Page 111 of Ten Day Affair

I don't have to think about that one. "Staying terrifies me. If I stay, I'll never know if I could have made it somewhere else. I'll always wonder if I was brave enough to be just Sam, not my parents' daughter."

"And leaving?"

"Leaving is scary as shit. When I went to college and med school, I was always coming back. Now, that isn't a given. And it scares the shit out of me. Not to mention, Kip's already settled, and I have no idea where I'm going. I'm a fucking train wreck."

"You know you're going to Grady." She doesn't phrase it as a question.

I nod before I realize I'm doing it. "Yeah, I think you're right. I'm going to Grady."

"When did you decide?"

"Just now, I think." I take a breath that feels different somehow.

"Good. You know I love crossing shit off my list. Let's write this lunch off as a business meeting."

"I haven't applied yet. I spoke with the recruiter, and it seems like it's procedural, but I have to do that before I go anywhere."

The knowledge sits in my chest like something solid and real. Scary, but real.

"Well, an opportunity to cross one more thing off. Let's get it done, sister."

I'm sittingon my bedroom floor, surrounded by half-full boxes and the debris of a life I'm trying to pack away. My old med school sweatshirt lies crumpled next to a box of Mom's scarves that I can't bring myself to seal shut. The framed diploma leans against the wall, still unwrapped, still waiting for me to hang it somewhere that matters.

Why is this so damn hard?

I fold another pair of scrubs, then another, trying to find some rhythm in the motions. But my hands shake as I reach for Mom's jewelry box. The weight of it in my palms breaks something loose in my chest.

The tears come fast and hot, catching me off guard. Not the dramatic kind you see in movies. But the tight, breathless kind that sneak up when you're trying to hold everything together. I shove the nearest box closed harder than necessary, and the cardboard buckles under my palm.

I press my hand to my forehead and force myself to breathe. In through my nose, out through my mouth. The way Mom taught me when thunderstorms used to scare me as a kid.

A knock at the back door makes me flinch. I scramble to my feet, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand as I pad downstairs.

Through the glass, I see Dad holding what looks like a bag from the deli down the street.

"Figured you hadn't eaten," he says when I open the door.

I hesitate for just a second, long enough for him to notice, then step aside to let him in.

"You didn't have to do that, Dad."

"Packing is the worst kind of torture. You need good food to get through it without ripping your hair out."

"I'm not packing everything, thank goodness. Just what I'm taking."

"Still. It's no fun. And you need to eat."

We move around each other in the kitchen with a practiced rhythm, like we’ve done a dozen times since that phone call, but never quite said what needed to be said.

He sets the sandwiches on the counter while I reach for plates we don’t need. The silence stretches out, not unfamiliar, but heavier since both of our lives imploded with all of this change that has been thrust upon us.

“I can make tea if you want,” I offer.

“Water’s fine. Thank you.”

We settle at the counter, picking at our turkey sandwiches. I don't have an appetite, and he probably just got himself one, so I wouldn't have to eat alone.

Late afternoon light slants through the windows, casting long shadows across the floor.