Part 1The Rebound Theory

It started with a night shift at the ER.

I was doing rounds, exhausted, when I saw her. A stunning woman fighting to stay awake next to her daughter’s IV drip. She looked wrecked—messy bun, sweatpants, no makeup—but I still couldn't take my eyes off her.

As I approached, the little girl blinked at me. She recognized me from her checkup a few days ago.

"Dr. Ethan!" she chirped.

The mom snapped awake, smoothing her hair frantically. "Oh, God. Sorry. We’re back again."

The patient was Lily, a sweet kid I’d treated for bronchitis earlier that week. Maybe I’d given them a little extra attention because, well, the mom looked like she needed a break.

"Where’s Dad tonight?" I asked, checking Lily’s vitals.

The second the words left my mouth, I wanted to punch myself. Way to be professional, Ethan.

The woman didn’t get mad. She just gave a tired, polite smile. "Oh, he’s... busy."

"Right. Well, I’m on call all night," I said, trying to sound doctorly and not like a guy whose heart was hammering against his ribs. "If you need anything, page me."

"Dr. Ethan, can I get your number?" Lily asked innocently.

"Lily! That’s rude," her mom hushed her.

"It’s totally fine. Actually, it’s better for follow-ups," I lied smoothly. I’m a pediatrician; I know how to charm kids. But let’s be real—I was charming the mom. Lily looked exactly like her.

The mom sighed and pulled out her iPhone. "She doesn’t have a phone. You can add me, if that’s okay."

My hands were shaking as I typed in my number. I walked back to the nurses' station sweating like I’d just run a marathon. A minute later, a text popped up:

“Hi Dr. Ethan, it’s Maya. Thanks for everything.”

I typed and deleted three different responses before settling on: “Call me Ethan. No problem.”

I wanted to say, “Call me anytime. You look like you’re carrying the weight of the world alone.” But I didn’t have the guts. Because unlike me—a single guy approaching his mid-thirties—she had a family.

Or so I thought.

She didn’t recognize me. Maya. Maya Sterling. The Campus Queen of UCLA.

* * *

Back in college, Maya was the girl every guy dreamed about. She was effortlessly beautiful and famously unattainable. She rejected the captain of the football team. Rumor had it she turned down a guy because he didn’t play the cello. Seriously. The cello.

Everyone said she was waiting for Brad, our class president—the golden boy who transferred to London after freshman year. People said she never dated because she was saving herself for him.

I watched her from the sidelines for four years. We only spoke once, at the graduation party. I was the MC; she sang a ballad that made half the room cry.

Liquid courage in my veins, I cornered her afterward with a cheap bouquet. "You were amazing," I stammered. "People say I kinda look like Brad, you know? Ha. Ha."

I was an idiot.

She just smiled that polite, distant smile. "Thanks. But the rumors about me and Brad? They aren't true." Then she vanished.

Ten years later, I was still that idiot. Seeing her name on my phone made my palms sweat. I checked her Instagram—private. Of course.