FIFTY-FOUR
JORDIE
“Can’t I just donate the money? Why do I have to run?”
Leith doesn’t miss a beat. “Because I was supposed to do this run with Callum. Before you broke his penis.”
A couple of onlookers glance over, startled.
I slap a hand over his mouth, mortified. “I did not break his penis!”
He peels my fingers away, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Callum stores an unfortunate amount of sentiment in his penis, Jordie.”
“Ugh! Don’t say it like that,” I groan.
Leith stretches like he’s prepping for the Olympics, Lycra and all. “Stop sulking. It’s called the Melissa Pratt Foundation Fun Run. Keyword: fun.”
If “fun run” isn’t an oxymoron (emphasis on the moron), I don’t know what is. Next, they’ll say “pleasant pap smear.”
“Right,” I mutter, fidgeting at the hem of my decidedly non-athletic tank top that hints I got dressed five minutes ago under duress. “Nothing says fun like public humiliation and chafing.”
He shrugs. “You’ll thank me when the endorphins hit.”
I scan the crowd. Families in matching shirts. Couples who look like they sprint marathons for foreplay. Me, who almost faked a twisted ankle to stay home and read Sanditon.
Leith slaps my shoulder. “You ready?”
“For what? Death?”
The whistle blows.
We run.
And as much as I want to hate this, there’s something about the rhythm of sneakers hitting the pavement, the shared momentum that almost makes me forget everything weighing me down.
Almost.
The past month has been . . . hard. Civil, maybe, but hard.
Polite nods. Clinical conversations. Everything between us stripped down to the functional.
He’s still Callum, thoughtful and steady, but the warmth is gone, and I feel the absence of it.
Like a black hole, swallowing every part of me that used to feel complete.
Leith taps my shoulder and points at the photographers up ahead. “Smile, Jords!”
I roll my eyes and flash a dead-eyed grin.
The last thing I want is to be immortalized looking like I’m one side stitch away from dying.
Somewhere between dodging a juice-box-wielding child and not tripping over a Labrador in a tutu, I feel a twinge.
Probably my body politely reminding me I wasn’t built for cardio.
The route loops around the foreshore. Leith runs beside me while running his mouth. He’s got a quip for every jogger, every camera, every sports attire—God help us if anyone ever hands him a mic.
All the way around, he annoys me. And all the way around, the cramp in my side gets worse. This isn’t a stitch. It’s another endo flare-up.
Shit. Today of all days.
Then, as if the universe isn’t content with my suffering, a grandma wearing a visor and a fanny pack power-walks past me.
Awesome. Just add “outpaced by someone’s nana” to my list of personal low points.
By the home stretch, I’ve stopped pretending I’m enjoying this. My legs are lead. The cramp’s bloomed into something heavier. Every breath drags on barbed wire. Still, I keep pace with Leith. Not because I can. Because I’m stubborn.
“Almost there,” he says, surprisingly gentle now.
I clutch my side, resisting the urge to crawl across the finish line.
We cross the finish line together—him waving at the crowd and me collapsing onto a patch of grass like a deflated pool float.
“You survived.” He flops down next to me.
“Barely.” I press a hand to my side.
We stay there, sprawled out on the grass, pretending the world can wait.
Behind us, the crowd fades to a soft hum—parents corralling sugar-high kids, volunteers collecting paper cups, a brass band absolutely butchering “Happy” by Pharrell somewhere near the sausage sizzle tent.
But here? It’s just us and the sky.
The clouds drift above—lazy, aimless. I try to match my breath to them. Anything to ignore the sharp pinch blooming in my side.
Leith breaks the silence first, his voice gentler than I expect. “You okay?”
I glance sideways, shielding my eyes from the sun. “Which part? Physical? Emotional? Mental?” I pause. “You know what? No, to all counts.”
His fingers find mine in the grass. He doesn’t squeeze, just holds. A simple tether.
“You’ll be fine,” he says quietly, like a promise he’s learning to believe.
“Are you?” I ask. “Seven years down the road. After Mel.”
He doesn’t answer.
We lie there for a beat, the silence stretching between us, filled with grass and clouds and everything we’ve both lost.
I turn my head toward him. “Brisbane’s done and dusted. Mel would be proud of you.”
His expression softens, gaze fixed on the sky. He squeezes my hand once—firm, anchoring—then lets go and gets to his feet.
“I’m driving up to Cairns tonight,” he says, brushing grass off his legs. “Lark flew in.”
I roll my eyes. “What’s your brother doing back in Australia? Did Dubai finally spit him out?”
Leith lets out a laugh—short, brittle. “He’s signing with some tech startup. Figured he’d help me untangle the Brisbane zoning mess while he’s here. I might have the Iverton now, but Dad’s still got it by the throat, tied up in council hell. Lark reckons he can push the permits through.”
“Right.” I fold my arms. “Because nothing says ethical philanthropy like calling in favors from a NovaCorp exec whose LinkedIn bio reads like Dr. Evil’s resumé.”
His jaw tenses. “I didn’t say I trusted him. I said he could help.”
I tilt my head, frowning. “And you don’t see the difference?”
He ignores me the way he usually does when it comes to his brother. Instead, his focus zeroes in on me when I hiss and press a hand to my side.
“How bad?” he asks, crouching a little so he can catch my face.
I force a shrug. “My usual level of cursed.”
“Do you want us to go to the hospital?”
“Fuck, no. I need to go home, marinate in heat packs, eat snacks, and imagine Mr. Darcy bringing me tea while my uterus is told, firmly and at length, to get a grip.”
“Jordie.”
“I’m fine, Leith.”
He looks at me for a long second. “Are you lying?”
“Always. But not about this.”
He rises to his feet. “I’ll drive you home.”
I shake my head. “Absolutely not. There are three press vans over there. Go do your interviews and get on the road before dark so you don’t end up in a head-on collision with a kangaroo in the middle of the Bruce Highway.”
He stays there half a second longer, clearly unconvinced. Then he presses a bottle of water into my hand. “Text me when you get home, or I’ll send a search party and make it everyone’s problem.”
He ruffles my damp hair before walking off, blending into the crowd with his lanyard and Lycra.
I watch him go, the ache in my side returning with a throb. I don’t move.
Can’t.
By the time I get home, I’m fully convinced that this pain is simply karma for all the crap I flung at Leith during the fun run. Like, sure, mock the man’s Lycra, and the universe smacks you with abdominal vengeance.
I toss my keys on the counter, text Leith that I’m home and head straight for the medicine cabinet. Two painkillers. Take a big gulp of water and mutter a very adult, “Fix it, please,” to the universe.
It does not.
Plan B: scald myself into relief. The hot water pounding on my back feels like the closest thing to a hug I desperately need but am too stubborn to ask for. But the second I step out and towel off, the ache sharpens, radiating across my back.
I drag on clothes and shuffle to the kitchen, where I manage two bites of toast before my stomach rebels. I make it to the sink in time. Barely. Then I rest my head against the cool laminate.
Everything feels hot—like I’m trapped in one of those sweaty Bikram yoga classes people pretend to enjoy. I check my temperature and it’s normal. No fever. Which means I have absolutely no excuse for why I’m sweating harder than a busted radiator.
I take more painkillers. Lie down. Shift. Nothing works. The couch is a medieval torture device. The bed’s worse. The carpet might as well be gravel.
Eventually, I end up on the kitchen floor, cheek pressed to the tiles, letting the cool seep in. It’s the only place and position that doesn’t make me want to scream.
I think of my dad. Of how if he were around, I would’ve called him. He would’ve driven down straight away, given me a gentle smack, then pulled me into a hug.
Because he always said, “Call someone before you do something stupid, JoJo.”
I grab my phone. Tap Leith’s name. Cancel before it rings. He’s driving up the coast by now, off to Cairns.
I stare at my screen for a second too long, then scroll.
Callum’s name blinks up.
I really shouldn’t. We’re colleagues now. Distant. Strangers in scrubs. The kind of strangers who once knew exactly how the other one tasted in the dark.
But the pain twists again—sharp, deep, wrong—and my thumb moves before I can stop it.
It rings. And rings. Voicemail.
I hit redial. It rings out again.
Then again. Because clearly, I’ve lost all shame.
No answer.
I let the phone fall from my hand; the sound of it hitting the tiles barely registering over the pounding of my pulse in my ears.
There are two types of medical workers.
The ones who get a paper cut and immediately spiral into a WebMD-fueled death prophecy involving six tropical parasites and maybe lupus.
And then there’s the rest of us—the ones who won’t go near the ED unless something’s actively spurting, detaching, or talking back.
The stabbing sensation flares again, my body curling in on itself.
Something is wrong.
Something is really, really wrong.
My fingers tremble as I pick up my phone and tap the screen one last time.
This time, someone has to answer.
“Emergency. Police, Fire, or Ambulance?”
My voice doesn’t feel like it belongs to me. “Ambulance.”