17. Paris Young

                                    

                                          


                          
✺✺✺

                          
                  BE BRAVE. BE BRAVE. 
                          
                  Paris worked best in stressful situations. Pressure—that was where she thrived. That was where she flourished.
                          
                  To be a doctor at a renowned hospital, to get her dream job, Paris had placed top five of her med school class. She was good, and she knew it. Tumours, diseases, the dysfunction of red and white blood cells . . . it was a language she understood. She was fluent in the art of anatomy—the map of medicine.
                          
                But now, as she pushed open the door to the hospital, the air was calm.
                          
                As though the storm they had been forecasting was . . . gone. 
                          
               The night sky was clear, the stars bright—and for the first time in months, Paris could see the northern lights.
                          
               The aurora borealis—her favourite part of living here.
                          
               They couldn't see it all the time, but when it did come . . . those swirling, liquid colours smeared across the stars . . . it was breathtaking.
                          
              Paris's chest caught.
                          
             "Beautiful, huh?" 
                          
              Paris glanced to the side—where Rory was leaning against the hospital wall. Still dazed, Paris nodded.
                          
              Except Rory wasn't looking at the northern lights.
                          
              It took Paris a moment—a moment to realize.
                          
             "You're standing," she gasped.
                          
             On either side of her, Rory was braced by crutches beneath her arms. The cast over her leg seemed awkward, angled, but . . . she was standing.
                          
            "How?" Paris demanded. "This is . . . how is that possible?"
                          
            "A lot of work," Rory said grimly. "And . . . your friend, Alec, helped a little. I might be on a couple painkillers right now, but―it's worth it. For you."
                          
            For you. Against her will, Paris blushed.
                          
            Rory's grin dented both cheeks. Two identical dimples.
                          
            Real. 
                          
            All of this was real. 
                          
           It was so real it hurt. Did Paris really forgive her? Was the past really behind them? And her heart―was her heart still broken?
                          
           Looking at Rory now, she could only think the answer was no. 
                          
           Maybe they were both a little broken. But wasn't that what it meant, to be human? To be alive? 
                          
           And even if Rory was rough around the edges, even if she was still as destructively charming as before, as roguishly beautiful as ever . . .
                          
           They had the same fire in them. The same blue flame, the hottest spark of passion. And the last time they had loved hard and ended in pieces.
                          
           But Paris thought of the way Tasha had smiled.
                          
           And that was because of Rory.