Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 130673 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 653(@200wpm)___ 523(@250wpm)___ 436(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130673 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 653(@200wpm)___ 523(@250wpm)___ 436(@300wpm)
Thick silence came from the other end of the line before Kieran spoke. “You need a drink.”
“No shit,” I scoffed.
“No, like, you need to restart your brain. You are obviously going through a small panic attack.”
“I knew it,” I cried out. “My skin is breaking out in hives. What do I do, Kieran? I’m five seconds from taking you up on your fake-marriage offer I’m so stressed.”
“First of all, thank you,” he said sarcastically. “Second, there’s a bar not far from your new building. The Alchemist. They make the best cocktails. Listen to me carefully now, Dyl. I want you to go there, order yourself the Roku Koori Negroni with a piece of carrot cake, meditate for a few minutes, and think about what you want to do with your life. Nothing is off the table. Don’t be practical. Be passionate. Even if you think it’s too late. Even if you think it’s too hard. Then call me and let me know what it is, okay?”
“Okay,” I panted. “Okay.”
DYLAN
I arrived at the Alchemist ten minutes later. It was a trendy bar two blocks down from my apartment. I felt bad for leaving Rhyland with Grav all day. At the same time, I knew they were okay, or he’d have called me.
The bar was full to the brim, crammed with sweaty bodies and grinding couples, most of them clearly out-of-towners. The tang of smoke, sweat, and expensive alcohol crawled into my nostrils. I snagged the only available stool at the bar and ordered Kieran’s fancy drink and carrot cake. He knew this place, which meant he frequented it with my brother, Rhyland, and maybe their friend Tate. I tried not to think about how everyone around me had this glamorous, debauched, in-the-know lifestyle while I’d been stuck in a tiny Maine town serving over-fried eggs and watching Peppa Pig.
The bartender, a woman with a shaved head, two sleeves of tattoos, and a black crop top, slid my cake and drink across a sticky bar. “Enjoy.”
“Is it always so crowded in here?” I looked around. I hadn’t contemplated bar work in New York, but the tips must be through the roof.
“Happy hour.” She grimaced, her jestrum piercing sparkling. “It can get pretty overwhelming at times.” The sheen of sweat making her face gleam confirmed her observation. Her eyes were dull and unfocused.
I instinctively shot out my hand to clasp hers. “Hey, are you okay?”
She nodded. “Yeah.”
I closed my eyes and tried to imagine my perfect career. I remembered Kieran’s advice not to be practical, to be passionate. It came to me like a mirage, with vivid clarity.
Me. In a doctor’s uniform. Making a change.
Ushering an injured child on a gurney. Into a theater.
Performing surgery. Steel hands. Cool-headed.
I reached for my drink with my eyes still closed, taking a sip. The whiskey prickled my tongue deliciously. I smiled. Another vision sifted through my jumbled thoughts.
Me. Making the rounds to see my patients, with a clipboard pressed to my chest.
Reassuring worried parents.
Comforting distressed children.
I want to be a doctor.
I’d always wanted to be a doctor.
It was there in the back of my head, a pipe dream that could never materialize.
I opened my eyes, and the first thing in front of me was the bartender, now clutching the edge of the bar. Her pupils were the size of soup bowls.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” I asked.
“I’m feeling a little dizzy…” She blinked slowly. “Like my heart is beating out of whack.” She reached for her head, and before I knew it, her eyes had rolled over in their sockets, and she was falling to the floor with a thud. The noise and the music drowned out her fall.
I immediately sprang into action. I jumped across the bar, knocking down my cocktail and my cake in the process, then I crouched down to check her pulse. There wasn’t one.
Crap.
The bartender next to her—a man in his fifties—stared at me helplessly, holding two beers in his hands.
“Call 911,” I ordered him.
He nodded, dropped everything, and took out his phone.
Luckily, I’d done a CPR course when Grav was born. I began alternating between chest compressions and mouth-to-mouth. The other bartender came to stand over me.
“Oh fuck, oh fuck. Faye is my best bartender. Is she going to be okay?”
“I don’t know,” I said honestly, timing my chest compressions. “Did you call 911?”
“Yeah. They asked me a bunch of questions. I…I told them to just come. They should be here any minute.”
I checked her heartbeat against her neck again. This time, there was a faint pulse. My shoulders slumped with relief. The adrenaline coursing through my body made me feel almost drunk.
The doors to the bar flew open, and a member of the medical staff rushed in. The older bartender was too stunned to talk to him, so I had to explain what had happened. Faye was rushed out on a gurney, and I wondered if this was some kind of sign I needed to pursue my dream to become a doctor.