?”

“Oh, she’s great.” He puts down his paper. “She’s just like her mother. Always going. She and her husband are living down in North Carolina.”

Mom gets the update on Jim’s daughter, whom she apparently knows, and I listen in stunned silence.

“I’m sorry about Jill,” Mom says. “She was a great lady. I remember she used to serve up lemonade for Betsy and me in the prettiest tulip wineglasses. She had a way of making everything special.”

Jim’s eyes well up as he finishes his drink and stands. “It means a lot that you remember her that way. Thank you, Em.” He pats her arm on his way out.

I watch in awe of Mom and how she so gently touched him in the smallest way but clearly made his day. She had just the right words. It’s something I’ve never given her credit for…something I could learn from.

Jim heads for the door. “Have a good night, Boots. See you around.”

“See you,” I reply.

“How do you know Jim?” I ask once the door closes behind him.

“I went to high school with his daughter. We were friends—and Jim and Jill were nice to me when I felt like I couldn’t talk to my own parents. You don’t forget where you come from.”

That feels like a dig against me. “Do you want something to drink?” I ask.

She pauses, considering. “It’s been awhile since I’ve been to Rosie’s. Let’s see. How about a gin and tonic?”

“Coming right up.” Filling a glass with ice, I count to four as I pour in the gin. “When were you here before?”

“Aunt Kat used to drag me along to see shows here. It was quite the scene back in the day. But that was when it was the Neon Pineapple.”

“I can’t picture you here.” I top off her drink with tonic and squeeze a lime into it before setting it in front of her.

“I had my moments. I wasn’t always your father’s wife, you know. But it was more of Aunt Kat’s thing. I was just along for the ride.”

“That makes sense.”

She samples her cocktail. “This is pretty good. So is this what you’re back in town for? Bartending?”

“No. I’m helping Rosie out for a little while.” Wiping down the gin bottle, I return it to the shelf. “The truth is I didn’t know where else to go after the plastics decision, so I came home. I’m sorry about last night. I didn’t mean to make a scene.”

“It was certainly a surprise. Your father is pretty upset.”

“Because I’m a failure?” I vigorously start scrubbing the bar.

“You’re not a failure, sweetheart. We’re very proud of you and what you’ve accomplished.”

“I feel like a failure. I know how much he wanted me to be a surgeon, to follow in his footsteps.”

She puts her hand on mine, halting my cleaning frenzy. “But what do you want? That’s what’s important. It’s not his life you’re leading, it’s yours. I know he can be demanding, but don’t let it hold you back.”

“I wish it were that easy,” I mutter, taking my hand out from under hers and clenching it into a fist.

“He wants what is best for you.”

“And for us to be the best. I can’t please him. No matter what I do.”

“And you shouldn’t try. You should please you.” She pauses, running her finger around the rim of her glass. “You know, I’ve always wanted more for you than to become me. I know you’re afraid of that—of leading a small existence.”

Inwardly, I cringe. “It’s not that—”

“But it is. And the truth is, maybe I played it safe. Maybe I put too much focus on you kids and your dad. I made your lives mine. Now that Evan is away at college, you’re all gone, and I don’t quite know what to do with myself. I have to find me. It’s scary. But you won’t have that problem. You already know infinitely more than I did when I was your age, maybe even more than I know now. You’re so self-aware.”

“I’m not,” I whisper. My perfect mother is lost? “I’m really not. I don’t know what to do. Do I stay here? Do I go back to New York and keep trying to prove myself? It’s lonely there, but if I’m not a doctor, what I am I? How do I define myself?” And how do I move on after the only guy I’ve ever offered my heart to chose someone else? What do I have to offer anyone?

“Do you have to wear a label?” she asks. “Can’t you be more than one thing?”

“I wish I knew.”

“Well, I think you should try. It’s not selfish to be true to your dreams. Follow what your heart is telling you. If it’s not New York, then it’s not New York, though I think you’d have a friend there if you’d let him in.”

My heart seizes. Inhaling sharply, I fight for breath to ease the pain the mention of Mark brings. “I don’t think that’s an option,” I say, quietly, tears springing to my eyes. “Who have you been talking to anyway, Aunt Kat?” I hold up the gin bottle, offering to refill her drink before she can ask for details.

“Maybe.” She laughs and waves her “no thanks” to the drink. “But she’s not why I say that. I saw how he looked at you when he came to dinner, could feel his protectiveness over you. A mother notices these things.”

“I’m not sure he still feels the same way.” I conjure an image of Heidi licking sticky pink frosting off his fingers. “In fact, I’m 99 percent positive he doesn’t.”

“So there’s still a chance. Maybe it’s worth finding out for sure.” She digs into her purse and pulls out a twenty. “We taught you to be self-sufficient, but lately I’ve been thinking that’s where we went wrong, that you shouldn’t be afraid to lose yourself a little, too. You have to learn to accept uncertainty. I know we didn’t drill that into you—we’ve made you crave security, value it—but sometimes you have to take a risk, be vulnerable, let yourself be taken care of.”

“Dad would never approve of me choosing a rock star over residency.”

“Dad doesn’t matter. He ultimately wants you to be happy. Besides, it’s not his life. It’s yours. Follow your heart and don’t worry for a second what anyone thinks. Even Dad. He’ll still love you, whether you’re a doctor or not.” She stands and slides the money toward me. “So, tell me. What do you want to do? Without thinking, what’s the first thing that comes to mind?”

I say the first thing that pops into my head. “I want to make things right with Mark. I got scared and pushed him away.”

“Then that’s what you should do.”

“I already tried. I failed.”

“Maybe you should try again. You don’t give up, do you?”

“No.” I hang my head. “But he found somebody else. She fits in his world. I don’t.” Lifting my eyes to hers, I whisper, “I don’t want to go back to New York, either.”

“So, stay.”

“But what will Dad say?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of him. You take care of you.” She starts gathering her things.

“Thank you.”

“Of course, sweetheart. Anything for you.” Giving my hand a squeeze, she heads toward the door.

“Hey, Mom,” I say before she leaves. “What about you? What do you want to do? Without thinking, what’s the first thing that comes to mind?”

Coming to a halt, she smiles. “I think I’d like to open a little shop—sell gifts, lingerie—make it a place where people would want to host parties and showers. I’ve always loved creating a mood.”

“My mother the entrepreneur.”

“We’ll see.”

“Maybe we can do it together,” I say. “You know, figure out how to have it all.”

Mom’s eyes look watery, and I have the sense I’ve touched her in some way. She swallows, her voice thick. “I’d like that.”

“Me, too.”

She turns to go.

I always thought Mom hid behind her doctor’s wife face, but it turns out I’ve been the one wearing the doctor mask all along…

Chapter Forty-Nine

Amanda Conrad @BootsMD

’Tis the season to make ravioli, fa-la-la-la-la I’m going to get fat. #AndHappy

“Thinner.”

“Thinner? I’ve put it through ten times already.” I feed the pasta through the press one more time.

“Ravioli is my family’s pride and joy, especially on Christmas Eve,” Derrick says. “We don’t share the recipe with just anyone, and the pasta has to be perfect. It’s one of the secrets. If you don’t want to learn, I’ll tell Rosie to find someone else to run the bar.”

“You don’t have to do that,” I say. “I want to learn. And I’m going to be here for a while, so I might as well soak up the secrets.”

“Did you officially ditch residency?” he asks, opening the oven and removing a metal pan containing both a pork roast and a beef roast that have been cooking low and slow for the last six hours.

“I didn’t ‘ditch’ it. I transferred to UPMC—big difference—but I can’t start in the middle of the year, so I have to wait until July. You’re stuck with me until then.” I stick my tongue out at him.

“You’re okay with that? With putting your life on hold? That’s unlike you.”

“Thank you for noticing,” I say, surprised at his insight. “Yes. It’s different for me, but I don’t look at it as putting my life on hold. In fact, I think I’m finally living. Being here these last few weeks, I realize the faces I see every day, they have stories that should be celebrated. And maybe that’s my job. I thought I wanted the glory of saving lives, but maybe my place is in honoring the lives that have been lived—in easing transitions, finding alternative treatments, listening so people know that someone really sees them and will remember them. I’m finishing my residency in internal medicine, and then planning to do a palliative care fellowship.”

“That’s cool,” he says, expertly chopping a mound of celery leaves.

“Thanks. I’m hoping I can make some wishes come true, too. To help people find that feeling, whatever gives it to them. Everyone should have a chance to experience it.”

“What’s that feeling?”

“That moment when everything clicks, where you feel like you can fly, like your heart is so swollen it might burst.”

He nods. “Everyone deserves a love story.”

I suddenly see him in a new light. Maybe I’m not the only one changing perspectives. “Besides,” I continue, “this will give us some more time to find a therapy that works for Rosie.” Unfortunately, she hasn’t improved in the few weeks I’ve been home, despite trying acupuncture, meditation, and a kale and cranberry diet. She’s frustrated, but I won’t let her quit, and I make it my mission every day to keep up her spirits.

“Is this good enough?” I ask, showing him the pasta.

“That’ll do. Now cover it with damp cloths to keep it from drying out.” He tosses a stack of towels at me.

“What are you doing?”

“Grinding the meat for the filling.” He feeds chunks of the roast into the meat grinder before mixing it with chopped celery leaves and parmesan. “But that’s not all I’d like to be grinding.” He grins.

Never mind on the perspective front. “Derrick.” I groan. “See my nails?” I hold up my fingers. “See how nice they are? You know why?”

“No. Why?”

“Because I haven’t been biting them. I’m relaxed. I don’t need a new stress in my life, and that means you.”

“We always had a good time, though. Where’s the stress in that? I thought I was your release.”

“That was then. I’m not going backward. Only forward.” I finish layering the pasta between the damp cloths. “What’s next?”

“We have to make stock with the bones and pan drippings. Use that pot.” He nods toward the stove. “Tomorrow we’ll serve the ravioli in the broth with a spoonful of marinara and fresh parmesan and basil. You’re going to love it.”

I dump the contents of the roasting pan into the pot, add celery, carrots, and onion, and fill it with water. Covering it with a lid, I turn up the heat.

“Perfect,” he says. “Now we fill the ravioli.”

Joining him at the table, we start spooning dollops of the meat mixture onto the pasta sheets.

“I’m impressed,” I say. “You really know your way around the kitchen. Have you ever considered cooking full time?”

“Nah. Art is my true calling.”

“I love the mural you did.” As a surprise for Mama Rosie, we’ve been making some subtle updates around the bar and, inspired by my days on the road, Derrick did a huge chalkboard drawing on one wall, depicting the restaurant’s days as a rock club. It might be the first project he’s ever finished. “But you should consider this. You’re good at it.”

Finished spooning, I help him lay out another sheet of pasta on top of the filling.

“We’ll see,” he says, coming up behind me. “Ravioli isn’t the only thing I know my way around.”

Handing me the ravioli wheel, he puts his arms around me from behind and guides my hand down the length of the pasta. “Derrick, no.” Uncomfortable in his arms, I elbow him in the stomach and wiggle free of his embrace.

“You’re no fun anymore,” he complains.

I swat him with a nearby spoon and change the subject. “Is there anything else we need to do for tomorrow? I want it to be perfect for Rosie.”

“We’re good on the food and wine front. You’re the one in charge of entertainment.”

“All set there, too. I can’t wait to see the look on Rosie’s face.” As my gift to her, I’ve arranged for Berkeley to perform. I’m hoping seeing him onstage will transport her back to better times while making a new memory and giving her hope for the future. I’ve convinced my entire family to give up our traditional Christmas Eve dinner in favor of a night out at Rosie’s. My dad grudgingly agreed, thanks to Mom promising she’ll make her famous stuffing Christmas night instead, but I’m pleased he’s making an effort. And I’m pretty sure my brothers are just happy to get out of doing the dishes. All in all, I’m looking forward to Christmas even if, deep down, I know someone is missing. If only…

But then I remember the TMI News segment I saw last night showcasing Heidi and her upcoming solo album. Mark was standing proudly by her side, having produced the project. TMI called him “her partner in crime.” Ignoring the tugging at my insides Mark still invokes, I slip my white work apron over my head and wad it up in a ball. I don’t know if anyone else exists out there who can give me “that feeling,” but I’m finally open to finding out. It’s time to move on.

“I’m going to go get the table settings ready,” I say. “I want it to look perfect.”

“You’re taking care of decorations?” he asks.

“It’s almost a new year. My resolution is to develop my creative side, to be open to new possibilities.”

“You want me to help?”

“No thanks.” I smile and exit through the swinging kitchen door. “My mom is on her way.”

Chapter Fifty

Mark VanCleer @BrightsideBP

All flights out of NYC canceled. Thank you, blizzard! Good thing I’m used to buses.

Mrs. Bloom @PsychicMom1

@BrightsideBP I told you your time was coming…

“I want you to open your present now.” Liv thrusts a black box tied with printed black ribbon at me.

“Barneys?” I ask reading the print on the box. “Liv. It’s too much.”

“Open it. I think you should wear it tonight. It’s your Christmas dress.”

“Does it spin?” I ask, remembering our childhood litmus for dress worthiness.

“Actually, I think it does.”

Opening the box and unfolding the tissue paper, I pull out an exquisite navy lace dress with a full skirt. “Oh, Liv.”

“Do you like it? I love the long sleeves and French cuffs.”

“It’s more than words.” I hold the dress up to my chest, admiring it in my vanity mirror. “Thank you.”

“I thought you might want to look your prettiest tonight.”

“For Rosie’s crowd?” I ask. “They don’t have very high standards.”

She shrugs. “For Christmas.”

“It’s going to look great with my galoshes.” Picking up a bright red boot, I gesture to the snow falling outside the window.

“Parker would never forgive me if I let you wear galoshes with that dress.” She laughs. “I have a spare pair of Jimmy Choos—we’ll bring those with us.”

“Nothing but the best for Rosie’s,” I say. “Speaking of, have you talked to Berkeley? Is everything okay with the sound system and stage?”

“He texted me a little bit ago and said everything was ready to go. Now get dressed so we can leave. I’m so excited, I can’t wait. I love a good surprise.”

Our families following in cars behind us, Liv and I arrive at Rosie’s first. Getting out of my car, we hurry to the restaurant, freshly fallen snow crunching under our feet, snowflakes clinging to our hair. The icy night air cuts straight through our layers, and it’s a relief when we yank open the doors to Rosie’s and are greeted with a blast of heat. Inside, the scene is cozy and festive, with colored holiday lights hanging from every available surface and a buxom Christmas tree sparkling next to the bar. Long tables adorned with evergreen and candles are set for dinner. I can’t help but admire my mother’s gift for concocting atmosphere.

Stripping off my coat, I pull off my galoshes and trade them for heels before heading to the kitchen, getting straight to work.

“Wow,” Derrick says when I appear on the other side of the swinging door. “Who are you trying to impress?”

“Father Christmas,” I reply. “Is everything ready to go?”

“Merry Christmas to you, too,” he says. “Yes. We’re all set.”

“Where is Rosie?”

“Upstairs getting ready. I’m going up to get her now.”

“And Berkeley?”

“He’s in Rosie’s office.”

“Perfect. And he knows when to come out?”

“Yep. As soon as Rosie finishes her toast.”

“Okay.” I’m breathless with nerves, my hands shaking, I so want the surprise to go seamlessly. “I’m going to go get our families settled and start pouring the wine.”

“Too late. Your uncle Don already cracked open the Chianti.”

“Of course he did.”

Satisfied there is nothing left for me to do but wait, I rejoin my family in the dining room where they are mingling with Derrick’s and Rosie’s family along with some of the bar regulars.

I take a seat next to Liv, and she squeezes my hand before pouring us some wine.

“Can I sit with you girls?” Aunt Kat asks, walking up behind us.

“Please do.” I pat the seat next to me.

“I have a gift for you, Boots,” she says as she sits. “And I think you should open it now.”

“Uh-oh,” Liv says. “Be afraid. Be very afraid. You remember my bridal shower.”

“Prophecies in Christmas gifts?” I ask, accepting the box. “You shouldn’t have.”

Aunt Kat simply smiles and watches as I untie the ribbon and slip the lid off the box, unable to fathom what sort of new-age trinket awaits in its depths.

My heart slams to a halt when I see what’s inside. Nestled in a cloud of tissue paper is a little green book with the words “Happily Ever After” scrawled in gold letters across the front.

I have no words.

“Read the card,” Aunt Kat urges. “I tucked it inside the book.”

Lifting the cover, I glimpse dozens of tiny illustrated faces staring up at me. What are the odds she bought the same book? Finding the envelope, I close the cover on the happy beach party and open the note, pulling out a card dotted with silver moons and stars. Inside it simply says, “No Regrets.”

“Where did you get this?” I ask, remembering my manners. “It’s lovely.” Picking up the book, I make a show of flipping through the pages, but I almost drop it when the pages reveal themselves. The first few pages are just as I left them—Lyle, Terry, Heidi, the cop, pictures of the band playing each venue—but after that, page after page is filled with pictures of me and Mark. Us laughing on the side of the road in Kentucky, us deep in conversation under Phillipe’s watchful gaze, us singing onstage at the Spanish Moon… Rory’s B-roll.

“Seriously, where did you get this?” My voice catches in my throat.

Aunt Kat doesn’t have time to answer, because just then Mama Rosie steps onto the stage, and a hush falls over the room as everyone watches her shuffle to the microphone. Despite her disability, she’s wearing red patent leather heels, and with her black leather apron over her cherry-colored dress, she seems determined to fulfill her role as a gothic Mrs. Claus. The only evidence that she is ill, besides her slow gait, is the cane she leans on, which has been painted with red and white stripes for the season.

“Merry Christmas,” she says into the microphone. “First, I want to thank you for coming tonight. Some of you are blood, and some of you I’ve had the pleasure of serving over the past thirty-odd years—either way you’re family—and I’m so glad to have you here as we usher in a new era for Rosie’s.” She takes a deep breath. “Normally I’d give a toast right now and wish you Christmas cheer, but this year, I have a big announcement I’d like to make first.”

I scan the room for Derrick, wondering if he knows what she’s talking about. When our eyes meet across the room, he looks as lost as I am.

“As many of you know, my health is in decline,” Mama Rosie continues, “and I wanted you to be the first to know that I think it’s in my best interest to sell the bar.”

I gasp and Liv puts her arm around me. No!

“This place has been my life. It’s my blood, my child, and this wasn’t an easy decision. I couldn’t let just anyone take over, but recently the perfect buyer came along and opened my eyes to what the future can bring. We have so much potential. He has a vision that will restore Rosie’s to her former Neon Pineapple glory, as has long been my dream. And now I actually think it’s in the bar’s best interest for me to sell her.”

Who is this buyer who has brainwashed her?

“So, without further ado…” She raises a glass of wine in a toast. “I want to say Merry Christmas.”

My jaw drops. Berkeley appears and starts to take the stage, but he’s not alone. Mark is right behind him.

Wearing a dark sweater over a plaid tie, his hair is perfectly messy, and he looks up at Rosie with such an earnest expression in his eyes it sends my heart straight to my toes. Hello, farm boy. But then I’m back to being dumbfounded. How did this happen? I turn to Liv. “You knew!” I scold her.

She laughs and wraps me in a hug. “Merry Christmas, Boots.”

“Is he here with Heidi?” I whisper, tears forming in the corners of my eyes, unable to contain the fear that is overtaking me.

“He’s not anything with Heidi,” she replies, causing a little yelp of hope to escape from my throat. “He produced her album, that’s it.”

“With a little help from my new friend Mark here,” Mama Rosie says, gesturing toward him, “we’re going to rebrand the bar for the new era, as the Neon Coconut. He’ll be curating shows and making this the newest and best place for traveling acts to play in Pittsburgh. The restaurant will still be operational, and I’ll still be here as much as I can, but he’s going to make it into the destination—the scene—it was always meant to be. And the best part is we’re going to have a cupcake bar where the proceeds go to MS research.”

My heart swoops, watching Mark standing next to her, offering his arm for support as she leans against him. And feeling the flutter of Rosie’s anticipation, I want to go to him, to be wrapped up in him, to thank him.

“This is the merriest Christmas,” she continues. “And to celebrate new beginnings, I have a special treat. Mark and Berkeley, from Berkeley & the Brightside, are going to perform for you and be the first to play the Neon Coconut stage. So drink up and eat up—we have a feast cooking—and know that I love you all.” She blows us a kiss, and the room erupts in applause and shouts of “We love you, Rosie!”

“Aren’t those the cutest boys you’ve ever seen,” Aunt Kat says.

“Absolutely,” Liv agrees. “Our guys are the best. Tour dinner parties here we come.”

I shake my head at her. “It’s enough that he’s doing this for Rosie…” I watch him help her down the steps while behind him Berkeley takes his place at the piano. “I can’t ask for more than that.”

Mark deposits Rosie next to Derrick and, when he returns to the stage, instead of picking up his guitar as I expected, he walks to the microphone.

“Hi. I’m Mark.” He gives a little wave, leaning forward, smiling around the room as it falls quiet again. “Before we play, I have a few things I’d like to say.”

Liv elbows me in the side, and I swat her away.

“First, I want to thank you for letting me crash your Christmas.”

I watch his lips as he talks, my stomach churning.

“I’m really excited to become a part of your family—to earn my place at your table—but that’s only part of the reason I’m here. Actually, the real reason I’m here isn’t because of Mama Rosie, as special as she is.” He winks at her. “It isn’t because of the music we can make within these walls, the legacy this place has, or because I think this is an incredible opportunity to create a music scene, even though all of that is true. The real reason I’m here is because of a girl…”

I can feel everyone’s eyes trace the path to my face, skyrocketing my temperature until my cheeks are probably Christmas red.

“…because I’ve been homeless for too long, and the only time I feel like I belong is when she’s with me. This place makes her happy and, because it makes her happy, it makes me happy. It’s where I want to be, where I want home to be.”

Hot tears slide down my cheeks, and I don’t wipe them away. I can’t move.

“Being in a band, perpetually on the road, I’ve always felt like I needed constant change to feel alive. I’ve belonged to everyone and no one, taken comfort in not having roots. I’ve never experienced that connection to one person across a room, where everyone can see it, know it, feel it—until now. And I don’t know if she’ll have me—I hope I can make her believe—but first I have a confession. Boots…”

My stomach drops. The sound of my name on his lips reverberates in my ears, and gravity descends, its weight heavy on my shoulders, except for the tugging at my core that connects me to him.

Taking a deep breath, he gives me his full attention. “I went to the party at the Edison with every intention of showing you how much I didn’t need you. I was upset with the way things ended on tour, and I was hoping to find a way to stop thinking about you. To end my fascination with you once and for all. And when you gave me the cupcake, I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know how to fix it, if I should fix it. I was confused. But then, a week later, a little green book showed up on my doorstep in New York. It said ‘Happily Ever After’ on the cover, and I immediately knew who it belonged to. At first I thought maybe you sent it as a reminder of what I was missing, but the note inside told me differently.” He pauses and shakes his head at Aunt Kat. “Apparently Aunt Kat over here found it stuffed into a chair pocket on the bus she was using to take some senior citizens on a holiday lights tour. She thought it belonged to me because of the pictures of my band inside, but she was wrong. Or maybe she was right. Maybe she instinctually knew that my Happily Ever After is written in there, too… At least if this goes well.”

He looks like such a hopeful puppy dog I can’t help but smile through my tears.

“Boots, you told me once you needed scientific proof that love could exist,” he continues. “Now I don’t know if it has anything to do with the limbic system or oxytocin, but in light of the book finding its way to me, you have to believe there’s a little bit of magic at work here. We can conjure more than just a leopard…” He searches my face. “You said once before you’d try… I know you’re hard to convince…but do you know what BELIEVE stands for?”

“No,” I say, my voice coming out small. I try to keep it steady. “What does it stand for?”

“Boots, (my) Eternal Love Is Everything—Valiant (and) Everlasting,” he says, biting his bottom lip, trying to remain serious, but he can’t, and a triumphant grin twitches at the corners of his mouth.

He totally made that up on the spot.

I swallow a laugh. “And do you know what MAGIC stands for?” I ask, my voice gaining strength as my competitive side kicks in.

He shakes his head. “No.”

“Mark Always (so) Genuine (you’re) Incomparable, Cherished.” Standing, I walk toward the stage, not caring that everyone is watching me. They’re my family, and I’m willing to let them see the real me, flaws and all.

“Is that so?” he asks as I come to a stop on the floor in front of him.

“I thought I wanted to be a surgeon,” I say, looking up at him. “I’ve been chasing that dream since I was a teenager. But you made me see that’s not what’s important. This is what’s important.” I gesture between his heart and mine. “When you find someone who gives you this feeling, you don’t let him go. Do you know what I mean?”

“I know exactly what you mean.”

I climb the steps to the little stage, and he wraps his arms around me as soon as I reach him.

“It would be my play-sha to give you a chance,” I say.

Laughing, he draws me closer, but before he goes in for a kiss, I stop him. “Do you know what MAGIC actually stands for?” I whisper.

“No.”

“It’s actually Mobility, ADL, General Condition, Incontinence, Conscious level. I winged that Mark stuff in.”

“Not bad, cupcake.” He grins, his thumb smearing the tears on my cheek. “I knew the minute you finished your speech at the wedding I’d met my match.” Lowering his face to mine, he finds my lips, coaxing my mouth open, and I don’t resist. Giving in to the joy filling me, like the sun is shining through me, I kiss him back, and I know I’m home.

Liv lets out a victory yelp, and the room bursts into applause.

Oblivious to everyone else, not caring what my dad might be thinking, I bask in Mark’s arms, letting myself love him, knowing nothing can break this.

Behind us, Berkeley starts to play the opening bars to “I’m a Believer,” and the music filters in. I’m in love…

“So, a zombie bought a bar…” I prompt him, slowing the kiss but keeping him close, our noses still touching.

Holding me tighter, he doesn’t miss a beat. “And he and the leopard lived Happily. Ever. After.”

Epilogue

The sound of waves crashes in my ears as the day breaks over the ocean outside our windows, and I roll onto my side. Mark is still sleeping, and I watch his peaceful face, marveling—as I do every morning—that he’s mine.

His eyes crack open, and as soon as he sees me he smiles. “Good morning, cupcake.” He drags me to him, tucking my head under his chin. “Just a few more minutes…”

I trace my fingers along his bare chest. “We have only a few minutes…somebody’s getting married.” My hand moves lower, over his taut abs, inside his boxers, and suddenly he’s very alert.

He turns me over onto my back and stares down at me. “We better spend them wisely, then. I may not see you for the rest of the day.”

Taking him in my hand, I caress him, finding the perfect rhythm. “Better get busy…”

He doesn’t let me finish. With a groan he finds my mouth, sliding my lips open, his tongue insistent against mine. I arch against him, already aching as delicious warmth spreads through me. His hands travel to my waist and lower until he’s cupping my rear end and he flips us over, positioning me so he is pressing into my most sensitive place. My skin erupts in goose bumps and my mind is not my own. I rock back and forth on him, stroking the ache, knowing the sun streaming through the windows is silhouetting my figure through the gauzy white nightie I wear.

His hands travel up my thighs, pushing the hem up, revealing my bareness underneath.

“Shit, you are insanely hot.” Moaning, he slips the nightie over my head so that I sit naked on top of him. “Fuck.”

I bite my lip, wanting him inside me, wanting him to fill me, but I resist, letting him look as my hands travel over my belly, lower, until I’m touching both of us, my dark eyes perusing his frame, wanting to make him beg.

His hands glide over my breasts down to my hips, and his fingers are like fire. He throws his head back, straining against me. Panting, he rocks me harder, pushes me down onto him, and I’m breathless, fighting for control.

A moment later he is spreading me open, and I can’t resist anymore. His want is too big. He plunges inside, sliding deep, and pleasure erupts low in my belly, exploding through me. I cry out, pulsating against him, letting him consume me, occupy me, in and out and back and forth until I’m dizzy and on the brink.

Just as I’m about to find sweet release, he drags me to his chest, pressuring me at a new angle, his lips finding mine as he drives forward in a final burst. Our bodies tense, our screams silenced by each other’s lips, and he continues kissing me as the ripples keep coming, spreading through me in rapturous waves.

Satisfaction settles and our lips part, both of us gulping for air, chests heaving against each other. But he doesn’t break our connection. Holding me close, his fingers twisting my hair, he looks into my eyes.

“I love you so much.” His voice is thick, heavy.

“I love you,” I reply with a sigh. “I wish we never had to leave this bed.”

From the kitchen we hear Liv and Berkeley stirring, and the scent of fresh coffee brewing wafts into the room.

“Me, too.” He straightens his arms, his eyes running the length of my body, and he presses into me again. “Maybe just a few more minutes?”

“I won’t say no…”

Tickled, I smile as his mouth finds my breasts, traveling lower…

The wedding can wait.

The parade winds up the path from the beach toward the casino, and Mark grips my hand. Ahead of us, Liv and Berkeley lead the way, at the helm of the six hundred guests armed with paper lanterns, umbrellas, and confetti poppers that follow. A New Orleans–style jazz band serenades us, providing the score that will get wedding reception number two under way. Laughing, Mark pulls me forward up the ramp that wraps around the circular building. Between the arches over his shoulder, I glimpse Avalon with its Mediterranean-style seaside houses tucked into the hills surrounding the bay, the evening sun kissing the ocean beyond.

“Slow down, speed racer!” Parker yells from my other side. He trips along as he and Blair try to wrangle the beaded train on Liv’s twenties-inspired wedding gown. “I knew we should have bustled you.”

“It’s better for pictures,” Liv calls over her shoulder, a puff of tulle from her veil catching the breeze and clinging prettily to her cheeks.

“Yes. We’ve got to give Vanity Fair something good!” Blair says. “This will bury any rumors Christina Carlton has up her sleeve once and for all.”

Vanity Fair has the exclusive on the wedding and will be the first to publish photos. They paid over a million dollars for the rights, which Liv and Berkeley promptly donated to the Mona Foundation. Blair has been working triple time, trying to mislead hungry paparazzi. She had Catalina Island ban activity in the airspace for the weekend, confiscated cell phones from the guests, and hung a decoy wedding dress in the window of the VIP suite at the Hotel Metropole, having leaked that that is where the wedding party is staying. Still, despite her hard work, a drone managed to buzz over the beach blanket party we had yesterday at the Descanso Beach Club, snapping pictures of Parker and Tux paddleboarding and Mia Dalton working on her tan, fruity cocktail in hand.

While the entire Hotel Metropole was rented for the guests, Berkeley and Liv have been staying at an estate in Hamilton Cove with Mark and me. The four of us have been enjoying a much-needed vacation, and it’s the first time since I was a little kid that I’ve truly been able to relax on the beach.

Mark and I are recovering from Rosie’s grand reopening. We worked tirelessly for the last couple months, remodeling the bar and stage so it kept its old charm but with modern conveniences, revamping the menu, and working with a financial advisor to make it profitable. Opening night was a smashing success with Berkeley & the Brightside, Coconut Teaszer, and Ghost World playing to a packed house. The smile on Rosie’s face was almost more than I could take.

“This weekend marks the end of Queen Christina’s reign,” Parker says. “But haven’t you heard second weddings are usually smaller?”

“Parker! Shut up!” Blair yells. “Rule number five! A-list celeb secrets are sacred!”

“What, you think someone can hear me over New Orleans, over there?” A trumpet blare blasts out the last half of his statement.

“Cool it, you two,” Berkeley says. “Don’t worry. It’s done. We’re married, and the world knows it. If they find out we were married twice, it just goes to show how sure we are of our love.” He lets out a visible exhale, chest puffing up and deflating with freedom.

“I’m so glad you’re the bass player,” I tell Mark. “I couldn’t handle this kind of pressure.”

“It’s small stages and shadows for you and me,” he says, gripping my hand tighter. “From here on out.”

Arriving at the top of the ramp, we cross the promenade. On either side of us waiters armed with Sazeracs and St. Germaine and strawberry champagne cocktails in fluted Depression glasses are lined up to get the party started.

“This way.” Carly ushers the wedding party into the grand ballroom before we have a chance to grab a drink. We cross one of the world’s largest floating dance floors, dodging the harried crew who are putting the finishing touches on the art deco speakeasy party that awaits.

“You’re all to stay in here until it’s time for the bride and groom’s grand entrance,” she says, shuttling us into a little holding room. “Let’s make sure we have everyone.”

“And let’s make sure ‘everyone’ has some cocktails,” Parker adds.

“She wouldn’t forget that,” Haynes says. “Drinks and apps are over there, mate.” He gestures across the space at a table piled with crab cakes, mini lobster rolls, lamb “lollipops,” and petite grilled cheese sandwiches with tomato soup shots.

“Let’s get you bustled,” I say, once we’re safely out of the line of camera fire. Kneeling behind Liv, my silky emerald green Atonement-inspired gown splaying around me, I start tying up her train. Gemma joins me, and before long Liv is free to move about the room.

“Cocktail?” Mark asks, helping me to my feet and handing me a Sazerac.

“No one knows me like you do,” I say, my face turned up to his.

His lips brush my forehead, lingering, and shivers run down my spine.

Beside me, I can feel Liv grinning at us, and I turn to her. “Yes, Mrs. Dalton? How can I help you?”

“You can’t,” she says. “Everything is perfect. Happily Ever After has arrived.” She sighs. “And I’m excited for our first tour dinner party.”

“You should be excited for your honeymoon in Hawaii.”

“Oh, yes. That, too. But then we get to tour Asia together. It’s going to be so fun.” After Hawaii, Berkeley and Liv will be meeting up with the rest of us in Japan to finish out the Brightside’s rescheduled Asian tour. I’m tagging along with Mark while Mama Rosie and Derrick hold down the fort at the bar, a last hurrah before my new residency starts in July.

“Though it does feel a little like an ending, doesn’t it?” Liv blinks back sudden tears.

“No.” I glance at Mark. “It feels like the start.”

“I don’t mean it’s over in a bad way,” she says. “I mean, I feel complete. Like I’m at the start of a new chapter.”

Parker joins us, handing her a glass of champagne. “To the end and the beginning,” he says.

“To dinner parties,” I say, clinking my Sazerac with Liv’s drink.

“To Team Adventure,” Berkeley says, coming up behind Liv and wrapping her in his arms.

“Shit.” Carly swears from across the room.

“What’s wrong?” Haynes rushes to her side.

“Do you believe we’re missing a cable for the bass amp? The tech guys just radioed.” She holds her fingers to her earpiece.

“Maroon Five, White Lotus, Neil Diamond, and Taylor Swift are all performing and none of them have a bass cable?” Mark asks.

“We have to use the house equipment,” Haynes says, listening intently to the voice in his ear. “I guess theirs is faulty. I don’t know where we’ll get a replacement at this time of day. This is a pretty small island. We’d probably have to order it from the mainland.”

“I have one back at the house,” Mark says slowly. “Berkeley and I have been having ‘just like the old days’ jam sessions, so I brought some equipment.”

“I couldn’t ask you to do that,” Carly says.

“No, Mark,” Berkeley says. “Do we have any other options?”

Carly looks frantically around and comes up empty.

“I don’t mind,” Mark says. “The show must go on.”

“I’ll go with you,” I volunteer. “The best man and maid of honor to save the day. It’s our duty.”

“Are you sure?” Mark asks. “I wouldn’t want you to miss the party.”

“We won’t miss anything. They have yet to serve dinner for six-hundred people. Besides, you’re my party.”

“I’m sold.” He smiles, taking my hand. “Let’s go.”

He leads me out of the room, and we wind our way back down the promenade, leaving the boisterous party behind. Once we reach the bottom, we search for a golf cart—cars aren’t allowed on the island—but the only one available is the “Just Married” getaway cart, elaborately covered in balloons and streamers, with cans clacking behind it.

“Do you think they’ll mind?” I ask, picking up the cans and shoving them onto the backseat.

“No. I don’t. This is their second wedding—Berkeley just wants everyone to have a good time. I’d be more worried about Blair and her photo op.”

“I’m not,” I say, climbing into the cart and doing my best Bronson impression. “Let’s roll.”

Mark laughs and starts the engine.

We make our way through the sleepy town of Avalon, past the marina as the sun dips into the ocean, waving our thanks to the well-wishers who assume this is our wedding day. And I’d be lying if for a moment—with Mark in his tux and me in my gown—I didn’t pretend it was.

The house we rented is at the top of a hill with wraparound balconies and spectacular views of the Pacific Ocean, overlooking the hillside retreats tucked around the marina. Passing through the gates of the Hamilton Cove Villas, Mark presses the gas pedal to the floor, and we begin our climb, the lights of the town starting to twinkle in the dusk behind us, along with…red and blue flashing lights?

“Pull over please.”

My heart stalls. “Is he talking to us?” I gasp, leaning out of the cart and looking behind. Sure enough a black golf cart with flashing lights and a siren is tailing us.

“I think so,” Mark says.

“We didn’t do anything wrong, though, did we?”

“Pull over please,” the voice repeats.

“Not that I know of,” Mark says, his face pale. Slowing to a stop, he parks the golf cart on the side of the road.

“Please stay in your vehicle,” the officer says, his heavy booted footsteps thudding toward us.

“Is there a problem, officer?” Mark asks, keeping both hands on the wheel where the cop can see them, and I notice them shaking.

The footsteps come to a stop and a burly cop with a full beard peers down at us. “Were you aware you were speeding?”

“No sir,” Mark says. “I think the golf cart goes only twenty miles per hour.”

“And the speed limit in Hamilton Cove is fifteen. I clocked you at nineteen. May I see your driver’s license, please?” the officer asks.

Mark reaches for his wallet but comes up empty. “I actually don’t have my license. It’s in that house over there, though. If you’ll let me get it.”

“No license?” The cop squints at him. “Actually, that won’t be necessary. I recognize you. Please step out of the vehicle.”

“Okay…” Hands raised to chest level, Mark does as he’s told.

“Officer,” I say. “I think there’s been some sort of misunderstanding.” Getting out of the cart, I run around to where the cop and Mark are standing. Is this some kind of paparazzi stunt? Did Christina and her publicist set up a sting to ruin Berkeley and Liv’s wedding?

“Stay where you are, miss, you’re safe now.”

“Safe?” I come to a halt, not sure what to think.

“Yes. This gentleman is a known kidnapper. I recognize him from the ‘Most Wanted’ database.” He spins Mark around so he’s facing me. “Put your hands behind your back,” he commands.

Mark complies and, with my heart in my throat, I look around for cameras.

“You have the right to remain silent, you have the right to an attorney…” As he speaks, the officer forces Mark to his knees. “You have the right to ask Boots to marry you.”

A wave of dizziness hits me, and I feel the blood drain from my cheeks. “What?”

“Yeah. What?” Mark asks, swinging around to look up at the police officer.

“You heard me. Ask her.” Smiling, the officer steps away and Mark looks back to me, his expression serious, but I don’t miss the mischief glimmering behind his gaze. He reaches into his pocket.

“Cupcake?”

I stare at him, my entire body shaking.

“Since the day I first saw your face—when you landed in the mud in Africa—I’ve wanted to reach out and catch you, to hold you. And after everything we’ve been through, I believe we have magic—can make magic. I want making magic with you to be my every day. So I was wondering…” He falters, at a rare loss for words. “Will you marry me?” His voice breaks.

I am silent, my heart thundering in my ears as slowly the words sink in. He wants to marry me? I see my life, my future, my happily ever after reflected in his eyes, and instantly I know my answer. I’ve never been so positive of anything.

“Yes.” As soon as I say it, pure joy floods my veins, and I grin. The scene before me—Mark on his knees cast in alternating red and blue lights and night settling over the marina beyond—blurs into a watercolor portrait through my tears. “Yes.”

He holds up a ring box. “Do you see it?”

Unable to contain myself, I step forward and peer at the round diamond nestled inside a halo of smaller diamonds, resting peacefully on a leopard-print pillow.

“It’s beautiful,” I whisper as he slips it on my finger, its weight foreign but instantly comfortable, like it has forever belonged to me.

Rising to his feet, Mark cups my face, and lowers his to mine, kissing me. His mouth is soft, sweet, and I surrender, whispering, “I love you.”

“I love you more than anything. You’ve made me so happy.” His lips move to my cheeks, my eyes. “I can’t. Stop. Kissing you…”

“Congratulations, you two,” the officer says, and suddenly I remember we aren’t alone.

Wrapping me tight in his arms, Mark turns to the cop. “Thanks, Miles.”

I look from Mark to the cop, realizing for the first time it’s highly unusual for a police officer to have a beard. “You set up this whole thing?” I marvel. “There was no bass cable? Everyone was in on it?”

“Oh, yeah. He’s not a cop,” Mark says, offering his hand to shake. “This is Miles, the bass player from Mandalay. I figured you wouldn’t recognize him.”

“That’s the beauty of being the bass player,” Miles says.

I bury my face against Mark’s chest. “Yes, it is.” Looking back to Miles, I offer my hand, too. “Thank you.”

“Of course. Now, hop in!” Miles says, climbing into the cop cart. “It would be my pleasure to drive you back to the party, and this bottle of Pappy Van Winkle’s won’t drink itself.”

“What about Liv and Berkeley’s wedding cart?” I ask.

“It was a decoy. There’s another one waiting back at the wedding,” Mark says, helping me into the backseat.

Handing me a glass, he snuggles me into his side. “You released the leopard.”

“L-e-o-p-a-r-d,” I sing, clinking my glass against his as we start down the hill toward the party.

“Just a little lep…” he sings back.

Resting my head on his shoulder, I look to the stars, wanting this moment—this feeling—to last forever. “I can’t wait to see what kind of magic we conjure next.”

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Acknowledgments

I don’t have enough words to thank Jennifer Pooley for being my fearless leader through the ever-changing book world, and for always believing in me. Wands up! The magic is just around the corner…

To everyone at Entangled Publishing, especially Karen Grove, for her patience with me while I figured out how to write when twins nap, and for her incredible insights. And to Heather Riccio, Brittany Marczak, Jessica Turner, Nancy Cantor, Curtis Svehlak, and Candace Havens for helping to get Believe ready to meet readers.

To Jenny Bent and the team at the Bent Agency, I’m honored by your representation.

To Crystal Patriarche, Janay Lampkin, and the lovely team at Booksparks PR: thank you for all of your help!

To Alex Conrad, as always, for playing Medical Madlibs with me and for your freaking-awesome tweets. I promise I won’t bother you anymore. And I wish I was half as funny, brilliant, and stylish as you are. You can do it all!

To Jason for giving me the greatest gift ever—Cece and Lilah—and for believing in and being the other half of my Team Adventure. I’m the luckiest.

To Mom, Dad, Joan, and Joel. Thank you for watching babies so I can indulge in this crazy passion of mine. You have no idea how much your support means! I’m grateful.

To the Mona Foundation for improving the lives of kids around the world by giving them the gift of education. I hope to be able to support you more!

And finally to all of my reader/blogger buddies—I’m humbled by your support: Kristen Hinkle, Kristina Lowe and the girls at Her Juicy Reads; Erin Spencer and Katie Bloch Pettigrew of Southern Belle Book Blog; Melissa Carpenter; Jessica at The Lovely Books; Katharina Simioni; Brittany and Stacy at Biblio Belles Book Blog; Teri Beth at Lives and Breathes Book Blog; Alexis, Stacia, and Casey at Three Girls and a Book Obsession; Brianna Soloski; Kiera-Lee Bridge at An Aussie Girl’s Wild Book Addiction; Ashli Wells; Nicci at The Book Lovers Codex; Tiana Lemmons; @runningreading1; @Run_Work_Read; Riki Cleveland at Miss Riki; Louisse A.; Michelle at Much Loved Books; Jennifer Valencia at Bookaholicism; Zara Hoffman; Liz Donatelli; and Kristen Weber at Shelf Pleasure.

About the Author

Katie Delahanty is a fashion designer turned novelist. She holds a BA in communication studies from UCLA and a professional designation in fashion design from FIDM. It never occurred to her that she was a writer until an economic crisis–induced career shift from fashion designer to lingerie e-commerce webmistress led her to start the company blog. Not being an expert in lingerie, she decided to write the blog as a fictional serial starring a girl named Olivia Bloom who worked for the lingerie line. And that’s when Katie fell in love with storytelling. She’s been waking before dawn to write ever since.

In addition to writing The Brightside series, Katie is a contributor to Hello Giggles and can be found @KTDelahanty on Twitter and Instagram, posting far too many pictures of her twin daughters. For more info, please visit her website at www.KatieDelahanty.com. She loves hearing from you!

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