The atmosphere is light and the pizza is tasty. The mood reminds me of outings in Boston. I was part of a tight-knit group there, and I miss the rapport. Medicine is a team sport in many ways, especially at a teaching hospital. Different specialties collaborate to treat patients. Doctors seek out opinions from peers on techniques and treatments. It’s more than a paycheck; it’s a job you bring home with you. One that demands full attention and a draining schedule. It’s rare to find people in other professions who fully understand that.

Once we’re all finished eating, Chris suggests heading to the bar across the street for a beer. Ben falls into step beside me as we walk along the sidewalk, telling me about the stray cat he unwillingly inherited with his new apartment. He admits he already bought it a litter box, which makes me think he might be exaggerating the unwilling part. I don’t tease him about it; it’s sweet.

As soon as we walk inside the bar, I break off from the group to head to the restroom. I have a tendency to neglect hydrating at work, so I ended up downing two glasses of water at dinner.

This bar’s dark color scheme reminds me of Malone’s. Old wood comprises most of it. The restroom is white plaster and faded linoleum. The walnut paneling, decorated with old sports team pennants and a few dartboards, looks stark in comparison.

Rose and Ben are standing by one of the dartboards, already with drinks in hand. I’m a little worried consuming alcohol will immediately put me to sleep, but I figure I can just sip on something until I head out.

I make my way over to the varnished slab of wood serving as a bar top. It’s barely eight p.m. on a Monday, and the place is far from packed. Aside from the other interns I came with and the odd couple, the only other group here is a gathering of guys at the opposite end from where I’m standing. I scan them, simply for something to do as I wait for the bartender to finish serving them and come down here.

I blink twice when I spot a familiar face.

Freeze.

Stare.

Shit.

Gray Phillips is lounging on one of the stools along the bar, talking with a dark-haired man with a full sleeve of tattoos who is wearing a backward baseball cap with USAF embroidered above the brim. Before I can look away, Gray’s gaze collides with mine. Surprise flashes across his face before I drop my head and play with a stray straw wrapper someone left behind. I’m tempted to abandon the drink I don’t even want, but my stubborn pride keeps me rooted in place.

“Hi.”

I stiffen at the sound of the familiar voice but say nothing; just continue fiddling with the white paper.

“Evie.”