Page 19 of Careless Whisper (Modern Vintage Romances #11)
Reggie
N o scrubs, no pagers, no surgical charts—just the tiny miracle of waking up without tension or that low, constant buzz of anxiety under my skin, wondering what fresh hell Drs Maren Loring and Elias Graham had in store for me that day.
I didn’t realize how much noise I carried inside me until it was gone.
I spent my entire vacation in San Miguel with my parents. I’d barely gotten through the airport at Querétaro before my mother threw her arms around me like it had been years. My dad waved like I was a returning soldier and not a nurse taking a much-needed break.
We didn’t talk about Seattle right away or the weight of everything I’d been dragging behind me like a busted wheel.
We just… lived .
We drank too much coffee. My mom made it in her old moka pot with cinnamon sticks and orange peel, the way she’d done when I was a teenager, staying up late, cramming for finals.
We took slow walks through El Jardín, wandering past bougainvillea-covered walls and cobbled streets.
We got fresh bread and pastries from the bakery down the street.
My dad cooked comfort food to heal my soul—chicken pozole and tortilla Espanola.
In the mornings, I sat on the terrace with a book I barely read and let the sun hit my face.
Neither of my parents asked me why I was on a sudden holiday , why I looked so tired, or why I cried once in a while for no good reason. But they gave me that look—the one that said, “ We know you’re not okay, but we’ll wait for you to say it.“
On day four, Mama told me that I didn’t have to go back to Seattle if I didn’t want to.
“We’re opening the new clinic in two months. You could help run it. Or the mobile program. You could have a real impact here if you want,” she said, gently tearing off a piece of pan dulce.
My parents and grandparents always told me that I didn’t have to work for money, but I had to do work that gave me purpose.
They were also insistent that if I didn’t like what I was doing, I should extricate myself immediately and find a new purpose.
“Your mental health is not up for discussion, ever,” G’Mum Lancaster said.
“You just come home, and I’ll fatten you up,” Abuela used to say when she was alive.
My mother’s father, who had run Lancaster Bank, a family business, told me that I should do whatever I wanted to do as long as it didn’t give me an ugly feeling on Sunday afternoons.
“That ulcer…that’s the thing that tells you if you’re happy or not; that’s the alarm bell you need to pay attention to.”
All my alarm bells were going off. I used to love working at Harper Memorial until Elias…well, I even liked it with him, but since he hired Maren, it was game over for me.
It pissed me off that he had hired her right after we’d had sex, right after I thought we’d…be something again because he said he wanted a beginning with me.
And Maren was engaged to him, according to Maren at least. Elias didn’t lie, so I knew he hadn’t proposed to her, but still, he must’ve given her permission to mouth off the way she had been—he must have signed off on her torturing me.
This was his department—there was no way Maren could file a complaint without him knowing about it.
I looked at my mother, who was waiting expectantly for me to respond.
It would be so easy to stay. The work mattered here, and the patients were grateful. The team was small and diligent. No one would be waiting to ambush me in the hallway.
No Elias. No Maren. No ghosts.
“There’s a part of me that wants to,” I admitted finally. “But it feels like quitting…like running away.”
Mama’s eyes filled with quiet affection. “You want to talk about it?”
I breathed out softly, hesitating before responding. “It’s gonna be a ‘Mama, there was a boy’ sort of conversation.”
Mama lounged back on her dining chair with a smirk. “Spill the tea, mija .” And then she held up a hand. “I just need to ask Papa to join in.”
I arched a brow, amusement flickering in my gaze. “You both have been waiting for me to…ah…spill the tea?”
“Yes.” Mama nodded as she waited for my father to answer her call. “Ignacio, she’s going to tell us what happened.” Pause. “Yes.” Pause. Laugh. “Okay.” She hung up and smiled widely. “He’ll be here in ten minutes.”
A dry chuckle escaped me. “Anyone else you want for this?” I asked sarcastically.
She shrugged unapologetically. “Your grandma and grandpa want to know…and Jason…but I told them once we loosen you up, they can have you.”
“With a family like this…!” I feigned irritation. I kn ew I was damn fortunate to have so many people care about me.
Once Papa got settled, he and my mother looked at me like they were getting ready to watch a blockbuster movie.
“You guys wanna bring popcorn?” I joked.
Mama thought about it and then sighed. “I don’t think we have any microwave ones. I’ll add it to the shopping list.”
So, she asked Siri to add microwaveable popcorn to her shopping list.
“This story starts in Boston,” I began.
I was interrupted a lot .
“That pendejo said what?” Papa demanded angrily several times.
“That son of a bitch needs his head examined,” Mama suggested often.
They were completely on my side. We supported one another rather blindly, but this was what family was there for: to be on your team . That didn’t mean they didn’t tell me when they thought I was wrong.
“You should’ve sued those motherfuckers in Boston,” Mama claimed. For a gentlewoman who was born and raised in an elite family, my mother could swear like a sailor.
“I agree. They had no reason to fire you,” Papa agreed. “Let me check on the statute of limitations for wrongful termination. ”
“Papa, I’m not suing Stratford. I don’t want to go through that.”
My mother’s expression softened. “Oh, baby, you’re heartbroken, aren’t you?”
I sniffled as tears started to creep into my eyes. “Yes.”
“That pendejo ,” Papa thundered.
Once they calmed down, they agreed that I had to figure out what to do next and how to proceed with what was happening in Seattle with Maren and Elias.
My father, a career diplomat, uncharacteristically from a professional perspective but very much in line with his personal one, demanded I sue Harper Memorial for workplace harassment.
“I want to see that woman lose her medical license,” Papa raged and then painted the air blue with curses in Spanish.
That night, after Papa went to bed and it was just Mama and me, she suggested that coming here and living with them and taking care of the clinic wouldn’t be running away. “It would be making a choice.”
I tilted my head thoughtfully. “I need time, Mama. I need to clear my head. I’m in no position right now to choose anything.”
The next day, Papa and I went to the market to pick up chiles and mangos.
He didn’t mention the clinic or my life in Seattle or that pendejo , which he’d taken to calling Elias.
I imagined how angry he’d be if he knew that we’d started a physical relationship…
or ra ther had a one-time-on-call-room stand in Seattle.
As close as I was with my family, a few things you didn’t tell your parents.
“I’m telling you, Mateo marries that girl, he’ll be unhappy all his life.” He didn’t approve of one of my cousins marrying his girlfriend, who was a bit too out there according to our family . She was an Instagram influencer.
“She spends all her time in front of a mirror doing things to her face,” he continued, a poblano in his hand. “It’s going to be a disaster.”
I made a noncommittal sound.
“You don’t think so?”
I gave him a flat look. “Papa, I haven’t seen Mateo in years and don’t know his fiancée from that poblano you’re planning to buy. I’m going to go with no comment.”
As we walked home, he brought up Elias. “You’re a grown-up, Reggie, and I would never tell you what to do, but…I have worked with men like your Dr. Graham.”
I hitched the strap of my straw tote higher on my shoulder, adjusting the weight of the fruit inside. “And?” I prompted.
“These men protect their own at the cost of everyone else. Sometimes, I had to smile through it. Sometimes, I had to walk away.”
“You think I should walk?”
He looked at me then, really looked. “I think you should do what makes you content, what doesn’t take away your peace of mind.”
That night, I dreamed about the OR—the steady rhythm of monitors, the weight of clamps in my hand, the feeling of catching an error just in time.
On my last morning, I sat outside with my mother while the city yawned awake.
“Am I an idiot for going back? A loser? Or would I be one for staying?”
She handed me a mug and kissed the top of my head. “Whatever you decide, you’re not a loser or an idiot; you are a survivor, and I’m very proud of you.”