Our conversation flowed effortlessly, as if we were two old friends catching up. Whenever there was a brief pause or thechanceto call it a night, I refrained. I wanted to keep talking to her, more than I’ve ever wanted to sleep.
“Oh my god, Callum, the time,” Georgia says in a yawn. “It’s what, two there?”
“Something like that . . .”
“Callum!”
“What?” I say, chuckling as I adjust the pillow under my head. “I like talking to you.”
“Your morning routine starts in three hours.”
“I can miss a day.”
“I thought you said you were obnoxiously strict about it?”
I try not to yawn, but I do, and I don’t disguise it well. “Meh,” I say as punctuation to the sound. “Not always.”
“No, I should let you sleep. I’m sorry ...”
“Georgia, I promise you that I can tell time. There’s no reason for you to apologise.”
She breathes out a laugh. “Well, okay. Still, you have to cut me off if we call again, okay? I have a tendency to ramble.”
I can tell. I like it. An alarming amount. “Would you want to call me again tomorrow?” I ask. “Same time?”
There’s a pause, enough time for a shy, pretty smile that I can somehow perfectly see in my mind’s eye. “Yeah, I’d like that.”
“Great. I’ll go ahead and save your number, then.”
Georgia huffs a tired, relaxed laugh that momentarily makes me forget she’s not here next to me, weighing down the other side of the mattress. “Good night, Callum.”
“Good night, Georgia.”
For nine silent seconds, nobody hangs up the call.
“Are you still there?” she asks tentatively, followed by the soft sounds of a feathery duvet being squeezed.
I close my eyes, imagining her lying down in her bed. “Yeah, I guess I am.”
She laughs again, in the same sleepy way. “You’re not going to hang up?”
“I don’t think I have the heart to.”
Georgia sighs, the sort of sigh that says,This is bad news.
I almost reply,I know, aloud. But before I have the chance to say anything further, she whispers another gentle good night and ends the call.
I save her number as “Georgia the Good Egg,” place my phone on my nightstand, and turn off my bedside table lamp.
“Damn,” I whisper, lying on my back as I stare into the dark abyss of my bedroom. I lay a hand over my chest and feel my heartbeat kick against my palm.
This is the good kind of trouble, to be sure.
Why does the first woman inyearsto make me feel like this have to live an ocean away?
It’s not as if my life is particularly moveable. I’m only licensed to work in the UK. There are undoubtedly options and avenues I could take to get licensed abroad, but it’s not easy. Not to mention, none of those options allow me to continue working at the clinic my grandmother founded andmy family has continued to operate for the past sixty years. Taking over the practice from my mum, who took it over from her mum, has been my one and only goal for a very long time. I’m not particularly interested in practising medicine outside of this community, where my patients are also my neighbours.
Sure, sometimes boundaries blur or my frustrations heighten, like when I’m at the local pub and see a few too many men I’ve prescribed blood-pressure medicine drinking their third or fourth lager. Or, when I’m at mum’s for a Sunday roast and, before we’ve managed to have a bite, the telephone rings and suddenly I’m being sent out on a house visit as my plate sits wrapped in aluminium foil on the counter.
