SIXTY-TWO
JORDIE
The shepherd’s pie and garlic bread are keeping warm in the oven. The salad is in the fridge. On the counter, a tin of sugar cookies that took me three hours, four batches of icing, and one murder podcast to finish.
Callum said he’d come here straight from the airport. Which makes me giddy with relief.
He was only meant to be gone for four weeks. Then it rolled into five. Then six. Every time I asked why, he’d just say, “You don’t have to worry. Everything’s okay.”
Vague. Breezy. Annoyingly evasive.
But he sounded happy—lighter, even. And I’ve made my peace with not knowing. If he’s okay, that’s enough for me.
I’ve been back at work for two weeks. Pretending everything feels normal again.
It doesn’t. Not really.
My shifts feel empty in places, like I’m going through the motions but left something vital somewhere. As for home, my house is too quiet. My days too flat. The bed too big. My med drawer’s a disaster. And I swear the couch even sags differently.
A ribbon unspools across my lap as I sit cross-legged on the floor, wrapping gifts with surgical precision and a deeply unhealthy level of emotional investment. On top: new scrubs. A couple of embroidered caps. And at the very bottom—tucked under tissue paper—Sonnets from the Portuguese.
I glance at the time. 6:30 p.m.
I stand and shove a fistful of ribbon scraps into the bin, as if that’ll magically undo the fact that the room still looks like a gift shop exploded.
Callum’s coming back.
And somehow, it feels like everything.