-

I yawn. My vision temporarily blurs as tears form in the corners of my eyes. I'd slept at three last night working on the rings for Courtney and Jack. They're coming over in two days to review so it's been crunch time. Nothing I can't handle, of course. I yawn again.

Someone chuckles behind me, and I turn around to see what's so funny when I notice that that someone, a he, is laughing at me. I bristle.

"Late night?" he asks me before I can say anything.

He's tall with light brown hair and hooded blue eyes. He's hot in a plain way, a forgettable way, but he's dressed smartly, and he smells good, and he's looking earnestly at me and only me.

"Is it that obvious?" I decide to humor him. I pocket my phone; as much as I hate being interrupted, I can go over the photos of the rings later because I might collapse into a narcoleptic heap if I don't do anything else.

"All I noticed was how pretty you are."

"Good," I say.

He chuckles. "I'm Liam. What's your name?"

"Sophie," I say the first name that pops into my head.

"Nice to meet you, Sophie. You work around here?"

"Yes." I peer at him under my lashes. "Let me guess: finance?"

He barks out a laugh. "Is it that obvious?" He echoes my own words.

"I like finance guys," I tell him. Only an idiot would say no to money.

"Great," he says, "because that makes what I'm about to do next easy. I'd love to take you on a date."

"You don't even know me," I say.

He looks past me, at the long line that has moved only about a foot the entire time we've been standing here. "Speed round to get to know each other while we wait for our caffeine fix?"

"Sounds like a challenge," I say. "I'm in."

So, in fewer than ten minutes, I learn that Liam lives in Chelsea but works in private equity at a nearby firm in Midtown — he tells me the name, but it goes from one ear and out the other; he has a senior mutt named Mary, and he gets lunch with his mom and sister in the city every week, blah blah blah. 

I make up some shit about Sophie, and he laps it up as if I'm the most interesting person in the world. It's thrilling how easily people will believe you if you say things with a modicum of confidence. Eventually, it's my turn to order. I wish I could just leave, but our coffees come out within seconds of each other. Liam grabs them both and hands me mine. I take a sip and let the caramely caffeinated liquid shoot straight into my veins. 

"So, you still up for a date or did I bore you already?" he asks me as we head to the door. The line has since grown.

Yes to the latter, but I'll never pass up free dinner. "Depends on where you plan to take me," I tell him.

He smiles. "I know the perfect place. How's Vietnamese? There's this amazing spot in the East Village — everyone I've taken there has loved it."

"And here I thought I was the only one," I say.

He blushes, and it's kind of cute. "Oh, no, that's not what I meant. My family and the boys, I mean."

"I can do this Saturday. You'll call an Uber to pick me up, yeah?"

"Perfect," he says. "Let me get your number, and I'll text you."

I give him my number, and I allow him to give me a quick hug before he waves goodbye. We part ways, he walking the opposite way as I head toward the direction of Moretti & Associates. I take sips of my drink. It's peak morning rush hour, and the streets are clogged, and the sidewalks teem with people. I wonder what we must look like to a giant: a million tiny ants he could squish with his warty, hairy foot, I'd imagine.

The air is breezy and ruffles my hair. I'd put it half up and half down today, and I run a hand along the top to ensure that there are no flyaways. I'm wearing kitten heels so my steps are light and quick as I swerve past other commuters; they bring with them the scents of subway damp, summer sweat, and clouds of perfume and cologne. Fumes of exhaust puff out from the cabs and trucks that zoom past, and hazy white smoke billows out from the sewer grates, making people disappear for a moment before they reappear, several feet away.

By the time I approach the building of Moretti & Associates, it's five past seven. I step inside and take the elevator, alone, to the fifth floor. The elevator dings as it glides smoothly to a stop; the doors slide open, and I walk out onto the little foyer with the large round mirror hanging opposite the elevator.

I spend the next couple minutes surveying myself in the mirror. My hair has stayed immaculate, glossy like a black river, and I had opted for a subtle smoky eye. I take out my tube of La Mer lip gloss that one of my jewelry clients had gifted me and swipe on another layer. I rub my lips together, the thick gloss emitting a loud smack! in the silent space.

I take a step back until most of my figure is visible through the glass. I'm wearing a sleeveless high-neck baby pink blouse and a white midi skirt with a mermaid flare. Summery yet chic. No wonder Liam wanted to take me out. I drop my lip gloss back into my leather tote and head to the office.

The waiting area is empty when I enter. I get settled at my desk, putting away my tote and turning on the monitors. I scroll through the schedule for today and check for any voicemails; there are two. I listen to them and jot down notes on a yellow pad to relay to Doc later.

Then, I take out my phone. There's a notification of a text from an unfamiliar number; I click on it: it's from Liam. Hey Sophie :), it reads. Great chatting with you earlier. Thinking of Madame Bi for our official first date - let me know what you think. He's included a link to the restaurant, a Vietnamese place in the East Village, as he mentioned in the café.

I swipe out of my messages without answering and tap on the Photos app where I pull up the shots I'd taken of the rings for Courtney and Jack; I also take out my mini notebook from my purse. In my caffeine-fueled awareness, I zoom in on every curve and crevice of the rings and start taking notes.

"Good morning, Erin."

I look up. Doc has entered the office; he's wearing his scrubs, an opaque dark blue set, and his glasses are nestled in his hair.

"Hey, Doc," I say. "How was the delivery?"

"Mother hemorrhaged," he says. There's a heaviness to his tone and a slump to his shoulders.

I put down my phone. "Is she..." I trail off.

"She's fine," he says. "Well, she will be fine. She will need to stay in the hospital for a couple extra days for monitoring, but she and the baby are both safe."

"That must've been scary," I say. I itch to return to reviewing my rings, but Doc comes up to the counter then, and his despondent mood seems to seep into my pores. I force myself to say, "Are you okay?"

He shrugs one shoulder, and the gesture is childlike, as if he's just failed to get a gold star. "I help bring life into the world, that's part of my job," he says, "and I love it. I've been doing this for so many years now, you'd think nothing would bother me anymore, but it's the opposite, actually. Seeing the mothers be in so much pain...I'll never understand what that's like, and I'm not pretending to, but, seeing them in such anguish, it rips something away inside of me, and I just feel so useless that I can't do anything to help more."

If I knew that I was going to get a sob story at seven in the morning, I would have walked slower on the way here; hell, I might have walked with Liam to his office first before coming here. I push down my irritation and say, "You save their lives, Doc, so they can actually be with their babies."

Damn, I'm good. It's times like this one where I believe I would have made an exceptional doctor: I never allow emotions to get in my way, and I always say the right thing. Thankfully, medical school is for nerds with a superiority complex, and I am, thankfully, neither. 

Doc lets out a big sigh. Now that I'm looking closer at him, his face is pale, and the line of his brows is heavy. Anyway. I surreptitiously tap on my phone's screen so I can go back to reviewing my rings—"I'm sorry, Erin," he says. "I don't mean to be like this, especially not so early in the morning. I just get very...overwhelmed sometimes."

"It's not easy what you do, Doc." The platitude lies in a pile in a dark, dusty corner of my brain. 

"Not always, no," he agrees. "But it's rewarding."

"You're dealing with it the best way you know how." I pick another one from the pile. 

"Yes, exactly," he says. "And I love my patients, and I love babies. New life! Seeing my patients hold their babies for the first time, that is the definition of magic."

"Life is beautiful," I recite.

"Sì, so beautiful!" He's smiling wide now, and there's a glitter of hope in his gaze. Good — hopefully, he'll go away now and leave me to my rings. He places a hand on the counter. "Thank you, Erin, my dear," he says. "I appreciate you so much."

His tone is sincere. We gaze at each other for half a second longer than we need to. Eventually, I say, "Anytime, Doc."

He peers down at my table. "What are you working on? Are those new rings?"

I turn my phone around and set it on the counter, by his hand. He takes it and perches his glasses on his nose like some sort of grandpa even though he's only forty. 

"Wow," he says. "These are beautiful, Erin. I love this one." He gives me back my phone with the screen on the three-carat emerald-cut solitaire." I'm pleasantly surprised. That one is one of my favorites, too; it's simple but timeless and easily catches the light. "Who's the lucky client?"

Typically, I try not to disclose any personal details about my customers, but then I remember that Courtney is looking for an obstetrician, so I say, "Courtney Taylor. You might've heard of her. Or her husband, Jack Chung. She's pregnant and looking for an OB and potentially a gyno. I know a lot has been going on recently, but would you be willing to see her sometime?"

"Yes, of course," he says. "You can schedule her in for a consult; I'd love to meet her."

"I'll let her know," I say. "She'll be happy to hear that. Thanks, Doc."

"When are you seeing her for—" he nods at my phone.

"Saturday," I say.

"That's soon!"

"It is," I say.

"I'll tell you what: take off early today." I pause: does he really think a couple extra hours in the day will help me finish these rings? I want to laugh. He takes my speechlessness as a result of his generosity. His smile widens. "Erin, please, I insist."

What is it with men thinking they're always doing women a favor? I raise my brow. "You sure you'll be okay without me?"

"Just print me my schedule for today, and I'll take the rest from there."

Doc isn't incompetent, but he's a doctor. "Thank you, Doc. I was just thinking about how nice it would be to have an extra two hours to work on the rings."

He doesn't catch my sarcasm. "You're welcome," he says. He lightly raps his knuckles on the counter. "Alright, I'll be in my office. Call me if you need anything."

At the mention of his office, my mind flashes back to the locked drawer. I open my mouth to ask him about it but then remember that I wasn't going to. "I'll bring in the first patient when she's ready," I say instead.

He winks at me and then swings open the door that separates the waiting room from the rest of the clinic. I listen to his footsteps recede, the whoosh of a door opening, and the click of it shutting closed.

Five minutes later, the first patient walks in. Catriona Marsh. Her dyed black hair is pulled back in a sleek ponytail that grazes her waist, and her tattooed arm reaches up to place her sunglasses onto her head. Catriona is one of the handful of nice patients, probably because she's not pregnant and raging with hormones. She smiles at me as she walks toward the front counter where Doc had been standing just minutes ago.

I gaze longingly at my phone and my notebook before pushing them both aside. I shake my mouse, and the monitor screens blink back to life.

"Good morning, Ms. Marsh," I say. "How are you today?"

-

The moment I glance into Exam Room 6 and lock eyes with the snotty, sniveling teenager in the ugly johnny sitting on the exam table, I know I've made a mistake.

I could easily ignore her, and I nearly do — I've already done my one good deed of the day, comforting Doc — but the prospect of dealing with a patient complaint if I were to ignore her compels me otherwise. I'm screaming at myself internally as I enter the room; desperation and, gross, hope glitters in her widened green eyes. I ask, "What's going on, hon?" 

She sniffles. I recognize her; her name is...Kyla? Karen? It starts with a K. "I'm so scared."

No, shit. You look like you're barely sixteen, and you're here with a protruding that probably weighs more than you do. I feign ignorance. "What about exactly?" 

"I-I don't know. Everything!"

Way to be specific. "You wanna talk about it? You're safe here."

"Thank you," she says. 

Moments pass in silence where I think that I've evaded it, the second angsty sob story of the day, neither of which I could give less than a rat's ass about, so I move to leave when she bursts into tears.

Jesus Christ. I look toward the doorway, mentally willing either Sadie or Doc or, God forbid, one of the preggos out in the waiting room, to call for me, but no one does. It's just me and Karla? Kristin?

Tears are streaming down her cheeks, her nose is running, and she isn't wiping any of it away. Disgusting. I stride over to the sink in the corner and grab the box of tissues. I hand the whole thing to her. She grabs one of the tissues but only crinkles it in her palm. I try not to tap my foot or my nails as I wait for her to speak.

"I'm so scared!" she wails louder this time. "I'm only sixteen, I'm not ready to be a mother?! I need to study and go to college and-and—." She hiccups. Swallows. Starts again. "I-I can't fuck this baby up, and I'm so fat! I'm so fucking fat, and I can't wear my favorite dresses anymore because nothing fits, and I can't sleep anymore because I'm just in pain all the time!"

As I let her cry it out, I think about what I'm going to have for lunch, whether I'm going to trek outside to that shawarma place down the street, or if I'm going to do a group order with Doc and Sadie like we sometimes do. And the rings — I need to finalize them soon, even though my back is killing me. I need to buy a new chair, there's no way that I can continue on like this without ending up actually looking like Quasimodo. Then, no one will buy from me.

I catch my reflection in the little mirror by the sink. The lighting is harsh, and Kennedy? Katherine? is a swollen wreck, but I look airbrushed, my hair in place and my makeup still fresh. My blazer is crease-free. I angle my face one way, then the other: my diamond earrings, the ones I made myself, scintillate.

In that moment, I hear sniffling. I peer down at Katelyn? Kimberly? "Do you have any family support?"

The tears have created glistening streaks on her cheeks. She is staring down at her hands in her lap; the fingernails have been bitten to the quick. Despite what she has said, she's a pretty girl, with fine dark brown hair and a smattering of freckles across her nose. She looks like she plays lacrosse or field hockey what with her light tan. "My mom," she says. "And my brothers. And Hunter."

"Is Hunter your boyfriend?"

"The baby daddy, yeah. And, I guess, boyfriend."

"You guess?"

She nods. "We're going to co-parent. We'll see what happens then."

A dumb, pubescent boy stepping up to the plate? Practically unheard of. I tell her so.

Her lips curve into the smallest of smiles. "Yeah," she says. "He's great. He really is. He's shown up for me so much, ever since the beginning."

"That's good," I say, and I mean it. "That's really good."

"It is."

Silence descends, and it's a glorious sound because she's no longer a panicked mess. I watch as she uses the tissues to wipe her face. She seems as stable as she can be in her condition. I step away from her, toward the door.

"It looks like you already have great family support," I say. "And now, you can add Dr. Moretti to the list; he will take amazing care of you." I turn the doorknob.

"And you," she says.

I stop. "What's that?"

"And I have you," she says. "Right?"

Her eyes are puffy and red-rimmed, and she's looking at me with so much of that awful hope that I suddenly want to scream at her to stop it, look away, don't get attached.

I give her the warmest smile I have in my arsenal. "Dr. Moretti will be with you shortly." Before she can respond and before I can see her face crumble, I close the door firmly behind me.

When I get back to my desk, I check the Zenoti. I scroll to today's date and look at the name of the patient booked for the current time: Kylie Watts.

See? I knew her name started with a K.