Mr. Park Lane (The Mister)

“And what?”

“And, nothing specific. Just, that kind of thing. You know, spend time with human beings. Outside of the people I work with.”

“How long have you been single for?” I tried to think whether or not I’d ever heard about Joshua having a girlfriend. “Didn’t you almost get married once? What happened there?” My mother had mentioned it the summer after I applied to medical school, but I hadn’t wanted to hear anything about it. I didn’t even want to think about Joshua after the accident.

“I spend time with women.” His voice was clipped and tight and the normally laid-back Joshua I was so used to turned sharp-edged and defensive. “I don’t need a girlfriend to complete me. Or a wife.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, almost flinching at the way he spat out his words. “I just meant—you have a lot of—and I thought—” I hated that I’d said the wrong thing and didn’t even know why. This was why I shouldn’t be allowed to people.

“I’m happy as I am.” As quickly as his mood had turned sour, it flipped back again. He smiled. “I have a very full life. And I don’t lack female company.” Just like that, his dimple was back.

“Good.” I smiled, relieved that familiar-Joshua was back.

“You’re glad I’m getting laid regularly?”

I laughed as I shrugged. “Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”

We worked in happy silence as we combined the ingredients, poured the mixture into cake tins, and put them in the oven. I set the timer on my watch for twenty minutes as the recipe instructed.

We both leaned against the countertop, watching the opaque oven door like we expected something clawed and snarling to emerge from it. “It’s weird,” I said, breaking the silence finally. “I’ve never had more free time than I do at the moment. I have working-hard muscles but not life-outside-of-work muscles.” One of the things I enjoyed most about medicine was there was a lot to learn. Lots of exams. Lots of stuff to think about. It meant I wasn’t thinking about things I wanted to forget.

“Didn’t you used to do a lot of ballet when you were a kid?” My stomach roiled as he reached up to his head. “You used to wear your hair up a lot. Like all the time. I remember an omnipresent bun. Have you thought about doing some adult dance classes?”

I wanted to erase the past ten seconds and pretend he’d never asked, but life didn’t work that way. “I haven’t been able to dance since I broke my leg the first time,” I said, as quickly as I could get the words out. “Not properly. Not how I’d want to.” Memories tumbled into my brain about the night of the accident—the way I’d been so determined that driving in a thunderstorm was no problem. The way I’d been so sure I’d be able to rescue Joshua and Patrick from where they were stranded at a New Year’s Eve party. It had seemed like a great idea in my teenage head, even though I’d only just passed my test. I’d have done anything to get Joshua to notice me. I had my heart pinned on the idea that if I drove to get them both, he’d suddenly realize I wasn’t just a kid sister anymore. If only my seventeen-year-old self could have seen what laid ahead—the black windscreen that was impossible to see through, the water-soaked roads the tires couldn’t grip. The turn I’d taken too late.

The ditch.

The paramedics.

The broken bone poking through my skin.

And months later, the bitterness when I lost my place at ballet school because I just couldn’t dance like I used to.

The alarm went on my watch, pulling me out of my memories. I swiped it to turn it off. Saved by the cake.

I pulled in a breath and focused on what was in the oven.

“You okay?” Joshua asked.

“Fine.” Reminiscing did nothing to turn back the clock. It just reminded me why it was important to stay busy and keep my forcefield intact.

“You don’t seem fine.”

I ignored him. The mixture in the tins didn’t look any different to how it had when it went in. Wasn’t it supposed to rise or something? I glanced at Joshua to see if he knew what he was doing, but he was just staring into the oven.

“If you don’t want to take lessons, what about going to watch the ballet?”

Hadn’t he gotten the hint that I didn’t want to talk about it? “Why? So I can spend the evening jealous of all the dancers who didn’t break their leg?” I couldn’t think of anything worse.

“So you don’t get any pleasure out of it if you’re not dancing?”

I’d used to love going to the Royal Opera House and seeing the Royal Ballet perform. I’d gone every chance I’d gotten. For me it had fired up my drive and ambition. But now? It would just be a reminder of what I didn’t have. Of the stupid decisions I’d made. “I don’t think so.”