As for her and Jack—this time, they weren’t just hoping for more.
They were building it, moment by tender moment, one careful step at a time.
Chapter Twenty-One
Jack
Thesoundofclinkingglasses and murmured conversations swelled around Jack as he stood near the refreshment table, trying not to fidget with his conference badge. He hadn’t expected to feel this out of place at an event he used to attend annually with enthusiasm.
The sterile overhead lights buzzed faintly, bouncing off the polished tile floors. A swirl of cologne, perfume, and stale coffee lingered in the air, mixing with the low hum of panel discussions echoing from adjacent rooms.
Jack shifted on his feet. The crisp edge of his name badge scratched at his collar, a small irritation that mirrored the tension coiling inside him as he tried to ignore the growing awareness that this world, once his comfort zone, now felt like an ill-fitting suit. He used to thrive in these settings—debating surgical techniques over late-night drinks, feeling the buzz of recognition in every handshake.
But now, it all felt foreign, like wearing someone else's life. The confidence he once carried in rooms like this had faded, replaced by a quiet questioning of who he was becoming. His name tag read "Dr. Jack Montgomery" but the weight behind that title felt different now. Lighter, somehow, and heavier all at once.
"Jack Montgomery," a warm voice called. "Still avoiding the spotlight?"
Jack turned to find Dr. Evelyn Harper, his former mentor and one of the few people whose opinion still carried deep meaning. She looked the same as ever—sharp suit, wiser eyes, and a knowing smile that could see through any façade. He remembered late-night surgeries where she'd stay behind just to coach him through difficult cases, and the quiet chats they'd share over vending machine coffee when things went sideways. Her presence stirred something settled and grounding inside him.
"Dr. Harper," Jack greeted, offering a handshake that turned into a brief, genuine hug. "It’s been a long time."
"Too long," she said. "You disappeared after the awards dinner three years ago," she said. "Some of us wondered if you'd joined a monastery."
Jack gave a wry smile, then shrugged. "I guess I needed space. Time to think."
"Think, or hide?" Evelyn asked gently, not accusing, just perceptive.
He chuckled, though the sound was hollow. "Maybe a little of both. Hiding out for a while and then Island living as of recently. Slower pace."
"And how's that working out for you?"
Jack hesitated. How could he possibly summarize the tangled grief, slow healing, and flickers of hope that had defined his recent months? The weight of that question pressed into his chest, making even simple words feel impossible. "Complicated. But good. Mostly." The word lingered on his tongue.
Complicated because healing hadn’t been linear. Because some mornings he still woke up expecting to hear Amanda’s voice, and some nights he wondered if he was allowed to find peace in someone new.
Good, because with Claire, the weight had started to lift—slowly, but unmistakably. And mostly—because he hadn’t quite stepped all the way in yet, but he wanted to.
Evelyn raised an eyebrow. "That sounds like the answer of a man who’s got something real going on."
He gave a rueful smile. "There might be someone. It's been... unexpected."
"Unexpected tends to be where the magic happens," she said. "What’s holding you back?"
Jack hesitated. "Guilt, maybe. Fear of moving on. I keep thinking about Amanda—how she’d feel about all of it."
Evelyn nodded slowly. "You loved her. But love isn't a finite resource, Jack. Remember that trip we all took to Napa, the one Amanda planned down to the last picnic spot? You loved her with your whole heart then, and I saw it. But choosing to live again—it doesn’t diminish that. If anything, it honors the love you had by choosing to keep your heart open."
He looked down at the coffee cup in his hand. "It sounds so easy when you say it."
"It's not easy. But it is right," she said. "Don’t let grief be the only thing you protect. Let love have a place too, even if it's beside the grief."
Those words followed Jack throughout the day—echoing in the hum of panel discussions and the silence of his hotel room later that evening. By the time he returned home two days later, the decision had crystallized.
Jack sat at his desk that evening with a blank sheet of stationery and a pen in hand, his thoughts heavier than usual, the air around him hushed in expectation, the quiet hum of memories echoing in the silence. The house was quiet—Chloe already tucked into bed. The soft scent of bergamot rose from his tea mug nearby, reminding him of late-night shifts at the hospital and moments of clarity found between chaos.
He stared at the page, unmoving, the pen cool and patient in his hand. His thoughts drifted back to a night years ago, when Amanda had surprised him with a handwritten note tucked into his surgical scrubs, wishing him luck before a major procedure. He could still see her handwriting—looped and steady—and feel the calm it gave him before he stepped into the OR.
That memory stung, but it also reminded him how much words could matter. A breeze stirred the curtain at the window, and in that quiet moment of motion, something inside him shifted. He tapped the pen twice on the paper, let out a breath that trembled ever so slightly, and began to write.
