TWENTY
JORDIE
It’s stupid how good it feels to be outside again. Which is ridiculous, really. The beach is five minutes from my place. Close enough to hear the waves if I leave the windows open. Close enough that I could’ve been down here days ago.
But when you’re hurting, even the easy things feel like climbing Everest in flip-flops.
Two weeks holed up at home. One spent marinating in self-pity, and the other being aggressively Florence Nightingale-d by Callum. At one point, he muttered, “I need you back at work so the interns can complain about what a tyrant you are instead of me.”
Now the sun’s sinking low, the sky painted in pink, orange, and purple streaks. The ocean crashes nearby, salt clinging to my skin, the air thick with that briny smell of sea spray.
We’re sprawled across a blanket like we have been a hundred times before. Well—Leith and I have. Callum’s the new variable, looking very much like a man who’s wandered into the wrong group project.
I don’t think he knows what to do with us yet.
Leith senses unease and, because he’s an ass, leans right into it.
“So, how’s this gonna work, Han? Are we sharing custody of Jordie? Alternate weekends? Split public holidays?”
Leith’s tone is light and teasing, but there’s a glint in his eyes.
Callum glances between us, the corner of his mouth twitching, unsure if it’s safe to laugh. “Pretty sure that wasn’t in the friendship terms and conditions.”
Leith smirks, settling back on one elbow. “Nah, mate. Clause 4.3—‘Leith Morgans reserves the right to bully the new friend until further notice.’”
I groan, flopping back onto the blanket. “You’re such a dick.”
“You know Jordie tried to drown me once?” Leith says casually. “Middle of summer. On the creek. Kicked me clean off the tube.”
I shrug. “Would do it again.”
He grins at Callum. “Word of warning. Keep your eyes open. She’ll turn on you.”
Callum watches us, faint amusement curling at his mouth. “Any tips to avoid that?”
“Easy,” Leith says, ticking off fingers like he’s presenting a TED Talk on How to Care for Your High-Maintenance, Emotionally Repressed Best Friend. “If she’s mad? Book. Sad? Book. Hungry? Book and cheese fries.”
Leith pauses. Looks over at me. Grins.
“Oh—and maybe a mango,” Leith says, snapping his fingers. “Her dad used to grow them. Farm out near Charters Towers.”
Bloody Leith. Subtle as a brick in a blender. Seeing how much Callum knows. How far I’ve let him in. Like my friendship with Callum isn’t still in the NICU on ventilator support.
And when was I supposed to drop the “my-dad-died-when-I-was-thirteen-and-left-me-with-unresolved-guilt-plus-cliché-daddy-issues” bomb? Before or after the soup?
Callum glances over, brows raised. “You grew up on a farm?”
I trace the rim of my Coke bottle, eyes on the sand.
“Yeah,” I say. Just that. No details. No invite.
Callum doesn’t dissect. Or push. Or press on the “used to.” Maybe he knows I’ll tell him when the time comes.
When I glance at Leith, he’s already watching me—smug, satisfied, giving the smallest nod like he didn’t just lob a landmine into the middle of the picnic blanket just to see if Callum would trip.
Instead, Callum catches the weight of it and lets it be, understanding the difference between curiosity and trespassing.
Leith finally grins, cracking open a beer and holding it out to me. I wrinkle my nose. “Ew! Beer equals bloating. Do you want me to implode?”
“Right,” Leith scoffs. “House Mouse can survive a cyclone and uterine mutiny, but not a beer.”
Callum glances between us. “Wait—why do you call her House Mouse?”
Leith looks at me first. Then, because he’s incapable of answering anything normally, says, “Because she’s small, twitchy, and liable to bite when cornered.”
I snort. “Give him something real, you idiot. It’s fine.”
Leith studies me for half a beat, checking. Then he leans back on one elbow with a shrug. “Her dad used to call her that.”
Ah. Yes.
Dad.
Dad had already called for me twice to come help collect eggs and pick up windfall mangoes before the fruit bats got to them, but I’d made the fatal decision to start a new chapter of The Magic Faraway Tree.
I was in a little storage nook under the stairs with the book, a dying torch, and exactly zero intention of helping with anything productive.
Outside, I heard the screen door slap, boots on the back steps, voices drifting in from the kitchen. Dad and—
“She in her room?” Leith asked.
Oh, yay. Leith was here.
Dad laughed. “Nah. Been holed up somewhere since this morning. Bloody house mouse, that one.”
“House mouse?” Leith said, and I could hear the grin in it.
“Always tucked away somewhere in the house,” Dad said. “Under the stairs, behind the lounge, curled up in whatever corner she can find. You’d think I kept her in a cupboard.”
“Cupboards are for supplies,” Leith said.
Dad snorted. Then he added, his voice warmer, easier. “Not when you’re around, though. Soon as you turn up, she’s out of whatever hidey-hole she’s wedged herself into. Wants to show you the creek, the chook shed, every busted fencepost on the property.”
Leith laughed. “Is that a bad thing?”
“Reckon she just needed someone to do the exploring with,” Dad said. I heard the soft smack of him clapping Leith on the shoulder. “So, keep an eye on her, yeah? Take care of my girl while she’s dragging you round all her adventures.”
“Of course, Sir,” Leith said with a cough.
“Now, House Mouse,” Dad’s voice boomed. “Come out wherever you’re hiding.”
I shoved the little door open, crawled out, and announced, “I wasn’t hiding.”
Dad glanced at me, not the least bit shocked by where I’d come out of. “’Course not. Now do your chores. Take City Boy with you. Move it, Mouse.”
“. . . not to mention her huge buck teeth.”
“That was you, Leith,” I protest. As if I’m the one who needed braces.
Leith shrugs and hands a beer to Callum. “So—yeah. Family farm, mangoes, cattle, quad bikes. Country bumpkin at heart. Don’t let the resting bitch face fool you.”
Callum takes the beer. “You mean she has other faces?”
Leith barks a laugh. “That and her murder glare.”
“I thought that was her standard greeting.”
I gape at them. Of course they’re bonding now.
“I hate both of you,” I mutter, punching Leith’s arm.
He rubs the spot, beaming. “Nah, House Mouse. We grow on you.” Then he raises his beer bottle, grin all mischief and no apology. “To being the kind of fungus you can’t shake.”
The glass catches the last of the sun, amber light flickering off the label. Callum lifts his too, matching the smirk. I hesitate—but only for a beat—then raise my soda in mock solemnity.
Our bottles clink.
The sun dips low, dragging pink and gold across the sky. Laughter lingers in the salt-heavy air, soft and alive.
And for the first time in a long time . . . it just feels good to be.
I drag the vitals machine behind me, a ball and chain trailing in my wake, and shove open the clinic door with my hip. I slap the next chart onto Callum’s desk with all the finality of divorce papers.
“Stop pouting,” he says.
“I will pout,” I say flatly, collapsing into the spare chair. “Because I hate clinic duty. And this is your fault.”
Callum leans back, pen tapping lazily against the clipboard. “You were housebound last week. I figured you needed a break. Hence, I requested you on my service.”
He shrugs, maddeningly pleased with himself. “Also, you’ve been whining about the blackouts ruining your sleep. Thought light duties sounded better than you sprinting around, throwing yourself on patients like chest compressions are a competitive sport.”
“I like sprinting around and throwing myself on patients’ chests. As my friend, you should know that.”
He grins, unbothered. “I did you a favor.”
“Getting me to make septuagenarian small talk to your patient, Mildred, is not a favor.” I glare. “I asked about her meds. Instead, she talked about her cat, Fluffle, and the fact that it only eats cold cuts. And can detect spiritual presence.”
“She’s probably not wrong.”
“She also thought her pacemaker doubled as a GPS tracker.” My voice drops down to a horrified whisper, “She calls it The Government Chip.”
His only answer is a snort, and he looks absolutely unrepentant.
“I’d rather empty rectal tube bags, Callum!”
“Duly noted.” He smirks. “Now be a good friend and call the next patient.”
Muttering curses that’d get me a write-up, I haul myself out of the chair and snatch the chart.
I sigh, roll my shoulders, and poke my head into the waiting area. “Stanley Collins?”
An older man stands, grumbling as he grabs his crumpled hat. His wife pats his arm, offering me a polite smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
“’Bout bloody time,” he mutters loud enough for the entire waiting room to hear.
I ignore it. “This way.”
They trail me down the corridor—his curses a constant hum, her heels clicking beside him. I shove open the consult room door harder than necessary.
Callum looks up, all calm professionalism. “Good afternoon.”
Stanley clocks him, lip curling. “For fuck’s sake. Waited an hour, and I get some fucking—” He spits the word, venomous. “Chink?”
My blood pressure spikes so fast it’s dizzying.
His wife jumps in, “No offense . . .”
No offense. Classic prelude that whatever comes next is going to be incredibly offensive.
“We’re just not comfortable with—” She gestures at Callum like he’s furniture. “—an overseas-trained doctor.”
Callum’s expression doesn’t crack. His voice is even, calm—scarily so. “Trained in Australia. Western Sydney. Top of my cohort.”
The muscle in his jaw jumps once. The chart in his hand crinkles under his grip.
Stanley snorts. “Your English is real good, I’ll give you that. We just didn’t want to struggle to understand you,s’ all”
Callum’s smile could cut steel. “Why would you struggle to understand me?”
The wife tuts, laughing nervously. “Sorry, Doctor. He’s just old-fashioned. He gets uncomfortable when it’s not someone, y’know . . . local.”
“Good thing medicine’s universal, then,” I say, deadpan.