I can feel my bones rattling beneath my skin, but my words somehow come out as smooth as custard on a warm summer night.
“Well said.” Jim Demers raises his wineglass in my direction, then Dan’s.
From the corner of my eye, I see that Dan’s smiling stoically.
Asshole.
“I couldn’t agree more,” Mr. Hoffstra adds, raising his glass of iced tea into the air.
The rest of the table joins in, each raising their glass in salute to me and Dan. My gut wrenches. “To Dr. Dan Osborne and his wonderful wife, Jane.”
“To Dan and Jane,” they chant back.
Dan and I exchange a seemingly loving glance before we both assume our adopted smiles and then grab our own glasses. I raise mine up, then, despite the self-loathing burning my soul, press the crystal to my lips and take a long drink.
I did it.
I sold him the way I was supposed to.
Just like I said I would.
And the Hoffstras bought every bit of it.
“Well, I hate to leave such a festive group, but I’m up next,” Dan says a moment later, motioning to the stage.
“Making you work after hours, huh?” Mr. Hoffstra chides.
Dan chuckles. “No rest for the weary.” He backs his chair away from the table, and just as he starts to stand, he leans in close to me. My skin bristles as his lips graze my ear, but for our audience’s sake, I maintain my warm expression.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
I’m sorry?
I blink hard, confused. I wasn’t expecting him to say anything. I just assumed it was more Ward and June fodder for the crowd, but I’m sorry? For what exactly—
“Should you be heading to the stage too?” Mrs. Hoffstra asks her husband.
“No, no. I’ve got plenty of time,” he answers.
I think back on the email that outlined tonight’s schedule of events. I peeked at it for only a minute, but I do remember that Mr. Hoffstra is scheduled to announce their gift sometime after the doctors introduce their grateful patients.
My heart starts to beat a little faster.
This is actually happening.
Mr. Hoffstra will make his announcement, and then I’ll get my headache and leave. I’ll be done.
I’ll be free.
Finally!
“Hello again, everyone.” Jackie thunks the microphone with her finger to grab our attention. “I trust you all enjoyed your dinner—”
“Mm-hmm,” Mrs. Hoffstra mutters, then glances back at me and winks.
My heart twists despite my budding happiness.
I’m so sorry.
I wish I could be honest with you.
You don’t deserve to be lied to.
“As much as I hate to interrupt your conversations,” Jackie goes on, “we’ve reached a very special point in the evening. As I said earlier, Mount Ivy General has treated countless patients over the years—some with very unique and inspiring stories—so tonight we’ve invited a few of them back to share their experiences with you. And who better to introduce them than the doctors who treated them? So, without further ado, please welcome Dr. Daniel Osborne to the stage.”
The entire ballroom erupts in a round of applause while my tablemates and others nearby turn my way, as if paying homage to the woman behind the great man. I slap on my most supportive smile yet, just as a surge of bile starts churning in my stomach.
You’re almost free, Jane.
Just hang on a little bit longer.
Don’t lose it now . . .
“Thank you so much,” Dan says into a handheld microphone as he makes his way out from behind the long velvet curtains to the center of the stage. With his gleaming smile and confident stride, he looks every bit the superhero the crowd thinks he is. I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “It’s a real pleasure to be here with you tonight. As Jackie said, my name is Dan Osborne, and along with being the head of the cardiothoracic division, I’m also the chief of surgery at Mount Ivy—a role I’ve had the privilege of holding for the last five years now. As we were just discussing at my table, one of the greatest joys of being a surgeon is the impact we have on the lives of our patients—”
I’d be lying if I said Dan didn’t still have the natural charisma that drew me to him all those years ago. That kind of relatable charm that grabbed me from the first word he spoke. And as I take in the faces of those in the crowd, I can see he still has that effect on people. But, again, he seems a bit stiff somehow. He’s not quite himself.
I’d like to think that standing up there on his foundation of lies is as hard on him as it is on me, but I know better. Stiff or not, that’s not Dan. He lives to be worshipped.
“Several years ago, I was prepping for a routine surgery when I got an urgent page from the emergency room that two police officers had just been admitted with multiple gunshot wounds to the chest—”
His story catches my ear.
“Unfortunately, one officer’s injuries were fatal, claiming his life before we were able to get him into the operating room,” Dan goes on, now fully grabbing my attention. This sounds very familiar. “But the other officer was stable enough that we were able to perform surgery, and I’m happy to report that after twelve long hours, he came through, and he’s here tonight to speak to all of you—”
My lungs start to cinch around my breath, as if my body is aware of something my brain hasn’t quite figured out yet, or won’t allow itself to, because it seems utterly impossible—
“Please join me in welcoming Detective Christopher Chavez.”
“Oh my god,” I gasp.
“Are you all right, dear?” Mrs. Hoffstra turns to me as the room explodes in applause.
My hand is plastered so tightly over my mouth that I can’t respond to her with words, so I nod instead. But the truth is, I’m not okay. Not by a long shot.
Dan is the doctor who saved his life?
Eyes wide, heart hammering, I shift my gaze toward the left corner of the stage—to the crimson drape that shielded Dan just moments ago—and watch as he—Chavez, my Chavez!—emerges onto the stage.
Oh my god.
He’s here.
He’s here right now.
Flutters of nervous disbelief thrum through my body as he strides to the center of the stage, where Dan is waiting for him.
Does Chavez know who Dr. Osborne is to me?
Does he have any idea that the man who destroyed my life is the one who saved his?
My blood turns to concrete, limbs stiffening like boards, as I brace for the moment when I see the two of them together.
My worlds colliding in front of me.
Each one assumes a smile as Chavez grows nearer. Dan’s is as sincere as any I’ve ever seen, while Chavez’s is . . . nervous.
An empathetic whimper tickles my lips.
Poor Chavez.
They shake hands, and then Dan takes it a step further, giving Chavez a hearty pat on the arm, like he does with his father when he visits.
I clutch the edge of the table, confusion once again claiming my emotions.
How can this be happening?
Dan has to know this is the same Detective Chavez I was involved with.
A flashback of that volatile night in the kitchen suddenly spins through my mind.
Dan didn’t know Chavez was the arresting officer. He didn’t even know his name until I told him. And when I did, he—oh god! He flinched. I remember that. He must’ve recognized his name as a former patient right then. All these weeks he’s known Chavez was my Chavez, and he didn’t say anything!
Why would he bring him here?
What point is he trying to make?
“Isn’t this just wonderful?” Mrs. Hoffstra mutters.
Part of me agrees with her. This is wonderful. I wasn’t sure if I’d ever see Chavez again. But here he is, looking as handsome as ever in his sleek black tuxedo, his mile-deep dimples on full display. But another part of me—the part that’s now inciting
my fingers to tremble—thinks this is terrible. What if he doesn’t know that I’m Dan’s wife? What if we run into each other in the foyer and he sees me, and all the hatred he has for me comes rushing back? We’ll make a spectacle. People will start to question how we know each other, and then all this will have been for nothing—
“Thank you all so much.” The familiar sound of Chavez’s smooth timbre pulls me back to the moment, settling my worries a bit. “I’m glad to be here tonight, but you should know that I’m not really one for public speaking, so I’ll probably keep this short.”
A hushed chuckle wafts through the ballroom while Dan says, “That’s okay,” from where he stands a few feet behind.
My heart twists at Chavez’s obvious unease.
It’s so unlike him.
I’ve never seen him nervous before.
Chavez raises the mic back up to his mouth. “Well, like Dr. Osborne said, it was just about eight years ago when my partner and I got tangled up in a bad situation while we were undercover. The drug dealer we’d been surveilling somehow got wind of who we were a couple of days before our planned bust and went on a shooting spree we weren’t prepared for. Unfortunately, neither of us were wearing our vests—”
“Oh, good heavens,” I hear Patty mutter from across the table.
“Just awful,” Mrs. Hoffstra adds, sounding equally shocked.
“—so we were pretty much sitting ducks. My partner, Jay, took the shots first,” he goes on, voice wavering a bit, “and then I got hit when I went in to try and help him. Thankfully, our backup was nearby and able to take the shooter out before he could hit anyone else, but by that point the damage had been done. Jay died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital, and I was in surgery for . . .” His brows crinkle in that adorable way they do when he’s thinking. He glances back at Dan. “How long did you say it was?”
“Twelve hours,” Dan confirms.
“Wow.” Chavez turns back to us, shaking his head in disbelief. “I didn’t realize I was in there that long. I guess time flies when you’re having fun, huh?”
His unplanned joke provides a little levity to the room, but unlike my tablemates, I don’t laugh. Instead, I swallow through the desperate ache that’s quickly swelling in my throat.
Any doubts I had . . .
Any fear I felt about being rejected . . .
I don’t care.
I just need to see him.
I need to talk to him—
“Anyway, it was a really hard time for me. Besides the physical recovery, I had some tough personal things to deal with too.” He sighs. “Even though everyone else was happy I was alive, I wasn’t. I couldn’t figure out why I got to live when my partner didn’t—”
“Survivor’s guilt,” what’s his name mumbles, and then Jim Demers adds, “I’ve known servicemen that had that.”
“—but eventually I worked through it,” he continues, “with a lot of help from my family and my fellow officers. And you know what?” He shakes his head like he can’t believe what he’s about to say. “I think I’m actually better for it. A lot of really good things came from that experience.”
My breath catches as his gaze suddenly lands on mine. He’s not actually looking at me, of course. With the spotlight shining directly on him, he probably can’t even see the edge of the stage, let alone a specific person seated at a table in the middle of the ballroom, but it still feels like he is, or like he might be. And that makes me feel good. Like there might be some hope.
“And now I can honestly say that I’m happy to be alive,” Chavez goes on, turning back to the crowd and sounding a lot more like the cocky and confident guy I know. “I feel like I’ve been given a second chance at life, and I intend to live it to the fullest every day—not just for me, but also for Jay. And thanks to you”—he glances back at Dan—“I have the opportunity to do that.”
A prideful smile stretches across Dan’s face while the room erupts in a symphony of noise—applause, cheers, whistles—but none can compete with the violent pounding of my heart.
I need to see him.
I have to talk to him before he leaves!
Moving with unfamiliar urgency, I say a rushed “Excuse me” to Mrs. Hoffstra and then scramble out of my seat and hurry toward the exit at the back of the ballroom. Thankfully, most everyone’s attention is still fixed on the stage ahead—where Dan is now saying something about who the real heroes in life are—but I’m too focused on my destination to pay any attention.
Just get to him.
Find him before he leaves.
“How do I get to the stage?” I call out to a busboy who’s cleaning up the remains of our cocktail reception in the foyer.
He glances up from his tub of dirty glasses, looking unimpressed with my very important request. “Down at the end of that hall.” He motions over my shoulder with his dishrag. “You’ll see a door on your right.”
I follow his terse instructions and hurry down the marble-floored hallway, teetering like a drunk in my heels the entire way.
Please still be here.
Please still be here . . .
I skidder to a stop when I come upon the door with the STAGE ENTRANCE sign plastered across its front. Winded, I pull it open to find a short flight of stairs in front of me and the sound of Dan’s voice reverberating off the concrete walls around me. He’s introducing a woman now. Someone named Mary Crosby. That must be his other grateful patient. The one who isn’t a sexy detective.
Despite my hurried state, I’m aware that Jackie and the rest of her fundraising crew are nearby, so I take off my shoes and climb the steps barefoot, not wanting to draw any unnecessary attention to myself while I look for Chavez.
Heels dangling from my left hand, I make it to the landing, which is stage level. Much like when I earned extra credit painting sets for our sophomore class production of Grease, the backstage area is dimly lit and cluttered with scaffolding, props, and whatever other kinds of equipment they keep stored in those big black chests.
Moving on tiptoes, I creep deeper inside, coming to a stop when the stage lights start to break through the darkness. My heart beats fast as I peek around a tower of boxes to my right for a better look. From here, I can see the back of the stage—the hardwood floor gleaming beneath the spotlights—and the small audience waiting in the wings behind the floor-to-ceiling curtains. Jackie’s there, of course, along with one of her staffers, as well as Harold Dixon, Brielle’s plastic-surgeon husband, and there’s also a middle-aged woman, who, I assume, is the grateful patient Harold is going to introduce. But no Chavez.
Dammit.
My shoulders slump.
I missed him—
“Jane?”
The sudden touch to my shoulder amplifies the sound of his voice.
Breath suddenly shallowing, I turn to face him.
“Hi,” I say, unable to mask the smile that’s tugging on my lips.
“Hi,” he replies over a budding smile of his own.
“I, um—” I swallow hard, trying to prioritize my thoughts. Before tonight, I had a laundry list of things I wanted to say to him—most importantly, I’m sorry—but with what just transpired, I’m not even sure where to begin.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I would be here,” he says, unknowingly squashing my burden. “I thought about texting you, so I wouldn’t upset you on your big night, but your husband specifically asked me not to say anything. And I, um . . . well,” he sighs over a pained expression, “I honestly wasn’t sure you’d even care if I was coming—”
“What? No.” I step closer, gaze fixed squarely on his. “Of course I care. I’m so glad you’re here.”
“You are?”
“Yes. I mean, I was really surprised, but . . . yeah. I’m happy to see you.”
“Well, that’s good to hear.” He blows out a relieved breath, suggesting that the nervousness I saw onstage had nothing to do with him speaking in front of a large crowd but rather with facing one perso
n within that crowd, uncertain how she might receive him. “I was worried you’d never want to talk to me again after the way I treated you, and then to show up here on your important night—”
“Wait, what do you mean, the way you treated me?” I cut in, eyes narrowing. “I’m the one who was horrible to you. I’m the one who should be apologizing.”
“No, you shouldn’t. You were just trying to be honest with me, but I let my stupid, bruised ego get in the way of hearing you out. And now that I know what you’ve been going through, I completely understand why you did it.”
I know what you’ve been going through.
A flicker of vulnerability nips at my nerves, forcing me to inhale a deep breath before I look up at him and say, “What all did he tell you?”
His smile sags. “Pretty much everything. He told me about this event and how important it is to the hospital, and about the older couple who would never give the money if they knew the truth about him.” The truth about him. As if Dan even knows what the truth is anymore. “He said that he used your mom as leverage, and that he basically forced you into going along with all of it, even though he knew how much you didn’t want to—”
“He told you that? He said he forced me?”
He nods.
My shoulders droop and I sigh, dumbfounded. Never in my life would I have imagined Dan would see this situation through my eyes, but apparently, he did.
“I know I should kick his ass for what he’s done to you,” he goes on, “and believe me, there’s part of me that wants to; it’s just that he . . . well, he’s . . .”
“No, no. I get it.” I grab his wrist with my free hand, silencing his unnecessary worry. Just as it did three months ago, the heat from his skin warms me from the top of my head all the way to my bare toes. I swallow hard and slowly pull it away. “He saved your life. I understand why you care about him.” I drop my head. “I used to too.”
Recognizing my sadness, he gently nudges my chin with his finger, prompting me to raise my gaze to him. The kindness pooling in his eyes nearly steals my breath.
“Believe it or not, he still cares about you. That’s why he called me last night and invited me to this thing. He said he felt really bad about what he’s been doing to you and wanted to make amends.”
See Jane Snap Page 30