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Rilee

I agreed to tacos and margaritas after our shift because I couldn’t think of a good enough excuse not to. Jules had been trying—really trying—to be friendly, to get to know me, to explore our new city together.

She’s funny, smart, and the exact kind of person I should want to hang out with. And I do want to. In theory. In reality, I feel like I’m dying a little more every day, and the thought of making new memories feels like betrayal.

We sit at a small, colorful taqueria near the hospital, the kind with mismatched chairs and string lights that make everything look warmer than it feels. Jules is animated, talking about the day’s events.

Our table is tucked into the corner, and the smell of cilantro and lime makes my stomach twist. I pick up my margarita, swirl the salted rim with my thumb, and try to focus.

“Did you see Mrs. Thompson’s face when Dr. Patel told her she could go home? Pure joy,” she says, sipping her margarita. “Moments like that make the long shifts worth it.”

I nod, forcing a smile. “Yeah, it’s nice to see patients recover.”

Jules takes a huge bite of a carne asada taco and moans like she’s filming a food commercial. “Okay, this place slaps,” she says, chewing. “We’re coming back here at least once a week.”

I nod, forcing a smile. “It’s good.”

She narrows her eyes. “You say that like it’s punishment.”

“It’s not. I’m just tired.”

“Long shift?”

I nod again.

She studies me a second longer. “You didn’t hate assisting on that dermal debridement, though. I saw your face when they let you stitch.”

Okay, so maybe she’s not completely oblivious.

“That was cool,” I admit. “Best part of the day.”

“And the worst?”

I consider lying. Saying something light.

But instead I mutter, “Probably the way I had to remind myself twelve times not to cry in the elevator.”

Jules leans back, her expression softening. “Is there someone back home? A boyfriend?”

My fingers tighten around my glass.

The question hits harder than I expected.

She’s trying to be casual—curious, not pushy—but the words echo. Someone back home. Someone. Singular.

I try to breathe through it.

Instead, my mind flashes to a memory—Christmas at Caleb’s parents’ house, the glow of the lights, the warmth of three bodies tangled together under a shared blanket. Laughter, whispered promises, the feeling of belonging. That was when everything started changing.

A tear slips down my cheek before I can stop it.

“Oh, Rilee, I’m sorry,” she says quickly. “I didn’t mean to hit a sore spot.”

I shake my head, wiping the tear away. “No, it’s okay. It’s just… tough right now.”

I stare at the taco on my plate like it might offer me answers. “It’s just… hard right now. I left because I thought I had to. Because this was always the plan. And my relationship…” I word things carefully, “didn’t fit into that plan.”

Jules doesn’t say anything right away. Just sips her drink and watches me with more empathy than I expected. “Well,” she finally says, “if he was really it for you… maybe he’s not gone forever.”

I look at her. “You think?”

She shrugs, then grins. “Girl, I’ve seen patients come back from things they weren’t supposed to. Who’s to say love can’t too?”

I let the idea sit there—wobbly and terrifying and fragile.

She reaches across the table, placing a comforting hand over mine. “I’m here if you ever want to talk. Or not talk. Whatever you need.”

I nod, grateful for her kindness. “Thanks, Jules.”

We sit in silence for a moment, the noise of the restaurant fading into the background. I take a sip of my margarita, the tangy sweetness a small comfort.