Page 54 of Midnight Between Us
I nod because that sounds like him.He might have been cold toward his brothers but he always protected them—even Atlas.
“So you’re running the clinic now?”he asks.
I nod.“It made sense.Preacher’s granddaughter comes home?Town eats it up.Not that they care.I’m still Nina’s daughter.Still, the screwup who circled back because I couldn’t make it out there.”
“Who do you work for?”
“It doesn’t matter.”I shrug.“Hopefully, this is my last relocation.”
I don’t tell him the rest—that I’ve been offered a job in any hospital I want.That I’ve earned enough favors to open my clinic if I choose.That all this, this entire façade, was supposed to settle a decades-old debt.Except now I’m not sure who owes who.
The silence returns, thick and unmoving.Like we’re both too tired to pretend we’re not knee-deep in something neither of us understands anymore.
I should leave.
That would be smart.
That’s when I say, “Let me get you some tea.Might help you sleep.”
It’s easier than saying what we’re both too raw to admit: that the past still owns us in ways neither of us can explain—and that we’re both too scared to discuss it.
ChapterNineteen
Simone
I should probably talkto Finnegan Gil.Try to appeal to whatever human part of him (if that even exists) and explain—calmly and logically—that this assignment isn’t working.Caring for Keir Timberbridge?Not ideal.Not manageable.Not sane.
It’s killing me slowly and I don’t even know how to stop whatever is gnawing at my insides.
The rest of this crazy operation is easy.I could run this clinic with one hand tied behind my back and a blindfold on.But dealing with ...him?Dealing with my ...I snort under my breath.He’s not even my ex.Not really.Not anything, technically.Keir Timberbridge was a friend who morphed into a habit, then a secret, then something I couldn’t quite name without my voice catching.
He was always clear.He didn’t blur lines—he held them up with neon signs.“This is casual.”“We’re just friends.”“Don’t fucking overthink it, Sims.”
But I did.I overthought everything.And then I didn’t think at all.I just ...felt.Like a stupid teenager with a half-formed heart and a whole lot of wishful thinking.KT, as I used to call him became my first love.I adored him because he was ...everything.The only person who understood me.He protected me and cared for me during those days when my grandparents had been cruel to me.
And here I am.Paying the price for confusing proximity with possibility.Classic Simone.Maybe it’s the generational trauma.Perhaps it’s just me, I’m a disaster who now holds a medical degree.Either way, I’ve made peace with it: if you don’t want to pass it down, don’t have kids.Or hand them off to someone who won’t screw them up as thoroughly.
Therapist number one thought my solution was ...she called me emotionally avoidant.Obviously I fired her after that.Therapist number two said I was catastrophizing.Therapist number three hasn’t heard my brilliant theory yet and, if I have my way, she never will.No point bringing it up only to be told I’m wrong in a nicer voice and then ghost my mental health journey out of spite.
Drink some tea and stop spiraling, Simone.
The kettle hisses judgmentally as if it knows what I’m thinking.I stop my mind from having a breakdown, and I reach for the tin labeled calming blend.Chamomile.Mint.Lemon balm.There’s no lavender in this one.Keir wouldn’t like it.Not like he enjoys tea.He’s probably going to complain about it when I hand it to him.
But this tea is good.It’s the same blend I’ve been using since I discovered it during my time working at the clinic in Luna Harbor, a sleepy coastal town in Washington State.There’s a place that specializes in lavender, and the owner, Nydia, knows how to calm people with her herbs.I should message her and ask if there’s anything that I can take because I’m experiencing ...actually what the fuck is happening to me?
I sigh because I don’t even know.That’s a task for another day.
Later.I’ll text Nydia later.
Right now, I’ll give him the tea.Then, disappear into my room, into silence, into anything that doesn’t resemble old wounds and new confusion.
Spending time with him is like pressing on a bruise to see if it still hurts.(It does.It hurts too fucking much.)
And because I’m excellent at ignoring my own advice, I pour two mugs instead of one.
I notice the living room lights are dim when I turn the corner.Keir’s not in bed like he’s supposed to be, not following the doctor’s orders for elevation, rest, and cooperation.Instead, he’s curled up on the couch with the brace still secured, his body folded inward as if he’s trying to disappear.It’s like he’s hoping to take up as little space as possible like the very act of being seen is too much to bear.
Which is strange because Keir Timberbridge doesn’t disappear.He imposes.Even when he’s quiet—and brooding—you feel him.He’s like static in the air before a storm, like someone watching from the edge of a dream.
