The Girl in the Love Song (Lost Boys #1)(32)

“What?”

But I couldn’t say it. Just thinking that something was wrong between Miller and me made me sick to my stomach. Too much felt on the verge of collapsing all around me.

I smiled. “Nothing.”





After school, I drove my white Rav-4 to the UCSC Medical Center. I parked and made my way through the ground floor, waving at receptionists and nurses I’d become friendly with over the course of my three-week Patient Care Volunteer training this summer.

The director waved me in to her office. Dr. Alice Johnson was in her mid-fifties, though she looked younger. Her sleek black hair was style in a side-cut bob, and her red lipstick set off the warm tones in her brown skin as she smiled at me.

“Violet. How are you? Ready?”

“I think so. I hope so. I’d also hoped to be paired with Miller Stratton.”

“I know you did, but I assigned you to Nancy Whitmore because of all our PCVs, I think you’re the most qualified. And the most compassionate. But if it’s too much realness, don’t hesitate to tell me.”

I inhaled. “Is she dying?”

Dr. Johnson nodded. “I’m afraid so. Her oncologist estimates six months at best. Nancy’s a lovely lady. Positive, like you. And positivity can make things easier.” She studied me from across her desk. “Have you chosen what area of medicine you’d like to specialize in? General surgery, wasn’t it?”

A note of doubt touched her words.

“You don’t think I’m cut out for it?”

“I think you’d make a fine surgeon. You have one of the brightest minds I’ve seen come through the program. But is surgery truly where your greatest strengths lie? Doctors are, at their most basic essence, people trained to care for other people. How you choose to care for them speaks to who you are as a person. So it’s not a matter of being cut out for it but more a matter of what specialty allows you to utilize all of your gifts. Does that make sense?”

I smiled faintly. “You’re saying I’m too soft to be wielding a scalpel?”

“I’m saying that studying as hard as you do and mastering the science of being a doctor is only one half of the equation. Which is why I picked you for Nancy Whitmore. I want you to experience the human side of our profession before you decide your specialty. Your ‘softness’ is the reason you’re the only student here I’d trust with this assignment.”

“Okay,” I said, bolstered by her faith in me. “Thank you.”

Dr. Johnson gave me a final rundown of my duties and handed me a list of things Mrs. Whitmore enjoyed: Earl Grey tea, knitting, classic literature, Hot Pockets…

I looked up from the list. “Hot Pockets?”

Dr. Johnson shrugged with a grin. “We all have our guilty pleasures. I can eat an entire bag of Smarties candy if I’m not careful.”

I grinned. “Same. Smarties are life. Thank you, Dr. Johnson.”

“Good luck.”

I left the Medical Center and drove through Santa Cruz with its little shops, cafes, and greenery. My hometown was smack in the middle of a forest, at the edge of the coast, and butted up against a mountain range. It had all its geographical bases covered and was, in my eyes, the most beautiful place on earth.

The Whitmores lived near my neighborhood on Quarry Lane. I pulled into the drive of a house that was smaller than mine but new. Two stories with a two-car garage and another garage that looked added on at the side. The door was open and the skeleton of a car and various parts were strewn all over. I guessed Mr. Whitmore liked to take his work from his auto body shop home with him.

There was no sign of River’s Chevy Silverado.

At the front door, I rang the bell. It chimed inside, and after a few moments, a dark-haired woman about my mom’s age answered. She threw open the door with gusto and a wide smile.

“Are you from the hospital?”

I nodded. “Violet McNamara. And you are…?”

“Dazia Horvat,” she said, eyeing me up and down. “Nance’s best friend. Look at you. Doe eyes. Sweet face. Thank you for being here. Come in, come in.”

I followed Dazia into the house, the woman chatting in a faint accent I couldn’t place about one of the nurses she didn’t like, how nice the weather had been, and how Nancy loved tea but couldn’t have it too hot.

I listened while taking in my surroundings. Photos lined the wall up the stairs—River as a baby, as a toddler, playing pee-wee football and looking almost buried under the gear. Family portraits, one taken for every year: Mr. Whitmore, big, dark hair, smiling brightly. River, like a younger version of his dad. His little sister Amelia, three years younger, gap-toothed and smiling as a toddler, beautiful as a teenager. And Nancy…

My throat caught. Bright, vibrant. Blue eyes and dark blond hair and a smile that shown with happiness.

Outside the master bedroom, I inhaled deeply.

Dazia knocked on the door. “You decent?” She shot me a wink, then led me inside.

The Nancy lying in bed did not resemble the woman from the photos. This woman was thin, frail, with a scarf around her head. No eyebrows or lashes, but her eyes…

She’s still there. She’s all there.

“Hi, Violet,” Nancy said. “So nice to meet you.”

“You too,” I said and fought back sudden tears. Not because I pitied her but because of the sudden, strange desire I had to be with this woman and take care of her in these last, sacred moments of her life. But I pulled myself together, determined not to fall apart on the first day—the first minute—of my job.