SEVEN
CALLUM
It’s been a week since I dropped Claudia off at the airport. Which, apparently, is the exact amount of time it takes for me to go from I’m fine, I’ll be busy anyway to I miss her so much it’s medically concerning.
Not just the sex—though, yeah, that too. It’s the stupid stuff. The way she narrates cooking like she’s on MasterChef. The way she snorts when I pretend to know anything about wine. The way she side-eyes my playlists but hums them two hours later.
I miss all of it. All of her.
So now I’m striding out of the hospital foyer, thinking of a distraction in the form of cardio-based self-torture.
It’s been one of those days. Not dramatic enough to be interesting, not calm enough to be pleasant. Just a slow parade of shit-fires that needed putting out by someone with a medical degree and dwindling patience.
I hitch my bag higher on my shoulder and head through the foyer.
Home. Change. Run. Shower. Collapse. Ideally, without thinking too hard.
I’m halfway through debating whether I hate myself enough for the Strand loop when someone catches my eye.
Jordie’s slumped on one of the benches, hunched over like she’s preparing to bite through steel. She’s attacking her wrist with the single-minded fury of a cartoon character trying to gnaw off a restraint.
I almost laugh.
But then I get closer.
And the amusement vanishes. I realize she’s trying to yank off a hospital ID band from her wrist.
I pivot to check on her, just as someone beats me to it.
Pharmacy bag in one hand, electrolyte bottle in the other. Tall. Blond. Symmetrical in that old-money-meets-GQ-model kind of way.
Without breaking stride, he shrugs off his suit jacket and drops it over her shoulders.
“I swear to God, Jordie,” he says, voice loud enough to echo down the corridor, “I’m buying this hospital tomorrow and firing every fuckwit in it.”
Jordie doesn’t even look up. She gives the ID band one final, irritated tug before giving up and muttering, “I knew going to ED was a waste of time. Same shit, different day.”
The guy—let’s call him Blond Fury—uncaps the Gatorade and holds it out to her.
Jordie recoils so hard you’d think he’d just handed her a beaker of bleach. Her face twists. She dry retches. Blond Fury moves fast, grabs a vomit bag and steadies it beneath her chin just as she gags again.
I step forward, concerned. “Hey, Mitchell—”
She makes another guttural sound into the bag. Blond Fury sinks onto the bench beside her, rubbing slow, steady circles into her back like he’s done this before.
When the retching passes, he hands her a navy handkerchief. Jordie takes it without looking. Wipes her mouth. Blinks hard. Still pale. Still breathing like everything hurts.
Then her eyes flick up and land on me.
And I watch the exact moment she registers my presence. Her face shifts. First surprise, then irritation, then something raw and reluctant that scrapes against dread before it all drains away, sealed behind something blank and impenetrable.
She swallows. Clears her throat.
“Dr. Han,” she says, voice frayed. “Leith. Leith, Dr. Han.”
Leith looks at me with the same disdain a rich teenager reserves for waitstaff.
“Doctor,” he says. Cool. Civil. Detached.
I crouch in front of her, defaulting to clinical. “What happened?”
“Food poisoning,” she answers fast. “I’m fine.”
She is very obviously not fine.
Sweat slicks her forehead, even as she shivers. Goosebumps rise along her arms. Her fingers are white-knuckled against the folds of her green dress. A color that—on any other day—would’ve brought out the warmth in her skin, the spark in her eyes. Now it just makes her look washed out.
“They rehydrated you in ED?”
She nods. Tight. Quick.
“Meds?” I ask.
Leith lifts the pharmacy bag in a tiny, unimpressed flourish. “Yes, doctor.”
I ignore that.
I glance between them. “What’d you eat?”
“Tacos,” Leith says at the exact same time Jordie says, “Sushi.”
They both whip their heads toward each other like it’s a showdown at dawn.
Leith, flat, “You didn’t eat sushi.”
Jordie, equally flat, “I ate sushi.”
Leith squints at her. “Are you sure?”
“Am I sure of what I ate?”
Leith turns to me with a tight, performative smile. “Asian-Mex fusion.”
Jordie jolts suddenly, breath catching as if something has just stabbed her. She lets out a raw, bitten-off hiss as her hand clamps tight on her lower back.
Leith and I clock the movement at the same time.
He pulls his phone from his pocket, glancing at the screen. “Driver’s just rounding the corner. I’ll get you home soon, Mouse.”
Jordie plants her feet as if she’s about to go twelve rounds in a boxing ring, “I can drive.”
“Cool,” Leith says, rolling his eyes, tone bone-dry. “Why don’t I follow you and wait outside your house like a total creep?”
She groans and tips her head back, visibly weighing the energy it’ll take to argue versus giving in.
“I’ll get your car later, okay?” Leith assures her. “Don’t worry.”
She mutters something under her breath. Probably a cocktail of “screw you” and “fine.”
Leith’s phone buzzes. He checks the screen with a flick of his thumb.
“Ranjit’s here. Come on.”
Jordie winces as she pushes to stand. I recognize it—the same too-careful movement I saw at the bookstore. Stiff. Guarded. Like one wrong angle might break her in two.
I take a step forward, but Leith’s already steadying her before she can even sway.
“I got her,” Leith says.
And I—
I don’t need to be involved in this. So, I stop.
I watch Jordie lean into him, letting him take some of the weight before she straightens.
“Feel better,” I offer, because I don’t know what else to say.
She doesn’t look back. Just mutters a faint thanks and lifts one hand in a half- wave; the wristband catches the light.
As the doors slide open, I catch a bit of their conversation.
“You know,” Leith quips, “tacos sound more believable for food poisoning.”
Jordie elbows his ribs half-heartedly.
The glass doors shut.
Leith opens the door of a sleek black Lexus, holding it for Jordie. She grimaces as she lowers herself into the seat. Leith closes the door and rounds to the other side.
I stand there, watching the car pull away from the curb. The taillights fade into the traffic as an uneasy feeling settles deep in my gut.
I don’t know why.
But there’s something wrong with Jordie Mitchell.
And she’s lying about it.