TWENTY #2
She twists her wedding ring like it’s a worry stone. “Still, we’d prefer someone . . . proper.”
“You mean white,” I say, cutting to the chase.
Stanley bristles. “You don’t have to get all high and mighty, girl.”
My jaw locks. “First of all, it’s Nurse.
Second, you want a white doctor? There’s another hospital across town.
Feel free to go and be a racist prick there.
” I jab a finger at the ZERO TOLERANCE TO WORKPLACE HARASSMENT poster on the wall behind Callum.
“But if you’re staying here, you speak with respect—or I’ll have your file flagged for staff abuse. That alert follows you everywhere.”
He turns red. “You can’t speak to me like that! I’ll get you fired.”
“Jordie. Stop. It’s fine,” Callum says, voice maddeningly measured for someone who is being subjected to racial discrimination.
“It is not fine, Dr. Han.” I turn back to Stanley.
“Given your twenty acronyms of medical history and three pages of medications, you are lucky you get Dr. Han to handle your airway. You don’t get to insult the doctor who is, quite literally, the most skilled person in this entire state to put you under. ”
The silence is immediate and suffocating.
Mrs. Collins clears her throat. “Well . . . we’ll just get on with it.”
Stanley bristles, but keeps quiet.
Good.
Callum straightens, smoothing the chart flat again as if nothing had happened. The only tell is his throat bobbing once. Then that same cold, practiced smile, probably perfected from a lifetime of cultural dismissal.
“Excellent,” Callum says, turning to me. “Mr. Collins needs a blood draw. Would you do the honors, Nurse Mitchell?”
I flash him a matching, feral grin. “With pleasure.”
I honestly don’t know how Callum Han hasn’t ended up in jail.
If it were me—if I had to swallow the racist crap he cops—I’d have caught a charge by now. Aggravated assault. Maybe manslaughter. Definitely no parole.
Today’s greatest hits?
First, Mr. Collins.
Then the admin clerk who kept calling him “Dr. Jackie Han.”
And just when I thought we’d peaked, ortho-bruh said, “We’re going to the club this Saturday. Maybe you’ll find a nice Chinese girl. Keep it traditional, yeah?”
Honestly, by that point? I was vibrating with rage.
Instead, I just lobbed. Like the professional verbal tennis player I apparently am. All their shitty comments sent flying right back. Smile just tight enough to make it clear I wasn’t above biting. It was either that or break a rib screaming.
By the time the clinic closes, I’m half-dragging my bag over one shoulder, water bottle tucked awkwardly under my arm, and a piece of toast clenched between my teeth.
Callum’s at the sink rinsing his coffee cup. He glances over, brows raised as he takes me in—toast, bag, general disaster. “That’s a workplace hazard.”
I grunt in response.
“Honestly,” he adds, drying his hands. “You’re one rogue rolling chair away from a WorkSafe video.”
I glare at him. “Let’s go before someone makes me fill out an incident report.”
We fall into step, weaving through the quiet, fluorescent-lit hallways, past empty nurses’ stations and darkened clinic rooms.
Then, softly, Callum says, “Hey. . . thanks. For today.”
I blink mid-chew. “For what?”
He shrugs, gaze dropping to his shoes. There’s something almost boyish about him—unguarded, somewhat sheepish. “For everything. No one’s ever really done that for me before.”
“Anytime,” I say, quick. “Not a big deal.”
“It is.” He hesitates. “Usually, people just look the other way.”
“Maybe because you keep telling people it’s fine and not to make a fuss.”
“But you kept going,” he says, after a pause. “You didn’t let it slide.”
That does something to me. Makes my throat tight around the stupid bread.
“You’re worth defending, Callum.”
I don’t think about it when I loop my arm through his. Callum stiffens—just barely. Shoulders tight, uncertain, as though he doesn’t quite know what to do with the contact.But I don’t let go. I just squeeze his arm and keep walking, steering him in another direction.
He clears his throat. “Where are we going?”
His muscles ease under my touch, his brain taking a second to tell his body it’s okay.
“Gotta put my availabilities and preferences in for next week.” I gesture down the hallway.
We stop outside Rhonda’s office. There’s a cluttered table with next week’s blank roster sheets spread out. I hunch over, grabbing the pen.
“When’s your next clinic day?” I ask, scrawling my name lazily across the sheet.
“Wednesday next week,” Callum says, shifting forward, leaning in just enough to read what I’m writing.
“Wednesday,” I echo, scribbling it down. “Pre-op anesthetic clinics. What a coincidence.”
Callum lingers, his breath warm against the back of my neck as he peers over my shoulder. “Thought you hated clinics.”
I straighten, rolling my shoulders back until we’re side by side again. “Eh. Thought it was fun.”
He gives me a look. “Liar.”
He’s right. I still hate clinics.
But I hate racists more. And I especially hate it when it’s him on the receiving end.
I grab his arm—looping mine through like it’s second nature—and steer us toward the exit.
He doesn’t pull away. And I don’t let go.