Page 75 of Careless Whisper

Reggie

San Miguel de Allende was bright, loud, and unapologetically alive. It smelled like earth, roasted chilies, and the occasional unexpected waft of jasmine.

In the mornings, the bells of the Parroquia rang out across the town square like a hymn. By midday, the cobblestone streets baked beneath the sun, and everything slowed to a dreamy crawl. Kids chased stray dogs while vendors called out about fresh mangoes, tajín, and paletas.

I loved it…as a tourist. Living here was, well,different.

I missed Seattle. I missed the misty mornings that curled around the Sound, the sting of sea air in my lungs, and the quiet, gray hush of the city before it woke up.

I missed Pike Place Market—the smell of coffeeand fish, the chaos of flower stalls; the little French bakery tucked between the spice shop, and the guy who always played the cello near the gum wall. God, Ievenmissed the dreaded rain.

I missed my job—the rush of the OR, the focus, and the sense of knowing exactly who I was the moment I stepped into scrubs. I missed watching a surgeon keep someone alive.

I missed my routine, my apartment, my team. I missed Luther—his booming laugh and the way he always knew when I needed to talk and when I just needed to sweat it out.

AndI missed Elias.

I didn’t want to. I told myself I shouldn’t. But every time I smelled strong coffee or heard a deep voice, my heart would stutter like it was trying to findhimin the noise.

Life was the complete opposite of what it had been in Seattle.

I lived with my parents—and in some ways, it was like being a kid again. I didn’t have to worry about what to eat, doing laundry, or even making my bed. That part wasgreat. But then they nagged me about getting enough sleep, not watching too much television, and not working too hard—which was unpleasant since I was thirty years old and had lived alone for a good part of my life.

We lived in a warm, sun-filled colonial just off one of the winding, colorful streets that climbed towardthe hills. The house was lined with hand-painted tiles and bougainvillea that had no respect for the edges of anything. Art—half modern, half antique—hung on the walls, and there was always music playing: my father’s jazz, my mother’s opera, and sometimes my grandpa’s old Edith Piaf records when I was feeling nostalgic.

The kitchen was always busy. My father cooked like it was love, and my mother made coffee like it was a ritual—which it was.

Isat with them in the evenings on the back terrace, nursing a glass of mezcal and trying not to let myself think abouthim. Even now, months later, after everything—after the betrayal, the apologies, the confession, the aftermath—I missed him. I hated that I missed him because the worst part wasn’t the heartbreak; it was the fact that I still loved him, even when I didn’t want to.

The clinic was small—just five rooms total—with whitewashed stucco walls and a blue-tiled waiting area shaded by a rustling jacaranda tree. We weren’t a hospital. We were a triage hub for the four mobile units my parents had funded, a place to catch the cases that needed follow-ups, dressing changes, medication refills, or second opinions. We had three full-time nurses, a part-time general practitioner, one overworked part-time dentist who always smelled faintly of cloves, and several part-time interns.

I spoke Spanish fluently—growing up between New York, Boston, and Mexico City during my father’s diplomatic years—and here, itrolled off my tongue like breath. I could give instructions, take histories, reassure anxiousabuelas, and teach a diabetic teenager how to use her glucometer without needing a translator.

I wore my hair in a braid again. I hadn’t done that in years.

The one thing that was similar to Seattle was that I felt useful, which I had missed since I left Harper Memorial and found comfort in a cashmere wrap in G’Mum’s brownstone.

But, as useful as I felt, I didn’t feel whole. Something was missing.

“Or someone,” the little devil who lived in my head offered.

“Shut up! My brain needs to become an Elias-free zone,STAT!”

A month after I took over managing the clinic, Mama came in as I was restocking the pharmacy closet.

“I ate breakfast,” I said defensively. The last time I skipped it, she brought it over, and I got roasted by the staff for beingla enfermerita de mami, mama’s baby nurse.

Mama shot me a look of mock exasperation. “I slave and slave and slave, and I have you complaining about how well I take care of you.”

I put down a box of painkillers and gave her a quick hug. “If you didn’t bring food, what are you doing here? Do you want to help sterilize wound trays?” I teased.

She wrinkled her nose. “No, thank you, but I know you’re short-staffed, so we hired help for the clinic.”

I arched an eyebrow. “We? I thoughtIwas running this place.”

She looked guilty as hell but hid it quickly and shrugged. “This was…we did it before we knew you were coming. So…anyway, he starts today.”

“He?” I narrowed my eyes.

---