But Jonathan looks truly worried, so instead of saying that out loud, I rush to reassure him, “It’s okay if I don’t get transferred. I like where I am. I like helping patients on their worst days.”
“Is it okay?” Jonathan arches both eyebrows at me. “What if we got married? Had children? Would you want your foster brother and his gang to babysit?”
“Well, no…” I admit. “There are a lot of jobs I wouldn’t ask Ant to do. But he’s very loyal.”
Jonathan’s fingers tighten around his fork. “Who cares about loyalty when he’s in a gang?”
“You’re only saying that because you have no idea what it’s like to be alone in the world, to not have anybody in your corner when you need them.”
The words slip out before I can stop them, as bitter and brittle as I felt when Ant got dragged away to juvie for trying to protect me from our foster family.
I’ve made a lot of changes to be with Jonathan. Molded myself into a girlfriend befitting a promising neurosurgeon. But this is the one place where I can’t back down.
“Ant was there for me when I needed him,” I tell Jonathan. “So, I’m always going to be there for him when he needs me.”
Jonathan sets his fork down, his face grave. “Even if he gets you or our hypothetical kids killed?”
“He wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t….”
The memory of the MC pulling a gun on me crashes down, refuting my claim before I have the chance to assure Jonathan that Ant would never put me in danger.
And Jonathan throws me a skeptical look. “So, you’re saying that when you envision a future with me, it includes getting called away from birthday parties for our children because your gangster brother needs you.”
I hate the way Jonathan’s reducing Ant to a title. He has no idea about the sweet boy my brother used to be—the boy who only became hard to get through juvie.
But I also didn’t know how to respond to Jonathan’s question. Because no…I couldn’t envision Ant fitting in with the house in Brandywine and the happy family I wanted with Jonathan.
“I get what you’re saying. And if we got married—of course, I wouldn’t do anything to endanger our kids. But I need to be there for Ant. I just….”
I search for and fail to find the words to spell out to someone who’s never been love-poor how much connections like these mean to former foster kids like Ant and me.
“I just do,” I tell Jonathan, my voice weak with all of the things I can’t fully explain.
He regards me for a long, tight-lipped moment, then lets out a sigh. “I think we should take a pause.”
My stomach tightens. “What?”
Jonathan shakes his head and clears his throat. “I need time to digest this new information. And you need time to think over your priorities. I believe we should take that time apart.”
“You believe?” I repeat, the old anger rising up. “One moment, you’re talking about our hypothetical marriage and children, and the next, you’re breaking up with me?”
Jonathan darts his eyes over my shoulder, then leans in to hiss, “Lower your voice. There are several people we work with here. And I’m not breaking up with you. I’m asking for a pause.”
He has a point about our co-workers. Gossip is the only thing we have to do hospital-wide between patients.
But still, I have to whisper-ask, “Does this pause include dating other people?”
Jonathan picks up his cup of coffee and takes a stiff sip before answering. “Yes, I believe it would benefit us both to explore our options for a month or two. Then after that time, we can decide if this is the relationship we want to prioritize.”
Ice shards sprout in my stomach. Jonathan, my best hope for making all my dreams come true is asking for a pause.
“This relationship is a priority for me.” I can’t act cool and reserved like him—he’s punishing me for things I can’t help. Things I can’t change. “Meeting someone like you—marrying someone like you—that’s everything I ever dreamed of, believe me. You’re amazing, and I really like you. I want to make this work.”
Jonathan’s expression softens. “I really liked you too, Amira. But I’m not sure it can work. I need time to think. Surely, you can understand why it’s taking me a moment to digest this bomb you dropped on me at my birthday dinner.”
Don’t think I don’t notice that he’s calling me by my full first name and talking about how much he liked me in the past tense. Panic sets in. The dream…it’s slipping away.
“I’m sorry. I know it was wrong to skip out on your birthday dinner. But maybe we could do a do-over instead of breaking up? I’ll take you back to The Spotless Dove. My treat this time.”