As for the residency in New York, I got the confirmation this week and scored a small studio a few blocks away from the hospital, subletting from a resident who didn’t get a job offer. I have no intention of letting that happen to me.

Two hours later, I walk across the stage and am introduced as a doctor. I shake the dean’s hand and then turn toward the audience knowing Amanda told me to pose for a photo. I grin under their cheers, embarrassment setting in from the attention.

I exit the stage and return to my seat. That feels relatively uneventful, and I’m not upset by it. I almost half expected to see Harbor seated in the audience, but there was no sign of him. I should be relieved, but my emotions are twisting, which leaves me more confused. I got what I wanted—a regular graduation ceremony.

I should be happy . . .

Everyone stands, filling the auditorium with cheers. I stand quickly and catch up to the reveling. I did it. This was the dream, my goal.

As the crowd disperses into the foyer and drains onto the surrounding sidewalks, I take off the robe because I’m feeling anxious and sit back down. Amanda and my dad are waiting on me outside, but my breath comes heavy in my chest as a myriad of feelings overwhelms me. I drop my head into my hands, closing my eyes, and just flow with the river of emotions inside me.

“Is it everything you ever hoped it would be?”

The dulcet tone that always fit night like a glove—seductive and deep.

His proximity wrapping around me like a blanket.

A warmth that seeps inside me that I know extends to the clarity of his brown eyes.

Harbor.

43

Lark

I don’t move a muscle, not even taking a breath when I hear his voice.

Opening my eyes, I angle to look behind me. “Better.”

Harbor smiles, the act coming so naturally, like we didn’t crash and burn years prior. “I’m glad.”

My breath starts to even, but I hate that it’s in reaction to the comfort of him being here . . . being near again. “Why are you here, Harbor?”

“Because you weren’t ready for me before.”

“I’m not ready for you now.” I stand as if I’m making a point. My thoughts are muddling, but I still push to say, “Being ready has nothing to do with you. You made your decision that I didn’t matter enough to stay in your life.”

His eyes unabashedly take me in from top to toes, and then he sits back, like he has the upper hand, sitting on his throne of confidence. He doesn’t. I don’t care how good he looks in a suit and tie or how his cowlick forms a wave of perfection just above his forehead. Damn him. Damn him to hell for momentarily distracting me from the pain he caused.

I yank the cap from my head and start down the row.