CHAPTER 27: SECOND COFFEE
The coffee shop Cameron chose sits on a quiet street in Trenton—thirty minutes from Princeton, far from anyone who might recognize two PPTH fellows sharing a corner booth. Strategic. I appreciate that about her.
She's already at a table when I arrive, hands wrapped around a ceramic mug that's too big for practical use. She's wearing a soft grey sweater instead of her usual blazer, and something about seeing her out of work clothes makes this feel more real. More dangerous.
"You found it." She smiles as I slide into the seat across from her. "I was worried my directions were terrible."
"Your directions were fine. My GPS is the problem." I flag down the waitress, order a flat white, and the woman gives me a look that says we don't do that here. I settle for black coffee. Small victories.
Cameron laughs—actually laughs, not the polite hospital variety. "Does that happen often?"
"Every American coffee shop I've been in. You'd think after a decade, I'd give up."
"But you don't."
"Hope springs eternal." The coffee arrives. Bitter, adequate. I take a sip anyway. "How was your week? Beyond the usual chaos."
"I caught up on sleep. Read half a novel. Almost convinced myself I have hobbies." She tilts her head. "You?"
"Survived House's stress test." The memory of those impossible deadlines still sits in my shoulders—tension I haven't fully released. "Managed to avoid any lasting psychological damage."
"That seems like a low bar."
"It's House. Low bars are still bars."
We fall into easy conversation—books she's reading (literary fiction I pretend to have opinions on), music I miss from Australia (she's never heard of most of the bands, but she asks good questions), places we'd travel if medicine didn't consume every spare moment.
She wants to do medical missions. Doctors Without Borders, maybe. Somewhere remote, somewhere her skills would be stretched beyond the comfortable confines of a teaching hospital. The way she talks about it—animated, almost glowing—reminds me that she's not just kind. She's fierce about it.
"What about you?" She steals a piece of the biscotti I ordered. "Where would you go if you could?"
I think about it. Really think, which is harder than it sounds. The memories I have of Australia are Chase's, not mine—Sydney beaches, Melbourne coffee culture, the sharp blues of the Barrier Reef. But they feel distant. Borrowed.
"Back to the coast, maybe. There's a town near Cairns—tiny, barely on any map. The water's so clear you can see fish from the cliffs." I pause, surprised by how real it feels. "I haven't been in years."
"Why not?"
"Work. Distance. The usual excuses." And the fact that I'm not really Robert Chase, and going back might shatter whatever fragile identity I've constructed. But I don't say that. "What about you? What's stopping you from the mission work?"
She shrugs. "Fear, probably. It's easy to want things when they're theoretical. Actually doing them means admitting you're serious."
"And you're not sure you're serious?"
"I'm not sure I'm brave." She says it like a confession. "It's one thing to want to help people. It's another to actually go somewhere dangerous and do it."
"You'd be good at it." I mean it. "You're the only person on the team who genuinely cares whether patients like us."
"That's not—"
"It's true. Foreman wants to prove himself. House wants the puzzle. I want—" I stop. What do I want? "To not make things worse, mostly. But you actually care about them as people. That's rare."
She looks at me for a long moment. The coffee shop noise fades—clinking cups, murmured conversations—and it's just us in this little pocket of warmth.
"House thinks everyone's damaged," she says. "Are you?"
The question lands heavier than she probably intended. I consider my answer carefully. The truth—that I died and woke up in someone else's body, that I carry memories of a life that technically wasn't mine, that I can hear lies like ringing bells in my skull—isn't an option.
But I can give her something real.
"I've had difficult experiences. Father was... complicated. Seminary taught me things about myself I wasn't ready to learn. Medicine showed me human fragility in ways I still process." I pause. "But damaged? No. Changed, maybe. Aware."
"That's a very measured answer."
"Measured is safer."
"Than what?"
"Than being the kind of honest that scares people away." I hold her gaze. "Ask me something you actually want to know. I'll try."
She considers this. "I'm always drawn to broken people. Trying to fix them, I guess. It's what killed my marriage before it even started—marrying a dying man because I thought love could save him." She takes a breath. "You don't seem to need fixing. Is that... disappointing?"
The question catches me off-guard. Not because it's bold—Cameron's always been braver than she gives herself credit for—but because she's asking whether my wholeness is a problem.
"Is it disappointing that I'm not a project?" I lean back. "For you or for me?"
"Either. Both."
"For me? No. I spent a long time trying to fix myself. Having it mostly work is a relief, not a burden." I pause. "For you... I don't know. You'll have to tell me."
"It's different." She says it slowly, testing the words. "Better, maybe. I'm not sure yet."
"Take your time." I smile slightly. "I'm not going anywhere."
We finish our coffee. The conversation drifts to lighter things—a terrible movie she watched last week, a patient who brought House homemade cookies (House ate three and claimed they were poisoned), the eternal mystery of why hospital cafeteria Jell-O comes in only one color.
Walking to the parking lot, the autumn air bites through my jacket. Cameron's car is three spots from mine. We stop between them, and suddenly the space feels charged.
She's close. Close enough that I could lean in. Close enough that she'd let me.
But I don't.
"I'm glad we did this again," she says.
"So am I."
Her hand touches my arm—brief, intentional, warm through my sleeve—and then she's stepping back, keys in hand, the moment preserved but not pressed.
"Same time next week?" she asks.
"Friday works."
She smiles, slides into her car, and drives away.
I stand in the parking lot for another minute, processing. She's interested. That's clear. But she's cautious, testing whether I'm real or just convenient, whether this feeling is attraction or projection.
Patience. I can do patience.
The drive home is quiet. I think about the evening—what went right, what I'm risking. She's drawn to me for the right reasons now. Competence, warmth, stability. Not damage, not darkness.
This is healthier than the original timeline. A better foundation.
But it also means more to lose if my secrets explode.
Worth the risk.
I hope.
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