Chapter 3
I slept badly.
By seven the next morning, Lily had climbed into my bed with three stuffed animals, one sock, and the unwavering belief that Sunday mornings were designed for pancakes.
I let her pour the blueberries.
Half landed in the batter.
The other half rolled across the counter.
Normally I would have laughed.
Instead, my eyes kept drifting toward Giovanni Fierro’s business card beside the coffee maker.
Lily noticed.
“What’s that?”
“A card.”
“I know.”
Sometimes I forgot she was five, not foolish.
“Whose card?”
“A man I met last night.”
“The dancing man?”
I stared at her.
“How do you remember everything?”
She shrugged.
“Because you told me.”
Fair point.
I flipped the pancake.
“He works with a charity.”
“Like when we give my little shirts away?”
“Sort of.”
“Is he nice?”
“You asked me that last night.”
“You didn’t know yet.”
I looked at the card again.
“I still don’t.”
Lily accepted this answer and asked whether a pancake could be shaped like a unicorn.
It could not.
I tried anyway.
At nine thirty, my phone rang.
Sophia.
“Are you alive?”
“Barely. Your niece is demanding mythical breakfast animals.”
“I need to apologize again.”
“You already apologized.”
“I’ve thought of additional things.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
She laughed, but it faded quickly.
“Mom called.”
“Of course she did.”
“She feels awful.”
“I don’t want her feeling awful.”
“I know. She also wants to pretend she never said any of those things.”
“That sounds more like Mom.”
Sophia hesitated.
“Tyler called Daniel this morning.”
Every muscle in my body tightened.
“Why?”
“He wanted your number.”
“He has my number.”
“Apparently you blocked him.”
“I blocked him after he sent me twelve messages when he got engaged to Vanessa.”
“Right.”
“What does he want?”
“He says he wants to apologize.”
I turned the burner off.
“No.”
“I figured.”
“I don’t need an apology because Giovanni embarrassed him.”
“I don’t think that’s why.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Sophia was quiet.
Then she said, “You don’t owe him anything.”
I leaned against the counter.
“Thank you.”
“I mean it.”
Something about those three words touched a place I had kept guarded around my sister.
Sophia had always been the easy one.
The one whose life unfolded in an order our mother understood.
College.
Career.
Boyfriend.
Engagement.
Wedding.
Mine had been nursing school interrupted by pregnancy, marriage collapsing before it began, night shifts, daycare waiting lists, overdue electric bills, and learning how to unclog a sink while holding a feverish toddler.
I loved Sophia.
But somewhere along the way, I had started confusing the difference between our lives with a difference in our worth.
Maybe my family had helped create that feeling.
Maybe I had helped keep it alive.
“Actually,” I said, “there is something you can tell me.”
“What?”
“How connected is Giovanni Fierro to the foundation?”
“Very.”
My stomach sank.
“He chairs it.”
“I saw that.”
“Why?”
“I applied for their pediatric nursing fellowship.”
Sophia went silent.
“You did?”
“Four months ago.”
“Jess, that’s incredible.”
“I haven’t gotten it.”
“But you applied.”
“I didn’t tell anyone because I didn’t want everyone asking me about it if I was rejected.”
“What does Giovanni have to do with it?”
“I don’t know.”
And that was the problem.
After we hung up, I found the fellowship website again.
The program covered graduate tuition for pediatric nurses pursuing advanced clinical training. There was also a small living stipend and childcare support.
When I applied, I had stayed up until two in the morning writing the essay.
Tell us about a challenge that shaped your approach to pediatric care.
I had written about Lily.
Not about Tyler.
Not about being left.
About the first winter after she was born, when I was completing my nursing clinical rotations and learned that parents rarely needed perfect answers as much as they needed someone who stayed in the room.
I had written Lily’s name.
My age.
My hospital.
My work history.
Enough information for someone reviewing the application to know almost everything Giovanni had known at the wedding.
By eleven, I had convinced myself of three different explanations and trusted none of them.
Then I noticed the business card again.
He had given me his number.
He had not taken mine.
That mattered.
Whatever else was true, he had left the next choice to me.
I picked up my phone.
This is Jessica Hale. I have a question about the Fierro Fellowship.
The reply came four minutes later.
I thought you might. Coffee? Public place. Your choice.
I stared at the message.
Then typed the name of a café two blocks from my apartment.
He arrived at one o’clock.
No driver.
No entourage.
No expensive-looking overcoat despite the heat.
Just dark jeans, a white shirt with the sleeves pushed up, and glasses.
The glasses made me remember him immediately.
Mia’s hospital room.
The frightened uncle hovering uselessly beside an oxygen monitor.
“You really do still wear them,” I said.
Giovanni touched the frame.
“Disappointed?”
“A little. They make you look less mysterious.”
“That’s probably healthy.”
We sat near the window.
I skipped small talk.
“Did you read my fellowship application?”
“No.”
“Did you know I applied?”
“Yes.”
My heart dropped.
He continued before I could speak.
“I learned four days ago.”
“How?”
“The foundation receives the finalists’ names after the independent committee completes scoring.”
“And mine was there.”
“Yes.”
“How many finalists?”
“Twelve.”
“How many fellows?”
“Four.”
I folded my hands tightly.
“Did you vote?”
“No.”
“Did you recommend me?”
“No.”
“Did you speak to anyone about me?”
“Yes.”
That answer landed differently.
“How?”
“I asked to be removed from any discussion involving your application.”
I stared at him.
“Why?”
“Because I recognized your name.”
He reached into his jacket and placed a folded sheet of paper on the table.
I didn’t touch it.
“What’s that?”
“A copy of the recusal notice I sent our program director Friday afternoon.”
Friday.
The day before the wedding.
“You didn’t even know you’d see me yesterday.”
“No.”
I unfolded the page.
There it was.
A short email addressed to Dr. Evelyn Cho, director of the fellowship program.
Giovanni stated that he had previously encountered one finalist’s family in a personal context and requested no participation in any discussion, ranking, or selection involving Jessica Hale.
The reason was vague enough to protect my privacy.
The timestamp was Friday at 3:42 p.m.
I read it twice.
“You could have told me last night.”
“I considered it.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because you had just been told your career amounted to throwing away your future.”
My face warmed.
“And I didn’t want to say, ‘Incidentally, I know you applied for money from my foundation.’”
Despite myself, I understood.
“That would have been terrible timing.”
“Spectacularly.”
I folded the email.
“So the committee decides?”
“Completely.”
“You can’t overrule them?”
“No.”
“Can you influence them?”
“Not now.”
“Could you normally?”
“In theory, I could ask questions about funding or eligibility. I cannot choose winners.”
He paused.
“And I would not.”
I studied him.
“Why did you really ask me to dance?”
His gaze dropped briefly to his coffee.
“That answer is less flattering to me.”
“Try.”
He nodded once.
“I saw Tyler speak to you. I saw your face afterward. I remembered you from the hospital, and I disliked watching someone make you feel small.”
“That sounds flattering.”
“I haven’t finished.”
“Go on.”
“I also saw an opportunity to solve my own problem.”
“There it is.”
“Yes.”
“You helped me and used me at the same time.”
“Yes.”
His willingness to admit it disarmed me more than an excuse would have.
“At least you’re consistent.”
“I try to be.”
I looked out the window.
A woman pushed a stroller past the café.
Two cyclists waited at the light.
Ordinary Sunday.
Ordinary life.
“What happens now?” I asked.
“With the fellowship?”
“With us.”
The word felt strangely intimate.
Giovanni seemed to notice too.
“We finish our coffee.”
“And then?”
“If you want, I ask you to dinner.”
“That sounds suspiciously like dating.”
“It was meant to.”
I looked at him.
“You don’t know me.”
“I know several things.”
“Such as?”
“You drink coffee without sugar.”
“You watched me do that ten minutes ago.”
“You remember frightened children years later.”
“That’s my job.”
“You stayed at your sister’s wedding because you promised your daughter cake.”
My throat tightened.
“And you told the truth last night when lying would have been easier.”
I stared down at my cup.
“That almost caused a family crisis.”
“Temporary discomfort is not always a crisis.”
“That sounds like something someone without my mother would say.”
He smiled.
Then he said, “Dinner?”
I should have said no.
Instead I asked, “Will Alessandra be hiding behind a plant?”
“Almost certainly not.”
“Your aunt?”
“Less certain.”
I laughed.
“Dinner.”
We chose Thursday.
Then life resumed.
I worked Monday and Tuesday at the hospital.
A nine-year-old taught me everything I had apparently never known about dinosaurs. A toddler covered my scrub top in applesauce. My charge nurse asked whether I could swap a weekend shift.
Normal things.
Good things.
Yet something had shifted.
On Tuesday afternoon, Vanessa Brooks appeared in the hospital lobby.
I almost walked past her.
“Jessica.”
I stopped.
She wore a loose blue dress, her pregnancy visible but not dramatic, and held no smug expression now.
“What are you doing here?”
“My obstetrician’s office is in the next building.”
I waited.
She twisted the strap of her purse.
“Can we talk?”
“I’m working.”
“Five minutes.”
I considered refusing.
Then I saw how nervous she was.
“Five.”
We sat near the lobby windows.
Vanessa took a breath.
“I owe you an apology.”
I said nothing.
“What Tyler said Saturday was awful.”
“Yes.”
“He told me you two had already decided to separate before you learned you were pregnant.”
My stomach tightened.
“He said what?”
“He said the marriage was basically over and that you found out afterward.”
“We weren’t separated.”
Her face went still.
“He left three days after I told him.”
Vanessa looked down.
“He said you told him you didn’t need him.”
“I told him I would not beg him to stay.”
“That’s different.”
“Yes.”
She pressed one hand lightly to her stomach.
Not dramatically.
Almost unconsciously.
“I didn’t know.”
I believed her.
That was the difficult part.
Vanessa had been cruel in small ways over the years—competitive remarks, carefully posed holiday photos sent through relatives, the smile at the wedding.
But looking at her now, I saw something I had not allowed myself to consider.
She had been building her understanding of me from Tyler’s version of the story.
“So why did you smile at me?” I asked.
She winced.
“At the wedding?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you hated me.”
“I barely know you.”
“Every family event, you leave when I arrive.”
“Because watching my ex-husband build another family is uncomfortable.”
“I thought it was because you blamed me.”
“You started dating him after we separated.”
“Exactly.”
I understood.
She had always believed she was being judged for stealing a husband she had not actually stolen.
And because she felt judged, she had defended herself before I ever accused her.
“I wasn’t proud of that smile,” she said quietly.
“Good.”
A small, sad laugh escaped her.
“Fair.”
I looked at the clock.
“I need to go.”
“Jessica.”
I paused.
“Does Tyler know Lily?”
The question was so careful that I knew what she meant.
“Not really.”
“He told me you kept her from him.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course he had.
“I have every email,” I said. “Every birthday invitation. Every message telling him he could visit. After Lily turned two, I stopped chasing him.”
Vanessa’s eyes filled, but she blinked quickly.
“I see.”
I stood.
“I’m not asking you to choose sides.”
“I know.”
“And whatever happens between you and Tyler is yours.”
“I know.”
“But Lily is five. She isn’t a way for him to feel like a better man.”
Vanessa nodded.
“If he wants a relationship with her, he needs to become reliable before she is asked to trust him.”
“I agree.”
That surprised me.
She stood too.
“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry I helped believe a story that made you the villain.”
I looked at her.
“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry I assumed you knew the truth.”
We didn’t hug.
We didn’t become friends.
But when she walked away, I felt something loosen inside me.
Thursday arrived.
Giovanni took me to a small Italian restaurant, not the kind with chandeliers or velvet ropes, but a narrow neighborhood place where the owner kissed both his cheeks and complained he had not visited in months.
We talked for three hours.
Not about Tyler.
Not about the fellowship.
About books.
About Sophia.
About Mia, who was now nine and apparently wanted to become an astronaut-veterinarian-fashion designer.
About Giovanni’s parents.
That was when I understood his resistance to his aunt’s matchmaking.
“My parents were compatible on paper,” he said.
“Meaning?”
“Same families. Same circles. Same expectations.”
“Were they unhappy?”
“Not loudly.”
Something in the phrase made me look at him.
“They were polite,” he continued. “Efficient. Loyal. They built a successful life and rarely wanted the same things from it.”
“And you’re afraid of that.”
“I’m afraid of choosing what looks sensible instead of what feels true.”
I thought about my own marriage.
“I did the opposite.”
“You chose what felt true?”
“I chose what I wanted to be true.”
Neither of us spoke for a moment.
Then Giovanni said, “Maybe both of us could try choosing more carefully next time.”
My pulse changed.
I looked at him across the little candle on the table.
“Is this you being charming?”
“I hope so.”
“You need practice.”
“I’ve been busy.”
We laughed.
For the first time in years, dating did not feel like one more responsibility I was failing to manage.
It felt like curiosity.
That scared me more.
When Giovanni walked me home, he stopped outside my building.
He did not ask to come up.
He did not try to kiss me.
“Goodnight, Jessica.”
“Goodnight.”
I watched him walk toward his car.
Then my phone chimed.
An email.
Fierro Family Foundation Pediatric Advancement Fellowship — Final Decision.
Every thought vanished.
I opened it with shaking fingers.
Dear Ms. Hale,
We are delighted to offer you—
I stopped breathing.
Then started again.
Full tuition.
Graduate program partnership.
Childcare stipend.
Reduced clinical-hour support.
I read the message twice.
Then a third time.
I had gotten it.
I had actually gotten it.
My first instinct was to call Sophia.
My second was to wake Lily.
My third was one I did not want to admit.
I wanted to call Giovanni.
Before I could decide, another email arrived.
This one came from Dr. Evelyn Cho, the fellowship director.
Jessica, congratulations. I also wanted to clarify something proactively. Our committee finalized all recipient scores on Friday morning. Mr. Fierro formally recused himself later that afternoon after recognizing your name on the finalist list. He had no involvement in your evaluation.
Relief flooded through me.
Then I saw the attachment.
Program schedule.
I opened it.
The fellowship was more demanding than I remembered.
Graduate classes.
Clinical leadership rotations.
Research seminars.
And, beginning the following spring, a twelve-week placement at a nationally recognized pediatric center in Boston.
Twelve weeks.
Away from Chicago.
Away from the routines I had spent five years building.
I stared through the glass doors of my apartment building.
Giovanni’s car had not yet pulled away.
As if he sensed me watching, he looked up.
Our eyes met through the night.
May you like
For the first time in years, the future was opening instead of closing.
And I suddenly understood that getting what I had worked for could demand just as much courage as surviving what I had lost.
