“We all know you’re going to be chief resident next year,” Vanessa adds. “But for once, can you just hang out and have fun?”

“Ha, I can try.”

Dr. Townsend, the president of the hospital, walks onto the stage, taps the microphone, and clears his throat. His booming voice, Crest-commercial smile, and graying sideburns make him look more like a politician than a doctor. “Can we have everyone’s attention, please? We would like to introduce some new faculty members to Atlanta Memorial Hospital. We are thrilled to have doctors join us from so many wonderful institutions.”

Suhani glances at the stage, where six doctors are lined up. She’s pleased to see four of them are women. They need more female physicians here. She’s still called “sweetie,” “honey,” and “darling” more than she’s ever called “doctor.”

Dad sends Suhani articles about the variety of initiatives taking place to bring more women into medicine. The last one was titled, “Why We Need More Female Physicians.” Dad put “Think there is hope!” in the subject line with a smiley face.

But after everything Suhani has been through, everything she saw Mom struggle with, and everything that almost ruined her in med school, she knew she wanted to be a female in power in healthcare. She wanted to be part of why women would be treated more fairly as clinicians and patients. Maybe one of these new doctors onstage can be her mentor.

She scans the group again.

Her stomach drops.

At first, she assumes she must be hallucinating. Sleep deprivation must be taking a toll on her.

But then her heart rate increases as she takes in the large, bulbous nose that could only belong to one person. To him. From her periphery, she sees that new gray strands have emerged around his temples. Registering him floods her with a rush of dopamine and dread.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

It’s hard to understand why some parts about a person stick while others fade away over time. She spent years forgetting the contours of his face. His angular chin and distinct side profile. The intensity in his eyes, in everything about him. The way he whittled her self-worth into something that was barely there, whittled her into someone she didn’t even recognize.

“Are you okay?” Zack faces her.

Suhani feels the color drain from her face. “Yeah. Fine. Just tired.”

“Okay, okay, let’s head out.” Zack takes his suit jacket off the chair.

Suhani glances at the stage. It’s definitely Roshan. He’s descending the stairs, the stairs she was just on. How can he be here? After he graduated from UCLA med—two years before her—he said he was “never leaving the West Coast.” They weren’t supposed to cross paths ever again. That was one of the reasons she chose to come back home for residency. Not that anyone besides Natasha knows that.

She tells herself to look away.