Chapter 32
The appointment had been on the calendar for weeks, quietly waiting its turn, which somehow made it feel heavier than the emergency visits ever had.
Those had arrived like storms, sudden and undeniable, dragging adrenaline and fear along with them.
This one sat there calmly, labeled in neat text, a routine follow-up, as if my heart had not once tried to convince me it was capable of mutiny.
I stared at the reminder on my phone longer than necessary, my thumb hovering as though deleting it might make the appointment optional.
Callum noticed anyway.
“Today’s the cardiology check, right?” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied, and took a breath that felt deeper than usual. “I was going to ask if you wanted to come with me.”
He immediately started to nod. “I want to,” he said. “As long as that is okay with you.”
I nodded back to him, smiling a little bit.
The drive was uneventful in the best possible way. No tense silence, no forced conversation, just the soft hum of the road and the familiarity of his hands on the wheel. I watched the scenery slide by, the same streets I had driven a hundred times.
The cardiology office smelled like disinfectant and coffee that had been reheated too many times. The waiting room was softly lit and filled with the kind of chairs designed to be sat in, not enjoyed. I checked in at the desk, my name already familiar to them now.
Callum sat beside me, not too close, but close enough that our shoulders almost brushed when he leaned back. He pulled a small notebook from his jacket pocket, the one he had started carrying after my diagnosis, and flipped it open, scanning the page as if making sure it was still there.
“You do not have to take notes,” I said quietly. “You know that, right.”
“I know,” he replied, and smiled faintly. “But I like having them.”
When the nurse called my name, Callum stood with me and followed me down the hall. The vitals were quick - blood pressure, pulse, oxygen. My heart rate sat steady on the monitor, and the nurse nodded as she wrote it down.
“That’s a good number,” she said.
The cardiologist came in a few minutes later, the same one who had overseen the ablation. Calm, direct, and already scanning my chart.
We went through the usual questions, any racing episodes, dizziness, palpitations.
“I’ve felt a few brief flutters,” I said. “They pass quickly.”
She nodded. “That’s common while the heart heals after an ablation. What you’re describing sounds normal.”
She explained the next steps while making notes on the chart. Follow-ups every few months for now, just to track how things settled as the tissue continued to heal. Most people saw improvement over time, especially in the first few months.
“So far, everything looks good,” she said.
Callum asked a few questions about activity limits, what symptoms mattered, when to call the office. He wrote things down as she spoke.
A few minutes later the appointment wrapped up. The doctor reminded me to book the next checkup and stepped out.
In the hallway, I leaned against the wall for a second while Callum finished tucking the notebook back into his bag.
“That went well,” he said.
“It did,” I agreed. “I feel cautiously optimistic.”
He smiled at that, softer than before.
We walked out together, the automatic doors sliding open behind us. The air outside felt good after the fluorescent quiet of the clinic.
Callum opened the car door for me. Once we were both inside and he started the engine, he glanced over.
“So,” he said, like he was testing the ground, “any chance you’d want to get lunch with me?”
I pretended to consider it for a second. “I suppose lunch is a reasonable reward for surviving a cardiology appointment.”
His mouth tipped into a grin. “Excellent. I was hoping for something slightly more festive than the hospital parking lot.”
“Let’s not get carried away,” I said. “This is a low-sodium celebration.”
He laughed and pulled out of the lot.
“Any preferences?” he asked after a moment. “Or should I pick somewhere I can defend later if it turns out to be terrible?”
I tilted my head. “I trust your judgment. But if we end up somewhere with twelve televisions and a wings special, I will be emotionally devastated.”
“That is fair,” he said. “I was thinking something quieter. Somewhere that does soup correctly.”
“Soup feels appropriate,” I agreed. “Gentle, supportive soup.”
“Exactly,” he said, nodding. “Soup that understands boundaries. No ostentatious soups allowed.”
“I agree, although I can’t think of one example of an ostentatious soup.” I snorted.
We ended up at a small cafe a few blocks from the clinic, the kind of place that had handwritten specials on a chalkboard and mismatched chairs that somehow worked anyway. It was busy without being loud, full of the low hum of conversation and the comforting clatter of dishes.
Callum parked and came around to open my door again. Inside, he held the door, waited while I scanned the room, and followed my lead to a small table near the window.
We sat across from each other, menus between us, and for a moment neither of us spoke. It was not awkward, just quiet, the kind of pause that did not demand filling.
“I am really glad you came with me,” I said finally, because the words had been sitting in my chest since the appointment ended.
“I am too,” he replied. “And not just because I got to take notes like a very intense intern.”
I smiled. “You were very serious about that notebook.”
“I like being useful,” he said lightly. “Also, I have terrible memory, and this way I do not have to ask you the same question six times.”
“That is considerate,” I said. “And strategic.”
The server came by, took our orders, soup for both of us and sandwiches we agreed to split, and left us with water glasses.
Callum leaned back in his chair, folding his hands loosely on the table. “How are you actually feeling?&rdquo He asked, not with concern sharpened into fear, but with genuine curiosity.
I considered the question, which felt different than it would have a month ago. “Steadier,” I said. “Not magically better, but steadier. Like my body and I are negotiating instead of fighting. I think the catheter ablation really helped.”
He nodded. “That makes sense.”
“And,” I added, watching his face carefully, “I feel less alone with it now.”
Something warm passed over his expression, quick and unguarded. “Good,” he said. “That was the goal, not the hovering kind of support, just the present kind.”
“You have been doing a good job,” I said, then paused, because praise still felt unfamiliar territory. “Of not hovering, I mean. And you’ve done a good job of not being a jerk anymore, too.”
He chuckled. “It is harder than it looks, at least for the hovering.”
“I believe that,” I said. “But I noticed it. The way you wait for cues instead of jumping in.”
“That took practice,” he admitted. “And a few internal lectures.”
“I appreciate the effort,” I said quietly.
Our food arrived then, steam rising gently from the bowls, grounding the conversation in something tangible. We ate for a few minutes in companionable silence, the kind that felt earned rather than imposed.
“This soup really does understand boundaries,” I said after a few bites.
“I told you,” he replied. “Respectful soup only.”
I laughed, the sound easy, surprising me with how natural it felt. He smiled in response, relaxed, like the sound had given him permission to do the same.
We finished our lunch slowly as we talked, moving onto more casual subjects - the neighbour's obsession with his leaf blower, his inability to ever remember the specifics of his friend's dating drama.
As we stood to leave, Callum stacked the plates and slid them to the edge of the table. Outside, the air felt warmer as we stepped onto the sidewalk.
“Thank you,” I said as we walked back to the car, not entirely sure what I was thanking him for, and maybe not needing to define it.
He glanced over at me, his expression open. “Anytime.”
The drive home was quiet again, but it felt peaceful.
I rested my head against the window, watching the city pass by, and let the cautious optimism from the doctor’s office settle more deeply into something that felt like trust, not in outcomes, but in the process, and in the person beside me who had learned how to walk it with me instead of ahead of me.
When we pulled into the driveway, neither of us rushed to get out of the car. He turned off the engine and looked at me, his expression easy, unburdened.
“One step at a time,” he said.
“One step,” I agreed, giving him another smile.