THIRTY-FIVE
CALLUM
“She looks like she works nights,” I say calmly, before Margaret can fire another round, “but I think she looks great, anyway.” I extend my hand, steady. “Callum Han. Friend of Jordie’s.”
“I see you’ve brought new muscle,” she says to Jordie, all feather-light.
Jordie flashes her best teeth-baring, legally-not-a-threat smile. “Why would I need muscle? Planning to strong-arm me into something?”
“Too early for that, dear.” Margaret laughs. “Shall we order?”
We sit. I angle toward Jordie instinctively. She meets my glance, already bracing for impact.
Margaret skims the menu with faint disdain, holding it as though it’s beneath her.“I hope you’re not planning to eat much, Jordanna. You know how bloated you get. That tummy pouch of yours . . . hideous. I’ll order a salad and tea for you.”
I glance at Jordie. She’s doing the thing where her eyes are fixed on a meaningless point, face carefully blank, posture military-grade still.
“She just finished a twelve-hour shift,” I say evenly. Then I turn to her, gentler. “What do you feel like?”
The waitress appears, notepad ready.
Jordie blinks, reclaiming the moment, as if just remembering she’s allowed to want things.
“I’ll have the Big Breakfast,” she says. “Extra hash browns. Extra bacon. Eggs over easy. Sriracha on the side.”
The waitress nods.
“Pancakes to share,” I add. “And a cold brew, thanks.”
Margaret doesn’t look up. “Mimosa and a croissant.”
As soon as the menus are gone, she folds her napkin with surgical precision and levels Jordie with a look. “That’s a lot of food you ordered.”
Jordie shrugs, serene. “Well, I have a lot of hunger, so . . .”
The server returns with our cutlery. Jordie lifts her hand casually.
“Actually, I’ll have an iced coffee, too,” she says sweetly, then meets Margaret’s eyes. “Large. With whipped cream.”
I can’t help the smile that pulls at the corner of my mouth.
Jordie’s a goddamn marvel.
Grace under sniper fire.
Wit like a blade.
And I want to kiss her stupid.
The food’s mostly gone now—just syrup trails and coffee rings left behind. Jordie’s iced coffee is watered down to the color of brown slush. Mine’s been empty for ten minutes, and I’m seriously considering chewing the straw for sport.
Margaret, however, is still talking.
An architect she’s seeing. Charity luncheons where she’s “donating her time.” A woman named Karen—actual name—who brings Shiraz to 10 a.m. book clubs and insists it’s “a cultural choice.”
Jordie nods along with a mask of barely contained “get-me-out-of-here.” Her foot nudges mine under the table, like she’s reminding me we’re both being held hostage.
This is diplomacy by way of endurance.
And then, right as I think Margaret might finally run out of things to say, her tone shifts.
“Honestly, Jordanna, maybe next time skip the toast if you don’t want to feel sick for hours.”
I set my fork down. Not hard, but it lands with a deliberate clink.
Jordie drags the last corner of toast through a streak of Sriracha, then takes a bite and looks at Margaret with quiet defiance, eyes flashing with that unspoken watch me.
I’ve never wanted to applaud someone for eating toast more in my life.
I clear my throat. “So, how’s Sydney, Margaret?”
Her eyes light up like I’ve offered her a spotlight.
If I have to listen to another five minutes of urban property prices and society lunches to buy Jordie a reprieve from the passive-aggressive commentary, so be it.
“Oh, Sydney is as lively as ever,” she says, dabbing her mouth with a napkin, “Opera House on Saturday. Darlinghurst gallery launch, Thursday. Culture, elegance, ambition.” Her eyes turn to Jordie. “I never understood why you didn’t enjoy the city.”
“Wasn’t the city that I didn’t enjoy,” she mumbles, straw between her lips.
Margaret either doesn’t catch it or pretends not to.
And then she pivots flawlessly, casually—to me.
“And you, Callum? When are you heading back to Sydney? Townsville can’t be permanent.”
Jordie’s straw pauses mid-swirl.
We’ve never talked about it. Not really. On paper, my five-year contract is the only thing keeping me here.
“I’ve thought about it,” I say, glancing at Jordie. “But lately, I’ve been considering staying.”
Jordie’s expression goes through a rollercoaster—a flash of something, like what I’ve said was impossible and wonderful all at once. Her lips part as though she wants to respond, but she smooths her face into practiced neutrality.
Margaret’s laugh is brittle as she lifts her Mimosa. “What a shame. Then again, I hope you’re not influenced by Jordanna. She never did have much follow-through. Similar to medical school.”
Questions ping around my brain like loose screws in a dryer.
I keep my expression indistinct, as if I’ve known this information.
“Well, she’s a phenomenal nurse now.” My voice is steady, but the pride in it isn’t subtle.
“Yes, well, she had options. Not that there’s anything wrong with being just a nurse, of course,” she adds, as if it’s an afterthought.
Something snaps.
“She’s not just a nurse,” I say, louder than I mean to. A few heads turn. “She’s one of the best I’ve worked with. She’s saved my sorry-doctor-ass more than once. And if you knew even half of what she does and how she does it, you’d be proud.”
Jordie sets her drink down with a hard thud, like she’s putting away the last of her patience.
“Why are you really here, Mother?” Jordie says, calm and unflinching. “You didn’t fly up just for brunch and a backhanded compliment. So go on. Get to it.”
Margaret pauses, lips parting like she might deny it, but Jordie’s stare doesn’t waver.
“I just thought we could have a civil conversation—”
“No,” Jordie cuts in. “You thought I’d be easier to manipulate in person.”
Margaret straightens and smooths her sleeve. “Fine. I wanted to talk about the house.”
There it is.
“You’d be foolish not to consider the offer,” she continues. “My client’s offering well above market value. It would set you up for life. I’m just concerned about your future.”
“Wow.” Jordie gives two sarcastic thumbs up. “Great pitch, Mum.”
“I’m just trying to help you make a smart decision.”
“No. You’re helping yourself to a commission.”
“It’s just a house, darling.”
“That house is the last piece of Dad,” Jordie leans in, with a tone that could frost the room. “That house took care of me long after he died. Because Dad knew you wouldn’t.”
Her voice catches, then strengthens.
“So don’t pretend you’re worried about my future. The only future you’ve ever cared about is yours.”
“Jordanna—”
Jordie barrels over her. “Let me make this easy. Even if that house meant nothing to me, I still wouldn’t sell. Just to spite you.”
Margaret’s mouth opens, but Jordie’s already up, tossing her napkin onto the plate. “We’re done here.”
She walks out. Doesn’t look back.
I rise too, pulling out my wallet. I toss some bills on the table, then meet Margaret’s stunned gaze.
“I’m so fucking proud of her,” I say pointedly. “In case you don’t know what that looks like.”
We step into the sunlight. Jordie’s already speed-walking like the café’s on fire.
I catch up, my heart thudding. “Jords? Are you okay?”
She whirls so fast I brace for impact. But then, she grins. Wide. Relieved. Giddy.
“Oh my God,” her breath hitching like she can’t believe it. “We made it out alive. A few scrapes, possible stress ulcers, but alive.”
She shakes her head, dazed. “I think that’s the first meal I’ve had with her where I didn’t want to lock myself in a padded room afterward.”
A stunned, disbelieving laugh escapes me. “You’re unreal.”
She raises a brow. “Unreal as in unstable or—?”
“Incredible. Strong.” I pause. Then, because it’s true: “Hot.”
Her eyes go wide. “Hot?”
“Sriracha’s got nothing on you.”
She flushes, beams, and elbows my ribs.
We reach the car. I unlock it, and she hesitates at the passenger side, hands hovering.
“Can we go to your place instead?” Her voice is light, too casual. “Margaret might show up at mine. Leith said if she sets foot on my driveway, he’s hiring a sniper.”
She swipes a hand through her hair, laughs once. It cracks a little at the end.
“Also, your place has better snacks.”
There it is—hidden in the humor.
She doesn’t want to be alone.
She just doesn’t know how to say that.
“You’re only using me for my pantry,” I say.
“Obviously,” she deadpans, climbing in. “And the view. And the compliments.”
God help me, I’d let her use me for all three.
We’re ten minutes into the drive when I finally ask.
“So,” I say carefully, one hand on the wheel, the other adjusting the air conditioner, “med school? Can I ask?”
“Not much to tell,” she exhales, eyes fixed on the window. “Made it to third year. The endo got worse. I missed classes and rotations, couldn’t sit through lectures without painkillers. Felt like trying to run a marathon with concrete shoes and a knife in my gut.”
A shrug. Casual. Like it’s just an inconvenience. Not the thing that broke a whole dream.
“Eventually, I couldn’t keep up. Failed three subjects.”
Her voice drops.
“Mum beat the shit out of me. Called me lazy. Said I embarrassed her. Made it sound like I quit because I wasn’t good enough.”
My voice is low. Uselessly horrified. “I’m so sorry. That must have been—”
But there’s no word big enough. Not for that kind of betrayal.
“You’re good, Jordie. So goddamn good. And not just at your job. Just who you are.”
She nods, barely. As if she’s pocketing the words.
“Alright,” I say, lightly, “if you’d stayed in med, what specialty? And if you say surgery, we’re done. Friendship over.”
That gets a laugh. “Wow. Harsh.” She grins. “Sorry to disappoint, I was dead set on neurosurgery.”
I groan. “Unbelievable. We were doing so well.”
The smile fades, softens.
“My dad,” she says quietly. “His quad bike toppled. Just a stiff neck, he said. I told him to go to the hospital. He said he was fine.”
I glance over, already sensing where this is going.
“That night, he had a headache. Didn’t watch TV. He said the light was too bright. He threw up. Blamed the food.” Her tone frays, barely holding. “He never woke up. Slow subdural hemorrhage. I didn’t know enough to fight him harder.”
“You were thirteen,” I say. “You couldn’t have diagnosed a brain bleed.”
She nods. But the guilt stays. Too old and worn in.
My hand leaves the dial, rests briefly on her leg—gentle, grounding. Not a move. Just something real.
“You would have been a phenomenal neurosurgeon,” I murmur. “But I’m glad I met you the way I did. Even if you do strike fear into the hearts of doctors daily.”
That gets another laugh. Quieter, but it stays.
“Callum, are you still wounded from that ICU handover I roasted you in?”
“You were savage.”
“It was a shit handover.”
She’s not wrong. I still think about it.
We sit in silence until we turn into my apartment complex.
The elevator doors close behind us with a soft hiss. Silence settles with the weight of a sigh.
Jordie leans back against the mirrored wall, arms loose at her sides, scrubs rumpled, and curls framing her face. Battle-worn. Someone who’s walked through fire and come out the other side still standing.
I look at her, and she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
In the way her eyes hold mine without flinching. In the shape of her mouth when she isn’t trying to smile. In the tired grace of her spine as she straightens—resilient, practiced, surviving something she never should’ve had to survive.
Our eyes meet in the mirror.
There’s a flicker of something when her gaze finds mine in the reflection. Relief. Gratitude. Trust.
“Thanks for sticking up for me,” she says, voice quiet.
“Wasn’t exactly a hardship.”
She smiles. Beautiful. Real.
The elevator dings. We step into the hallway.
“For the record,” she says, “you were terrifyingly good at handling Margaret.”
I grin, reaching for the door, “High praise. I’ll add it to my résumé.”
She snorts, brushing past me.
“We probably should’ve grabbed clothes from your place,” I say, locking up behind us. “You don’t have anything here.”
I turn toward her—
And stop.
She’s already peeling off her scrub top, bare skin catching the morning light from the windowpane as she glances over her shoulder.
“It’s cute you think I need clothes. Callum.”