by Layla Reyne
Miller’s filet mignon was a pebble in comparison, but he didn’t have to think too hard on how to attack it. He picked up his fork and steak knife, about to cut into it, when the sommelier appeared beside their corner booth. White towel over his arm, the sharply suited man held a wine bottle in one hand and a corkscrew in the other.
He shifted the bottle to a cradle hold and presented it to Miller. The bottle’s plain white label with simple black and green lettering was nothing fancy, but the wine inside was complex and special, Miller’s favorite. “2004 Ridge Monte Bello,” the somm said.
Across the table, Clancy’s silverware clattered to the plate. Not that he noticed, clapping gleefully as he was.
The somm smiled. “Have you had this wine before, sir?”
“Clancy, please,” he said. “And no. This one is new to me, but I know it’s Miller’s favorite.”
The somm looked back to Miller for approval, and at his nod, began slicing through the foil around the bottle’s neck. “You’ll be tasting, Chef?”
“You want to do the honors?” Miller offered Clancy.
Color flooded Clancy’s cheeks, making him look all the more stunning in his black turtleneck and houndstooth sport coat. “Sure, if you think...” His words faded into a shy smile.
“I think you’ll know well enough,” Miller said with a wink. And honestly, he had little worries, given the storage standards at an establishment like this.
The somm poured a splash into Clancy’s glass. “It’s a Bordeaux-style blend. One of the best we have domestically. It’s very special,” the somm said, though by the way he was checking Clancy out, he was thinking more along the lines of how special his guest was. Miller couldn’t argue. Clancy tasted the wine and his eyelids fluttered closed, a smile turning up both corners of his mouth.
“You like?” the somm asked.
Clancy opened his eyes, his pupils large, the green irises dark. “I do.”
The way the somm asked his question, the way Clancy responded to it, their exchange could have been about the wine or the somm. The latter prospect sent a jagged bolt of jealousy ripping through Miller. Did the somm not even consider that he and Clancy might have been on a date? Is that not what this looked like?
But it wasn’t a date. Regardless of whether Miller might have wanted it to be. Circumstances what they were, if Clancy wanted to flirt with the admittedly cute sommelier, a man closer to his own age and without a death sentence hanging over his head, Miller had no cause to stop him. Hell, he should be encouraging Clancy to go for it.
The somm filled their glasses and placed the bottle and cork on the silver coaster on the table. “Chef, Clancy—” his dark-eyed gaze lingered on the good doctor “—if you need anything else, please let me or your server know.” The somm departed with a furtive last glance at Clancy.
Miller picked up his glass and held it under his nose. “I bet he slips you his number before the night’s over.”
Clancy’s bewildered stare made him laugh out loud. “What?”
“He was flirting with you, or did you miss that?” Miller sipped his wine. Almost as delicious as Clancy’s helpless flailing.
He jutted his big knife at the huge hunk of sizzling meat. “There was steak.” Then at the glasses. “And wine. I...” He dropped his fist to the table, still holding the knife. “I kind of failed to notice.”
Clancy’s admission went a long way toward mending the earlier tear of jealousy. Miller picked up his own knife and fork again and cut his steak into manageable pieces. The pain meds were doing their job, none of the earlier courses bothering his throat, but he couldn’t be too careful. “It really has been that long, huh?” he asked.
“Yeah, it has. Stinky cheese date in med school might have been the last proper one I went on,” Clancy answered. He paused to pop a bite of steak into his mouth and chew, and the look of pure pleasure on his face did wicked things to Miller’s body under the table. “Forget dating during residency.”
“Well, you should have time again, going into private practice. Or is the somm not your type?”
Clancy fumbled his knife, and even in Morton’s low lights, his face flamed bright pink.
“Fuck, Clancy, I’m sorry,” he said, voice lowered. “I assumed from our conversation the other night you were out.”
“I am. Your assumption there was right. But as far as guys go, he’s not my type.”
Intrigued, Miller put down his knife and fork and reached for his wine again. “What is your type?”
Clancy was near-on lobster red, and his eyes bounced all over the place. “I like guys who are bigger.” His eyes flickered to Miller, then zoomed away again. “Bears,” he mumbled low.
Jealousy left the building, replaced by something far more dangerous. Miller reverted to safer topics. “What do you think of it here?” he asked, gesturing at their surroundings.
Clancy let out a huge breath and they both laughed, tension deflating. Once his color returned to normal, he met Miller’s gaze and smiled. “The speakeasy vibe—” he lowered his voice “—or is that leftover mobster?—is super cool.”
“It’s definitely a place with character, a voice, that’s been a successful brand for four decades now. Others try to replicate it, but this is the original.”
“And it’s not old and stuffy or cold and ultramodern. It’s elegant—white table cloths, chandeliers, fine china—but in a warm, welcoming way.” He scooted around on the tucked leather booth. “It’s comfortable. Like I could sit here and nurse my wine all night.”
“That’s exactly what I used to do. Whenever I’d come into town, I’d get here toward the end of service and enjoy a beer or wine with an onion roll and whatever cut of steak the kitchen had left.” He gestured with his knife to Clancy’s tomahawk. “That one done to your liking?”
“It’s perfect. Simple like you said, but cooked to order and the flavor of the beef really shines.”
“The maître d’hôtel butter is the key.” Miller pointed at the extra dish of it he’d asked the kitchen to bring out. He knifed off another pat and dropped it on the end of the steak Clancy hadn’t reached yet. Then, what the hell, added another to his own steak. After his scare in Wyoming, Miller would be damned if he didn’t enjoy all his favorites, one last time. Wasn’t that the point of this tour, at least for him?
“Again, super simple,” he said. “Chopped parsley, a squeeze of lemon juice, salt and pepper. Mix, roll, chill. It’s one of the first things I learned to make. Sloan made me keep a log of it in the fridge.”
Clancy took another bite and nodded his agreement. After he chewed and swallowed, he set his silverware down in favor of more wine. By the furrow of his brow, perhaps he was recalculating where the remaining half steak was going to fit. “Can I ask you something, about assumptions I made, and something you said the other night in Jackson Hole?”
Or not. Miller could guess where this was headed. He’d stepped right into it; set it up even, with his comment about Sloan tonight and his hazy altitude-induced ramblings. He still wasn’t one hundred percent sold on telling someone he’d only just met about the most complicated relationship in his life, but they had a week and a half to go still. An explanation would be required at some point. No sense continuing to beat around the bush.
“Me and Sloan,” he ventured. “You’re trying to square that with me saying I’m gay the other night?”
Clancy nodded. “Did you mean bi? I know not everyone’s comfortable claiming that label, and I’m not judging—”
“I’m gay, Clancy.”
Adorably confused, Clancy clutched his wineglass stem with both hands and stared into the dark red liquid like it held all the answers.
But that was Miller, not the wine. “Sloan’s my best friend,” he explained. “She has been since we were teens and I found her in the town park, bruised and beaten by her new stepdad.�
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Clancy threw up a hand. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, HIPAA training activated! Should you be telling me this?”
Miller appreciated the caution, but it was unnecessary in this case. “It’s fine. She’s on the pro bono committee at her firm and does a ton of volunteer work with battered spouses and children. She’ll tell her story to anyone who will listen because, as she says, it’s evidence that happy endings are out there for survivors.”
And she’d survived a hell of a lot. He’d been seventeen, Sloan fifteen, when he’d found her both crying and spitting mad that rainy, muggy spring night. He knew who she was, they were in the same county high school, but two grades apart, they didn’t run in the same circles. Still, he’d sat on the swing farthest from hers, company if she wanted it, protection if whomever had done that to the tiny, beautiful girl came back. Several hours later, she’d moved to the swing next to his and told him everything. His life had changed forever, for the better.
He took another long swallow of wine, washing away the memories of that night. “I promised her I’d do whatever I had to to protect her, which a year later turned out to be marrying her so we could leave town. I had to get her out of that house and away from him.”
“How’d your family take that?”
“They scraped together every penny we had, which wasn’t much for a bricklayer and teacher with four kids, but they did what they could. They understood. Ma had had Sloan in her English class for two years. She’d seen the change before and after her mother remarried.”
A hand slid across the table, grasping his forearm. Miller glanced up and immediately understood why the man across from him had become a doctor. Sincerity and compassion poured out of his eyes.
“I’m sorry, Miller.”
He slid his arm out from under Clancy’s hand and picked up his silverware again. “Don’t be. We had an incredible life.”
“Why do you make it sound like it’s ending?”
Miller almost choked on the piece of steak he’d just swallowed. The truth of his condition was more than he’d intended to share. That was not information for public consumption, especially not for Clancy, who was here to enjoy himself, not care for a patient. One night of that was more than enough.
“Between you and Sloan,” Clancy added, and Miller’s panic receded, slightly. The good doctor was sincere and compassionate, but also smart and perceptive.
“She found the love of her life,” Miller answered. “The business partner of our other best friend, ironically.”
“Ouch,” he said, features pinched.
“It’s not so bad. Tyler’s a good man, and she’s happy. That’s all I’ve ever wanted for her.”
“And you haven’t found yours yet?”
Miller popped in his last bite of steak and looked across the table at Clancy, who’d tilted his head slightly.
“My what?” Miller asked.
“The love of your life.”
Miller couldn’t hold his eyes, turning his gaze to the bustling dining room instead. Anywhere but at the possibilities he couldn’t consider.
“Have you not had a relationship in twenty years?” Clancy asked.
The misread of his reaction made it easier to respond. “I’ve had partners, so had she, but nothing serious. Neither of us had ever found anyone we liked being around more than each other.”
“Until Tyler.”
Miller nodded.
“You also mentioned...a cannoli...the other night?”
Miller didn’t hold back his laugh this time. “They’re expecting. The baby was conceived when we were all in Italy at a conference a few months back.”
Clancy laughed with him, then sobered. “So you’re getting a divorce? That’s why you talk like it’s ending? Why she lives in San Francisco and you’re selling the house?”
Miller’s hand shook where it lay over the base of his wineglass, two fingers parted on either side. Even though it was December, he could still see the tan line where his wedding band used to be. “I signed the papers before we left.”
A hand slid over his, pale and long-fingered. “I’m sorry,” Clancy whispered, his voice as warm as his hand.
“Nothing to be sorry for. I’m happy for her.” So very happy, but that part of his life ending was still a blow. Two of three.
Clancy squeezed his hand, thumb running along the side of his. “I’m sure you are. You only want the best for your best friend. But that doesn’t make it hurt any less, does it?”
No, but his hand on Miller’s did, more than it should.
* * *
With Miller out at meetings Thursday morning, Clancy had scheduled a call with the benefit organizers. They’d been going back and forth all week over email and he’d wanted to put voices to signature blocks. He’d also wanted to drill down on how he could be most helpful. The call had gone so well Clancy was practically vibrating afterward, truly excited for the first time to get back to work soon. Or at least to this aspect of it.
The organizers were looking to him for a list of local physicians to invite, those practicing in clinical oncology and in reconstructive surgery. Clancy had jotted down names as they’d talked, including his oncology and plastics attendings. But the part that’d really excited Clancy was the prospect of reaching out to survivors too, inviting them to attend and share their stories. He hadn’t stopped thinking about the possibilities in the hour since the call. About the amazing, brave patients who’d shaped his life the past decade.
The single mom who worked two day jobs and put herself through law school at night so she could provide for her kids. Clancy had met her the first day of his oncology rotation. Earlier this fall, she’d been featured on the local news, helping to cut the ribbon for a new affordable housing project in LA.
The athlete who’d taken up writing as a way to pass the time during chemo treatments that kept her confined to a chair. Clancy would sneak off between rounds to sit and listen to her spin tales. She’d recently sent him her latest published novel. There’d been a Post-It note marking the cameo appearance by sexy Doctor Rhodes who looked absolutely nothing like Clancy. He’d laughed about it for days.
The double mastectomy patient who’d cried when she’d put on her favorite dress again after her reconstructive surgery, and it’d fit.
The patient Clancy wanted there most, however, wouldn’t be. She’d lost her battle, but he’d found her family’s contact information. He just had to figure out how not to tell them she was the reason he’d gone into plastics, why he was going into private practice with his dad. He hoped like hell they wouldn’t be disappointed.
That none of his former patients would be.
His phone rang, his dad’s picture filling the screen. Clancy didn’t want to disappoint him either.
He brought the phone to his ear and traffic noise blasted his eardrum—morning rush hour in LA—and he kicked down the phone’s volume. “Hey, Dad,” he said, increasing the volume of his own voice. “What’s for breakfast this morning?”
His dad was an avid food truck fan, often hitting more than one on his way into the office. “One-stop shopping this morning. Mexican coffee and an egg and chorizo burrito.”
Clancy’s stomach grumbled, reminding him that he had to leave the hotel room soon and brave the falling snow if he wanted to hit the rest of his to-eat list today.
“How’s the trip going?” Alan asked. “You haven’t updated me. Tell me where and what you’ve eaten since we talked.”
Thus began a twenty-minute play-by-play, peppered with oohs, ahhs and jealous curses from Alan, as Clancy raved about Jackson Hole and Morton’s. He tried guessing future stops—New York had to be on the list. Not Per Se, though, as they’d hit TFL already. Maybe Le Bernardin, but after the picnic and their last two stops, Clancy guessed something funkier, more low-key, like Momofuku, or a farm-to-table place like Blue Hill. Alan
wouldn’t give him any clues. Judging by the changing background noises, Clancy’s guessing carried his father off the sidewalk, up the stairs, and into the office. Lots of good mornings from what sounded like a packed waiting room. The practice’s receptionist, Andrea, confirmed as much, telling Alan he had three patients waiting already.
A door whooshed and the waiting room noise faded. “I can’t wait for you to start here, son. We desperately need the backup.”
“That’s a good problem to have,” Clancy said, even as his stomach sank.
No matter what he’d told Miller, he couldn’t change his career path at this late date. He couldn’t throw away five years of residency and disrupt his father’s practice. Scenarios ran through his head. His dad, furious and left in the lurch. His dad, sad and disappointed. His dad, smiling and encouraging him to go for his dreams. He dismissed the first one right away. Not his dad. The second, Alan would probably feel, but he’d never let Clancy see it, just like he’d never let Miranda see it when she’d left. He’d only show Clancy the third, and he’d mean it too. But could Clancy live with himself, knowing he’d caused the second?
“It’ll be good to have you here,” his dad said, the words and smile in his voice only driving home the point harder.
“I’m looking forward to it.” Clancy hoped the half of him that was excited—that loved the idea of working with his dad and that couldn’t wait to do more work for the benefit—was enough to cover up the doubting half.
In any event, Alan didn’t have time to question it, Andrea hurrying him off the line and to his appointments. “I’ll call you on Christmas! Love you!”
“Love you too, Dad!”