Page 35

“Matthew DaMolin?” I inquire. Per usual, the mere mention of his name proves the golden ticket.

“Oh, Doc Matt?” The security guard at the hospital door gives me a second look. “He hasn’t left yet, and without an impetus, he likely never will.” He checks with his partner for affirmation.

“Why don’t you take her inside, James? Light a fire under the good doctor,” the second guard says. “I’ll be fine here.”

“Where do you think he is?”

“Where he always is.” The guard chuckles. “The pit.”

James jerks his head for me to follow. I trail behind him, down several twisting, sterile hallways, past countless sets of double doors, up a derelict back stairwell. The guard pushes through a set of marked doors, and I step into a new world.

“The pit.” The guard nods. “We’ve got a few small, dedicated medical and surgical wards, but you’re lucky to get one of those beds. This is where most end up. Overflow.”

“I see,” I manage, finding my voice.

The pit is cavernous, a ballroom filled with none of the usual old-world trappings save high ceilings and wide windows.

It’s stuffed wall-to-wall with beds, four rows down its length.

Some separated by freestanding screens, almost all filled with people.

Grimacing people, coughing people, sleeping people.

People with sallow skin and bruised eyes. Tired people .

Sick people.

I realize I’m holding my breath and release it in a rush, but I hesitate to take another. The air tastes different here. Sour. Infected. I, who make a living walking on highwires and sliding down drainpipes, feel nearly overcome in this sickroom.

“I’ll help you find him,” the guard kindly offers.

“Thank you,” I murmur, faint with relief.

I follow him into the depths of the pit. We walk down aisles, passing beds. Endless beds.

“I hear him.” I’d know his voice anywhere. He’s just beyond the next screen, talking to a patient. Unable to help myself, I peek around the boundary.

A white-coat-clad Matthew leans over the bed with his stethoscope, listening and nodding as the man in the bed recounts something.

Matt’s fingers move over the man’s abdomen, pressing while he asks questions.

He flicks his hair out of his eyes to meet the patient’s gaze as he speaks. He’s fully absorbed.

The deftness to his fingers and unassuming confidence of his bedside stance tug my heart clear into my throat.

I retreat, hiding behind the screen to sort out the immense feeling of love washing over me.

It surprises me—not the fact it’s there, rather that this is the time and place it chose to fully and unapologetically rear its head.

Not at a fancy, exclusive party or under a firework-lit sky, but here .

In a place surrounded by the masses of humanity.

I close my eyes, heart thudding. Blood pounds in my ears.

That, I tell myself, is an incredible man right there. Right in front of me.

Abstractly, I’ve always known it. This isn’t the first time he’s shown me.

He does it time and time again, in a million small ways.

But right now, his care, concern, and kindness aren’t directed at me.

And it’s watching him give himself away to a complete stranger that ultimately takes me out at the knees.

“Katarina?”

My eyes open and there he is. Right in front of me. All his care and concern and attention now mine.

I open my mouth, then close it.

“Kat?” He’s confused. “What are you doing here? I’m sorry I’m late for our date. We’re absolutely slammed.” He nods to the line of full beds.

That’s right, I remember distantly. I came because he was over an hour late for our date.

“It’s okay,” I whisper.

“How did you even get in?” His eyes silently laugh at me, at my obvious discomfort.

“Honestly, I’m not quite sure.” I lower my lashes. Afraid if I meet his gaze for even one minute, he’ll see it in my eyes. The love. And then he’ll know. My voice speeds up. “I shouldn’t be here…I don’t know how I ended up here at all.”

“Kat.” He reaches for my arm. “Kat, it’s okay. Don’t worry. It’s fine.”

“I’m so sorry. I’m not trying to rush you.”

“I know you’re not. I’m almost done. I just need to throw some stitches in bed seven and order an x-ray for this fella.” He jerks his head over his shoulder. “Then I can leave.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t want you to wait. I’ll be maybe twenty or thirty minutes here, but in the meantime, take these and go to my apartment.” He fishes in his pocket to pull out a set of keys. “It’s 1052 Jones Street.”

I accept the keyring from him, the room tilting beneath my feet.

“This key,” he says, pressing a silver one into my hand, “will get you into the building. I’m on the top floor, the sixth. 1052 Jones, sixth floor. You’ll need this key again at the top of the elevator. You got that? ”

“1052 Jones,” I repeat feebly.

He frowns and pulls a pen from his pocket. He grabs my hand and inks 1052 on the side of my thumb. “There. So you don’t forget. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Make yourself at home.”

With a final, quick nod, he strides away.

A little dumbfounded, I retrace my steps, following the guard to the hospital entrance.

“Nice to know the doc has a life on the outside,” he says, holding open the door to the street for me. “Have a good night, Miss…?”

“Quinn,” I answer. “Katarina Quinn. Thank you for your help, James.”

“Anytime. A friend of the doc’s is a friend of ours. You take care now.”

Bundling my hands into my pockets against the cold night air, I set off for Jones Street.