Chapter 3: The Place She Left Empty

Mason looked over Grant's shoulder when he entered Halcyon's private lounge.

"Where's Clara? Parking?"

Grant's expression answered before he did.

Mason lowered his drink. "She still hasn't come back?"

A full day had passed since the party. That fact hung between them with more weight than either man wanted to acknowledge.

Grant took the center seat and poured himself a whiskey. "We broke up. Why would she come?"

"Because every other time—"

"This isn't every other time."

Julian Cross leaned against the bar, openly entertained. "You sound defensive for a man who bet on three hours."

Grant gave him a flat look. "I'll pay the bet."

"Money is boring. New terms." Julian held out Grant's phone. "Call her and apologize in the sweetest voice you can manage."

The room erupted.

Mason, already several drinks in, grabbed the phone and tapped Clara's contact before Grant could stop him. He put the call on speaker.

An automated message replaced the ringing tone.

The number was unavailable.

Mason tried again. Same result.

"She blocked you," Connor Hayes said.

Silence swallowed the laughter.

Grant took the phone from Mason and looked at the screen as if it had malfunctioned. Clara had never blocked him. Even during their worst fights, she left one path open for him to summon her back.

Julian's amusement faded. "Maybe she means it."

"A breakup is supposed to be final," Grant said. He locked the phone and tossed it onto the table. "Anyone who mentions Clara again can leave."

Connor watched him over the rim of his glass. "Just remember you said that when regret shows up."

Grant laughed once, without humor. "I don't regret my decisions."

* * *

At seven the next morning, Sloane returned from a run to find breakfast covering her small dining table.

Clara had tied her newly straightened hair into a high ponytail. A fitted houndstooth dress had replaced yesterday's jeans, and she was packing food into a thermal carrier.

Sloane reached for a piece of toast.

Clara slapped her fingers away. "Wash your hands."

"Grant eats grapes from your fingers and he never gets slapped."

"Then I've been enforcing the wrong standards."

Sloane stared at her, then smiled. It was the first answer that sounded like the old Clara, the one who had been funny before love made her careful.

"Where are you going with the food?"

Clara fastened the carrier. "Beacon Hill Medical Center."

"Ah." Sloane's smile softened. "Want me to come?"

"I need to do this myself."

The confidence lasted until Clara reached the private surgical floor.

Professor Thomas Avery sat beside Miriam Caldwell's bed, a journal open across his knees. Miriam wore reading glasses over a face still pale from surgery.

Clara stopped outside the half-open door.

"The graduate allocations came through," Thomas said. "You have three positions."

"I'll take two."

"You say that every year."

Miriam looked toward the rain-striped window. "The third was meant for someone else."

Footsteps approached. Owen Parker entered with another student and a modest fruit basket.

"Professor Caldwell, the department sent us to check on you."

Miriam waved them toward the chairs. Their conversation stayed light until the other student mentioned an incoming freshman who had earned a direct doctoral recommendation after winning two international competitions.

Owen shook his head. "Professor Caldwell once had a student with four international medals. Clara Whitmore."

Thomas closed his journal.

Miriam's hand tightened around the edge of her blanket. "That girl could see patterns the rest of us needed months to find."

Her voice roughened.

"And she threw it away because she believed love required it."

Clara's fingers locked around the thermal carrier.

"I was too hard on her when she left," Miriam continued. "I thought anger might bring her back. Six years, Thomas. Not one word."

"You kept the place open anyway."

"Hope is an undignified habit."

Clara backed away before anyone saw her.

At the nurses' station, she set down the carrier. "Please give this to Professor Caldwell. Don't tell her who brought it."

"I need a visitor name—"

"She'll know."

Clara escaped into the courtyard and drew her first full breath beneath the gray morning sky.

She had survived Grant choosing another woman in front of everyone they knew. Hearing Miriam grieve for the person Clara might have become hurt differently. Grant had taken six years, but Clara had handed them to him.

"Clara Whitmore?"

She turned.

Victoria Holloway crossed the courtyard in a cream suit and high heels. Grant's younger sister glanced from Clara's reddened eyes to the surgical building.

"Why are you here? Is something wrong?"

"I'm visiting someone."

"You look awful. Did you and Grant fight again?"

"We ended things."

Victoria's surprise lasted only a second. "My brother has a temper. Give him time."

"There is nothing to give him."

But Victoria had already checked her watch. "Sorry, I'm late for a meeting. We'll talk later."

She hurried toward the same wing Clara had just fled.

Victoria was not there to visit Grant. She had heard Professor Caldwell had one doctoral place still undecided, and the Holloway name had opened more difficult doors than this one.

Clara watched her disappear inside.

For the first time, the abandoned place in Miriam's program no longer felt like a grave.

It felt like a door Clara might still choose to walk through.