Chapter 2
Maggie
The door sticks like always. I lean my shoulder into it and give it a firm shove.
That does the trick. I hold the paper bag filled with prescriptions so tightly my fingers cramp.
I ignore the discomfort and push the door further open until it gives with a tired groan.
There’s a nip in the air, and I want my dad inside quickly.
Cold air trails in behind us, curling through the narrow hallway. Inside isn’t much warmer than outside.
Keeping an eye on my dad, I rush toward the thermostat and fiddle with the dial. The old heater clicks to life, filling the silence with a soft breath that’s more promise than warmth.
“Let’s get you seated,” I tell Dad, though he’s already moving toward the recliner his life revolves around these days. He’s only in his late sixties, but I’ve seen ninety-year-olds move faster.
Since I know he doesn’t like me fussing like a mother hen, I set the bag on the counter and start unpacking. The doc prescribed antibiotics, renewed the bronchodilator, and added a small box of vitamins. There’s also the folded instruction sheet with Caleb’s neat handwriting.
Not Dr. Chambers.
Caleb.
My Caleb once upon a time, before life got complicated and heartbreak settled between us like a living thing neither of us knew how to cross.
I trace my thumb over his name before I can stop myself.
Last fall, he came back to Iron Ridge after his divorce, and somehow the whole town knew within twenty-four hours.
Since then, I’ve perfected the art of pretending he doesn’t still affect me.
Pretending my stomach doesn’t knot every time I spot his dark-blue hybrid parked outside the clinic or catch sight of him at Friday night football games beneath those bright stadium lights we once dreamed of leaving behind together.
It’s pathetic, really.
We’re not teenagers anymore. I’m thirty-five years old, exhausted half the time, and carrying responsibilities that never seem to end.
None of that stops the butterflies from losing their damn minds every time he looks at me.
I unfold the paper carefully.
Maggie-
Keep your dad warm and hydrated. Give him extra oxygen for the first three days.
I have prescribed a ten-day antibiotic treatment. Even if he’s without symptoms before the ten days are over, it’s important to finish them to kill any residual bacteria.
You’re both familiar with the bronchodilator; he can use it 4-6 times per day.
Keep watching his breathing and call me if it gets worse. Also call me if the bronchodilator doesn’t help long enough.
Call if you need anything.
That’s it for your dad.
Now for you. I want you to take care of yourself, which includes proper rest and at least three nutritious meals per day. I’ve also added some vitamins for you to take. They should help—a little—with the exhaustion.
I will check on you and your dad in forty-eight hours, whether you call me or not.
Now eat something, take a vitamin, and go to bed. That’s doctor’s orders.
Caleb
I stare at his name longer than I should.
The signature shouldn’t matter. It absolutely does.
Because no matter how many years pass, some stubborn part of me still melts a little knowing he signed it Caleb instead of Dr. Chambers.
I lower the paper. He also said to rest at the clinic, and I nodded, because that’s what people expect you to do when they’re trying to help.
I let the note drift back to the counter and mechanically fetch the chicken soup from the fridge. While it warms on the stove, I go check on my dad.
“Hungry?” I ask.
Dad shakes his head, huddled into his worn recliner. “Maybe later.”
He always says that.
“I have chicken soup. It’ll go down nicely. You need some food, Dad. Please.”
He gives me a tired smile. “All right, darling.”
Pleased with his compliance, I return to the kitchen.
The soup smells savory and rich, the kind of scent that almost feels like comfort.
I stir the pot and give it a few more minutes before lining up the bottles, labels facing forward, and jotting a quick note about their use.
I should get Dad on the antibiotics right away.
I fill a glass of water and return to the living room.
He sighs when I place a pill in his palm and wait until he takes it.
His hand is all brittle bones, the skin like parchment paper.
He curls his fingers around the pill, and I cover them for a moment before pulling back to hand him the water.
After watching him dutifully swallow the antibiotic, I go back to the kitchen and turn down the heat before ladling soup into two bowls.
Back with my dad, I set mine on the table and sit beside him, supporting his hand while he eats a few spoonfuls. After the second taste, he gives me another weak smile. “It’s wonderful.”
For a split second, I let myself hope. Maybe he’ll finish his meal this time. But five more swallows later, he shakes his head. “I’m done, darling. Thank you. It was delicious.”
I offer a token protest, though we both know it’s useless. I can’t force him to eat. I put away his bowl and settle with mine.
When I sit, the chair creaks beneath me.
The air still carries a chill that no heater seems to chase from this drafty old house.
I eat, let the warmth settle from the inside out, and watch Dad’s chest rise and fall.
Maybe it’s some stupid hope, but it seems slow and even, and I tell myself that’s enough for tonight. It should be enough.
But the same old thought finds me anyway, curling up from the dark corners of my mind.
If I hadn’t been such a difficult baby… if I hadn’t made it so hard for her to bring me into the world…
Breathing through my nose, I press my palms flat against the table until the tremor in my fingers fades.
When my heart stops racing, I ignore the churning in my belly and eat more soup.
A cough breaks the quiet. I push my bowl aside, get up and kneel beside my dad, adjusting the blanket, tucking it closer around his shoulders. His breath catches and releases, a fragile rhythm I’ve lived by for years. He pats my arm, a gesture so automatic it makes my throat tighten.
“You should rest, Mags,” he murmurs.
I know, but I can’t.
“I will,” I lie, smoothing the blanket one more time, even though it doesn’t need it.
When he drifts off again, I carry the bowls to the counter. The note from Caleb lies beside the bottles, the edges curling slightly.
Call if you need anything.
The words should not feel personal after all these years. They do anyway.
I smooth the paper flat with my fingertips and stare at his handwriting longer than necessary.
I used to recognize it instantly when we were together.
Notes folded into textbooks. Scribbled grocery lists for the tiny apartment in Kansas City we once planned down to the color of the couch.
Birthday cards tucked into my bag before work.
I still catch myself reaching for things Caleb likes even though I don’t care for: hazelnut creamer, salt-and-vinegar chips, and that ridiculous extra-sharp cheese he insists belongs on almost everything.
For a while, I even kept buying overripe bananas before finally admitting to myself I never actually used them.
Caleb loves banana bread warm from the oven at midnight, usually eaten straight from the pan while pretending he’s only going to have one slice.
I stopped making it at some point.
Not because I dislike it, but because the smell lingering in the kitchen afterward made the whole house feel emptier somehow.
Caleb came back to Iron Ridge divorced and quieter than I remembered.
Older, too. There are faint lines around his eyes now and silver beginning at his temples that should not suit him nearly as much as it does.
Time changed him in ways I was not prepared for.
He feels steadier now, less restless than the boy who once wanted to outrun this town, but there is still something powerful beneath all that calm.
On me, the years mostly look tired.
I glance down at myself automatically. The oversized cardigan. Dry hands. Jeans with flour dust still clinging to one thigh. My hair shoved up without much thought because there is always something else that matters more.
And still, when he looked at me tonight with those warm gray eyes, it felt dangerously close to the way he used to.
Kindness lives naturally in Caleb’s face now.
In the calm steadiness of him. In the way he listens before he speaks.
But I remember those same gray eyes turning dark as storm clouds when he kissed me years ago, heat and hunger replacing all that gentleness until I forgot my own name beneath his hands.
My stomach tightens unexpectedly at the memory.
That was always the danger with Caleb. Never my body. Never my safety. My heart was the thing he could ruin without even trying.
I spent years teaching myself not to think too hard about Caleb Chambers.
It was easier that way after he left for Kansas City and residency swallowed his life whole while mine stayed here shrinking smaller and smaller around hospital rooms, oxygen tanks, prescription bottles, and responsibilities that never seemed to end.
But tonight, standing in that clinic while he watched me like I mattered, something old stirred awake inside me whether I wanted it to or not.
The heater stirs to life again, a soft rush through the vents.
I should do the dishes, freeze the rest of the soup, and prepare the next round of meds.
Instead, I stay where I am, eyes on the note, pretending the warmth spreading through the kitchen isn’t coming from the thought of a man who noticed more than he should have.