FIFTY-EIGHT
JORDIE
The first thing I register is sound.
A soft, insistent beep. The low hiss of oxygen. The rustle of someone breathing just outside my awareness.
Then pain.
A heavy, dragging ache low in my abdomen, like something had been scooped out and hastily stitched back in.
My eyes peel open. The world swims into view—blurred edges, muted colors, the ugly speckled ceiling staring back at me.
I turn my head and see Callum, slumped in the chair beside my bed. His whole body looks like it caved from exhaustion. His hand rests near mine like he meant to reach for it but didn’t quite make it.
The door creaks open. Alec steps in, silhouetted against the too-bright hallway light. His gaze lands on me, and something flickers in his expression. He crosses the room and lowers himself onto the edge of the bed.
“How’re you feeling?”
“Sore,” I croak, throat feeling like sandpaper. “What . . . happened?”
“You had a ruptured ovarian cyst. They called General Surgery to assist. I was scrubbed in.”
I blink slowly. The memory’s patchy. Pain. The ambulance. The ceiling light in the ED. A mask over my face. Callum’s voice. That’s it.
“We were able to keep it keyhole,” Alec adds, his tone softer now. “You lost a lot of blood. But you’re okay.”
My eyes shift back to Callum. The dark smudges beneath his eyes. The way his hand still hovers near mine.
“He hasn’t left,” Alec says, answering the question I haven’t voiced.
A lump forms in my throat. I look back to Alec. “Why are you here?”
He lets out a breath that sounds like it’s been sitting in his lungs for a decade.“I wanted to make sure you’re okay.” Then, quieter: “And to apologize.”
I’m too wrung out to pretend I understand.
Alec’s shoulders sag. “I was selfish,” he says, voice low. “I couldn’t see past my own plans. I made a decision that worked for me. I let you carry all the doubt and none of the closure.” He pauses, then meets my eyes. “But Jordie, it was never your fault. It was mine.”
The words hit with the quiet force of something breaking and healing all at once.I didn’t know how badly I needed to hear them until I did.
He glances at Callum, then back at me. “Callum’s not like me,” Alec says quietly. “He’s good for you.”
Suddenly, the ache in my chest isn’t surgical anymore—it’s something deeper. Gratitude. Relief. Some sort of mourning for the version of us that never stood a chance.
I nod once, the movement barely there. I don’t trust myself to speak.
Alec stands. Adjusts the blanket over me. “Take care of yourself, Jordie.”
Then he’s gone.
I turn back to Callum, my gaze dropping to where his hand rests near mine. I let my fingers brush his. He doesn’t stir, but his hand shifts, covering mine like it’s a reflex.
The warmth of his skin seeps into mine, calming me. The first calm I’ve felt since the night I walked away.
I let my eyes close. My hand stays beneath his.
When I wake again, sunlight spills through the window, painting the room in soft gold.
My gaze drifts to our hands. His fingers are threaded through mine like he’s holding on for both of us.
I look up, and my heartbeat stutters.
Callum’s awake. Watching me. His dark eyes are warm, filled with something I don’t dare name but can’t look away from.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” I murmur back.
We don’t move, don’t speak. The world shrinks to this—just us. The magnitude of everything fades, replaced by something softer.
Something that feels like hope.
The days blur together, marked only by meals I don’t cook and walks I don’t ask for but am gently bullied into.
Leith stormed in like a category five cyclone. “You absolute menace,” he growled. “Do you even have a shred of self-preservation?”
“I needed a good excuse to skip the fun run next year . . . and forever,” I deadpan.
For a moment, he stared at me, speechless. Then his face twisted in mock outrage.
“Unbelievable,” he muttered, pacing like he might combust if he stood still. The twitch of his mouth betrayed him, relief bleeding through the bluster.
Callum, meanwhile, has turned into a live-in nurse. He’s taken leave despite my protests and somehow become a permanent fixture. Cooking, cleaning, organizing my meds, making my world easier without drawing attention to it.
On the first two nights after I was discharged, he slept on the rocking chair next to my bed. I’d wake in the middle of the night to see him slouched awkwardly, neck bent at a chiropractor-offending angle, hand resting lightly on the armrest.
But he doesn’t touch me. Not unless absolutely necessary. Helping me down the stairs. Steadying me when I stand too fast. We watch movies with a cushion between us like it’s some kind of moral chaperone. Like he’s drawn an invisible line, as if to say: I’ll do everything for you—except cross this.
And I don’t know what that means.
Does he think I’m fragile? Or is he afraid he won’t stop if he starts? Or maybe it’s worse. Maybe he’s changed his mind. Maybe this is just obligation.
Lately, his phone keeps buzzing. He steps out to answer, always the same: “Be right back.” Then he’s gone. Out of the house. Not just the room.
I asked him about it once. He smiled and said, “Sorting a thing.”
And that was that.
Whatever it is, I’m eighty percent sure it’s either classified government business or an elaborate plot to have me committed.
Or, knowing Callum, he’s just meticulously scheduling laundry.
We’re standing by the kitchen sink after dinner. Callum wipes down the counter with the kind of precision that suggests royalty is due at any minute.
He pauses, cloth in hand.
“I have to go to Sydney,” he says carefully.
His words land with the clink of dishes in the sink.
I blink. “For how long?”
He looks at me with that tentative smile—the one that always tries to soften a blow but never quite manages it.
“A month.”
My heart dips, but I keep my face neutral. “Are your parents okay?”
“Yeah.” He scrubs at a spot that definitely doesn’t exist. “They’re fine.”
“Okay,” I say, trying not to pry even though I’m dying to. “When’s your flight?”
“Tomorrow afternoon.” He rinses the sponge with an almost obsessive focus. “I need to head back to my apartment tonight to pack.”
“Oh.” The word slips out, smaller than I want it to sound. “Will you be okay?”
He finally turns, leaning against the counter, fixing me with that serious look that always makes me feel like I’ve just been caught sneaking snacks before dinner.
“Will you be okay?”
“Of course. I’m four weeks post-op,” I wave him off, aiming for breezy. “I’m also a nurse. Think I can manage.”
His lips flatten, “You’re a nurse who should know the symptoms of a rupturing cyst and still managed to wait until you were about to pass out to call for help.”
I stay silent. Because he’s right. And I don’t want to admit that.
“Jordie.” His voice is soft, but weighted. “It was the scariest moment of my life. Watching you in that much pain, not knowing if you’d—” He cuts himself off with a harsh breath.
Guilt swirls low in my gut. “I’m sorry,” I murmur, and I mean it.
He looks like he might step closer, maybe fold me into a hug. But then his shoulders lock, and he pulls back.
“Promise me you’ll look after yourself while I’m away,” he says, his tone gentler now, the edges worn down.
I raise a hand in oath. “I promise.”
“Good.” His focus drifts, already flipping through the mental checklist. “You’ve got a follow-up in four days. Leith’s taking you.”
“I don’t need someone to—”
“Jordie.”
His tone carries the gust of a thousand arguments I will not win.
“Leith’s taking me.”
“Good.” He grabs his bag, adjusting the strap. “Alright, I’m heading out. Call me if you need anything. And don’t wait until you’re dying to call. And if I don’t answer, leave a voicemail. A real one. Not one of those cryptic hang-ups.”
“Okay,” I say, feeling about two inches tall.
He starts to leave, and I wait. I don’t know what I’m expecting—a hug? A pat on the back? A Hallmark goodbye moment?
Instead, he steps closer, ruffles my hair and says, “Take care, Mitchell.”
The door clicks softly behind him.
And I’m left standing there, dizzy with the weight of goodbye and a hollowness I can’t quite name.
Dr. Krishna walks me out of her clinic room, and I trail behind. She hands me the prescription like it’s a participation medal for not dying.
“These pills should help regulate things again,” she says with a clinical nod. “And make sure to book another scan in a few months.”
I shove the script into my bag, forcing a half-hearted smile.
As we turn the corner, a flash of color catches my eye. Someone’s pinning a bright poster to the noticeboard opposite the nurses’ station. Next to it, there’s a tidy stack of brochures.
brEATHE EASY: Changing the Game in Outpatient Care
Smaller print underneath: Inhaled Methoxyflurane Now Available – Survey Ongoing
I pick one up. The paper’s glossy, the layout sharp. Clearly not a rush job. Investment. Intention.
“This is new,” I murmur, flipping through.
Krishna glances over. “The drug isn’t, but we’re surveying its use now for outpatient gynecology. Tracking recovery, satisfaction, safety—all of it.”
My fingers linger on the page. Low pain scores. Faster recovery. Improved Patient Outcomes.
“This is massive.”
Krishna laughs under her breath. “You have no idea. Research reviews, policy hurdles, executive sign-offs, approvals. A whole circus.” She pauses, then adds, more distantly, “But worth it.”
I glance at her. “How long’s this been in the works?”
“Oh, months,” she says. “Rollout’s recent. You’d have to ask the new Associate Director of Anesthetics for the full breakdown.”
“Wait . . . that position’s been filled?”
“Two weeks ago,” Krishna says.
Something sinks in my chest.
He missed it. After everything he put up with—everything he wanted.
Probably because of me.
I swallow, the guilt sharp and sudden. “By who?”
Krishna blinks at me. Slowly. Like I’ve just asked what two plus two equals.
She tilts her head, voice soft but laced with obviousness. “By Callum.”
I just blink at her. Just . . . buffering.
When I keep standing there, mouth open like I’ve forgotten how vowels work, she emphasizes, slower this time, “Your Callum.”
Leith tucks the quilt around my legs like he’s mad at the quilt for not doing a good enough job.
“You don’t have to fuss,” I mumble, flipping the edge of my book like it might shield me from his energy.
“You say that like fussing isn’t the bare minimum after your little ‘brush with mortality’ moment,” he says, “Need anything else? Water? Heat pack? Bubble wrap? Emotional support peacock?”
“I’m good, thanks.”
I slide the brochure off my lap and shove it between the pages of my book like I’m filing it under Future Emotional Collapse. There’s an appointment card wedged somewhere in there too.
He doesn’t move. Just watches me, head canted.
Then, with the weariness of a man carrying the emotional labor of three therapy groups, he drops onto the edge of the bed.
“You’ve been quiet,” he says. “Whole ride home. Barely touched your fries. I’m concerned.”
“You’d think Callum would at least mention it,” I mutter. “Associate Director? Revolutionizing outpatient care?”
Leith hums, a low noise somewhere between a grunt and a philosophical sigh. “That’s still bugging you?”
“He could’ve brought it up casually. Like, ‘Hey, I’m single-handedly changing how women are treated in clinics. Pass the salt.’”
“Yeah, but he’s not the braggy type,” Leith says, already reaching for my mug and checking if it’s warm.
It is. He still glares at it like it offended him.
“Callum’s more martyr with a spreadsheet.
He did it because it matters. Because you matter.
And I reckon he just knows you get weird when people do big things for you. ”
“I do not get weird.”
Leith lifts an eyebrow, not justifying that with an answer.
“He never said anything,” I sigh. “But he was there. Every day.”
“That was him saying something,” Leith says, tilting his head at me.
“I don’t know what to do with that,” I admit quietly.
Leith rises to his feet with a dramatic sigh, like he’s had this conversation queued up for weeks. “Sure you do. You just don’t want to admit it yet.”
He leans down and tucks the blanket in one last time—gentle, habitual, fond—like we’re kids again, back at the farm, sharing old quilts and terrible dreams.
“Sleep, House Menace,” he says, ruffling my hair the exact wrong way. “Try not to dissociate too hard.”
Leith slips out of the room, leaving the door closed behind him.
I grab the book from the nightstand and slide out the brochure, smoothing the crease where I’d folded it.
I can see him: hunched over his laptop, buried in research, drafting policies, cutting through red tape—while still showing up with soup and bad rom-coms and steady hands when mine were shaking.
He was doing all of it. For something bigger than himself. And, somehow, for me.
An appointment card flutters loose from my book, landing in my lap.
Thursday, 10:00 AM
It’s been a long time coming.