After Rejection, Divorced Luna Becomes a Famous Doctor novel · Chapter 2 of 32

Chapter 2: The Only Light On

At a 24-hour diner Luna is fed by its owner Fergus and spots what's wrong with his sick niece Ciara, then learns Veronica has found her pregnancy test.

The hotel room had a view of a parking garage and a minibar I was afraid to open.

I lasted until midnight.

Then I put my coat back on and walked.

I walked south because south was away from Delancey Street.

The rain turned to mist somewhere past Washington Avenue.

By one in the morning every window on the block was dark except one.

RIORDAN'S, in red neon, with the second R flickering.

A corner diner with fogged glass and a bell over the door.

I went in because I was cold, and because I didn't want to be alone in a room with my own thoughts.

The bell rang.

Nobody looked up except the cook.

He was the biggest man I'd ever seen behind a grill.

Broad shoulders under a white T-shirt, a striped apron, a short dark red beard.

Burn scars ran up both of his forearms.

"Sit anywhere," he said. "Anywhere's open."

I took a red booth near the kitchen door.

He didn't bring a menu.

He brought a glass of ginger ale and a plate of dry toast, cut in triangles.

"I didn't order this," I said.

"You came in green." He set down a napkin. "I've been feeding people at one in the morning for twenty years. Green gets toast."

"What if I wanted a cheeseburger?"

"Do you want a cheeseburger?"

The smell of the grill reached me and my stomach turned over.

"No."

"Toast, then." He was already walking away. "You can yell at me after you eat it."

I ate all four triangles.

Then I ate the second plate he brought without asking.

There was a little girl two booths down.

Red hair in two messy braids, a hoodie so big it swallowed her hands, markers lined up on the table.

She was drawing on the paper placemat.

It was one in the morning, and she was wide awake.

"Ciara," the cook said, without turning from the grill. "Bed."

"I'm not tired, Uncle Fergus."

"You've got school."

"I've got a stomachache. You can't sleep with a stomachache. It's science."

She peeled the foil lid off a plastic fruit cup.

Peaches in syrup, the kind schools hand out by the case.

She ate it in four spoonfuls, making a face the whole time.

"They make us take one home every day," she told me, because I was looking. "It's the new program. Fruit is good for you."

"Is it good for you?"

She thought about it.

"No."

Twenty minutes later she threw up all over the booth.

Fergus was there before I was.

He scooped her up.

He held her hair back over the bus tub, gentler than his big hands looked.

"There we go," he said. "There we go, kid. Get it out."

She was shaking.

Her lips had gone a gray color I didn't like.

"Does she have juice in the back?" I asked.

"Juice?" Fergus said. "Juice makes it worse. Everything sweet makes it worse. Three doctors, and they all say the same thing."

"What do they say?"

"Anxiety." He wiped her face with a clean towel. "Her mom died two years ago. They say it's in her head. Picky eating. Nerves."

"Ciara," I said. "Do you like candy?"

She looked at me like I'd asked if she liked homework.

"Candy is disgusting."

"What about french fries?"

"Salty ones." Her voice was small but sure. "And eggs. Eggs are the best food."

"Does your tummy hurt after fries?"

"No. Only after the fruit cups. And birthday cake. And the juice boxes at school."

I turned to Fergus.

"When did this start? Was she a baby?"

He stared at me.

"When my sister started her on baby food," he said slowly. "Applesauce. She screamed for a week. They called it colic."

The diner was very quiet.

The grill hissed behind him.

"Keep fruit away from her for a week," I said. "Juice, sweets, ketchup, the school cups. All of it. Give her eggs and toast and fries. Let's see what happens."

"Who are you?"

"I'm a doctor."

It came out easier than I expected.

I hadn't said it out loud in three years.

He looked at me for a long moment, holding his niece against his chest.

Then he nodded once.

"Fergus Riordan," he said. "That's Ciara. Your toast is on the house for life."

"That's a terrible business plan."

"You haven't seen my books."

Ciara laughed into his shoulder.

The color was coming back to her mouth.

I laughed too, and it surprised me so much I stopped.

My phone buzzed on the table.

A text, at 1:52 in the morning, from a number I knew.

Veronica's lawyer.

Dr. Mayhew. Mrs. Kenley has arranged a confirmation test for you this Friday at 9 a.m. A car will collect you. Please confirm receipt.

My hand went flat on my stomach.

The box.

I had thrown the empty test box in the trash of the master bathroom.

Veronica had let herself in that morning, the way she always did.

She had found it.

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