(Natasha)Dr. Hannah Myles has publications.Fourteen of them, indexed, peer-reviewed, and I know this because it's nine p.m. and I'm three pages deep into a medical database instead of sleeping.There's a conference photo.She's presenting something about valve repair, hair up, laser pointer in hand, looking like the kind of woman who saves lives before lunch and never once loses her keys.Lily's monitor hums on the nightstand as I close the laptop.This is ridiculous. I'm being ridiculous.Chase had a drink with the mother of his son.One drink, in her kitchen, fully clothed, about custody logistics and the impact of me moving.He told me about it himself, unprompted, the second Elijah went to bed."It was nice," he said. "First time we've talked like normal people."Nice.He said it was nice, and something in me pulled a fire alarm.Because here's what my brain served up at two a.m. that day and has been reheating since.I'm getting on a plane in five weeks.She's staying right her
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