FORTY-ONE
CALLUM
I’ve spoken at plenty of conferences.
Never a keynote.
Being invited feels like a professional milestone disguised as flattery, with a generous side of imposter syndrome.
One more gold star on the CV. Another rung up the promotion ladder.
I’m backstage now, half-listening as the emcee introduces me with an embellished flair usually reserved for B-list celebrities opening shopping centers.
I ease my notes from the folder under my arm. Slide the top page free—and pause.
A pink Post-it clings to it; Jordie’s loopy handwriting sprawled across the middle.
You’ve got this, Hotshot. I’ll be with you the whole time.
I smile, heart stumbling, like it’s tripped over its own shoelaces. I fold the note and tuck it into my inside pocket. Over my heart. For safekeeping. For steadying myself when my anxiety spikes.
The emcee says my name.
I step onto the stage.
The lights hit first. Then the crowd. A sea of faces: med school professors, old mates I used to cram with during exam weeks, colleagues from Westmead.
And—
Dr. Soren Vandrell.
The name that sits on half the landmark papers in modern anesthetic practice. The voice from grainy lecture recordings passed around like contraband before exams. The man whose textbooks didn’t just teach anesthetics—they taught you how to think under pressure.
When I was a med student, I used to joke I’d know I’d made it the day I met Vandrell.
Apparently, today’s the day.
With shaking fingers, I flip to the first page of my notes.
Another Post-it.
Familiar faces. Big names. Don’t panic. Deep breath.
One, two, three. GO.
“Good afternoon, esteemed colleagues . . .”
I’m nearing the end. Just a few slides left.
The nerves have morphed into something smoother now—focused, steady. I’ve landed every point the way I practiced after we left my parents’ place that morning and checked into the hotel, while Jordie flossed beside me and made faces in the bathroom mirror.
Because I’m not doing this alone.
I spot her like a beacon. Back row, far left, in that aggressively green cardigan she packed so I could find her in a crowd of navy suits and academic aloofness. She’s leaning forward, face full of interest, chin propped in her hand like I’m more captivating than a Netflix crime doc.
And she’s not just there.
She’s with me. Up here. On stage.
Every page of my outline has a little neon note stuck to the corner. I’ve been peeling them off. Each one a lungful of oxygen when the room got too sharp, too bright, too full of people who use the word “adjunct” unironically.
Halfway there! You’re smashing it.
I hit the halfway mark with ease, speaking about the evolution of anesthetic practice in regional settings. How innovation isn’t only for capital cities. How excellence should be accessible. My passion bled into every word.
Flip.
Slow down. Don’t rush your points.
I do what she says. Let the words breathe. A few heads nod.
I keep going.
Smile. You’re amazing, but you look constipated when you concentrate too hard.
I huff a laugh and the mic catches it. A few people chuckle. They think I’m being charming. Really, I’m just being scolded from the back row.
Even now, as I flip to the final slide—
Pause for impact. You’re brilliant. Let them feel it.
And I do.
I speak the last line.
Finish.
The room erupts.
And then, finally, the back of the last page:
Huzzah! I’m so proud of you!
Applause surges around me. Heads turn. Colleagues nod approvingly.
But in the back, she’s already on her feet, clapping like a one-woman cheer squad, grinning like I just cured cancer using only popsicle sticks and statistical analysis.
All I want is to leap from the stage, thank her, pull her into my arms, and kiss her.
Instead, I’m swarmed.
Handshakes. Compliments. So many “wows” and “brilliants” I lose track of which ones are real and which ones are just part of the script people use at conferences.
I smile. I nod. I say things like “Thank you” and “That means a lot” while my eyes keep drifting—back, back—
There.
That green cardigan again.
Moving.
Slipping toward the exit.
“Dr. Han?”
I blink. “Sorry—yes?”
A woman extends her hand. “Dr. Lin Zhang. I’m looking forward to working with you next year for my fellowship in Townsville.”
“Oh. Right. Of course. Welcome aboard.”
I manage a polite nod, say something neutral and vaguely appreciative. But my brain’s still somewhere else, following a flash of green through a closing door.
I take a step forward.
Another voice interrupts: “Dr. Han?”
And my brain flatlines.
Dr. Soren Vandrell stands in front of me, looking exactly like he does in his author portraits, minus the ‘90s tie.
“That was an outstanding presentation,” he says. “Smart pacing. Clever data layering. You held the room well.”
“Th-thank you,” I manage, nearly swallowing my own tongue.
“I was wondering if you were going to touch on your pain research for outpatient gynecological procedures,” he adds casually, like he didn’t crack open the vault on something I haven’t even published yet.
“You . . . know about that?”
“Ah, perhaps I shouldn’t say this, but Trevor Wallis speaks of you. Quite highly, in fact.”
My chest does this messed-up mix of a leap and a stutter.
Vandrell adjusts his jacket. “Why don’t we discuss it more at the keynote dinner? I’d love to hear where you’re hoping to take your research.”
And all I can think is—
I can’t wait to tell Jordie.
Back in the hotel suite, I shrug off my jacket, fingers still twitching with adrenaline at least three imaginary follow-up questions I wish I’d asked Vandrell.
“Jordie?” I call softly.
“In here.”
I follow her voice to the bedroom. She’s curled up in bed, a book open on her lap, blanket pooled around her waist. The bedside lamp makes her skin glow, and her hair looks darker than usual. She looks up, eyes catching the light, and smiles as though I’ve just walked in carrying the moon.
“You disappeared,” I murmur, stepping in.
“Thought I’d give your fan club a chance to swarm.”
I sit beside her. Kiss her. Pour everything into it: the high of the speech, the weight of applause, the nerves she peeled off me one Post-it at a time. That green cardigan she wore like a beacon.
When we pull apart, her smile goes soft and tilted. “You were amazing,” she says. “Very main-character energy.”
I kiss her again, gentler. A thank-you I don’t know how else to give.
Her hand finds my cheek. “Don’t you have a keynote dinner to get to?”
“You mean we have a keynote dinner to get to.”
She gives me that soft smile again. “Callum, you don’t need me there. It’s all doctors. I’ll just be in the way.”
Her thumb strokes my jaw like she’s trying to soothe me, or herself. Then, proud: “You’re going to be brilliant. And everyone’s going to want a piece of you.”
“I want you there,” I say, just as quietly. “I want you to meet Vandrell.”
Her eyes go wide. “What? Seriously?”
“Gave me a compliment. He’ll be at dinner.”
“Well, have you decided which body part you want him to autograph so you can get it tattooed later?”
I grin. “Ribs are in the lead.”
She laughs but there’s a hitch, barely noticeable. A breath caught mid-smile.I pause, studying her face.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
She waves a hand, “Bit of a headache. Now, have you thought about what you’re going to ask him? His most complicated case? His first kiss? His dog’s name?”
“You’re assuming I’ll remember how to speak in full sentences.”
I cross the room to the wardrobe. Pull out my navy blazer. The one that, according to Jordie, makes me look less terrifyingly competent and more charmingly tolerable.
Watch on. Tie straightened.
I turn.
She’s watching me. That small smile still on her lips, but her eyes—under the lamplight—look glassy. A little too shiny for no reason at all.
“I’ll only be across the road,” I say. “If you change your mind, text me. I’ll come get you.”
She tilts her head back, smile still in place. “Go! Be amazing. By the end of the night, Vandrell’s going to ask you to sign his textbooks.”
I kiss her forehead, lingering longer than I mean to.
Then grab my phone and wallet, heart dragging as I head for the door.