Leaving soon. Can't wait to see you.
Calla did not respond. She was probably in surgery, or rounding, or buried in paperwork. The woman worked like she was trying to outrun something, though I was never able to figure out what.
I drove to Lucia's and parked in the same spot I'd used three years ago, back when I was so nervous I'd sat in my car for ten minutes rehearsing conversation topics. That felt like a lifetime ago. A different version of me, younger and more hopeful, who believed that loving someone enough would make everything work out.
The hostess recognized me when I walked in. "Mr. Reed! Your table is ready. Will your wife be joining you?"
I nodded. "She's on her way."
"Wonderful! Can I start you with something to drink while you wait?"
"A bottle of Chianti, please. 2015."
She smiled and led me to the corner booth. The table still wobbled. I folded a napkin and wedged it under the leg, and something about the familiar gesture made my chest ache.
Seven o'clock came and went.
I checked my phone. No messages. No missed calls. I texted again.
Cassian
At the restaurant. Everything okay?
No reply.
Seven-fifteen. The waiter came by, and I ordered bruschetta to buy myself more time. The bread was warm and perfectlycrisp, the tomatoes fresh and bright with garlic. But I barely tasted any of it.
Seven-thirty. The Chianti sat untouched in its carafe, and I'd stopped pretending to read the menu. The hostess kept glancing at me with pity in her eyes. I smiled at her, the easy grin I'd perfected over years of pretending everything was fine when it wasn't.
By eight o'clock, I knew Calla wasn't coming.
I paid for the wine and the bruschetta, left a generous tip to compensate for wasting the waiter's time, and walked back to my car. The night air was cool, carrying the scent of rain that hadn't fallen yet. I sat behind the wheel for a long moment, keys in my hand, trying to decide what to do.
I could go home and wait for her there, let the anger build until she walked through the door and I could finally say all the things I'd been swallowing for months. Maybe I should tell her that I was tired of coming second to the hospital and I was exhausted from being the one who remembered every birthday and anniversary while she forgot them all.
But God, I loved her more than I knew how to say. But I was starting to wonder if she loved me back the same way.
So I went to find her in the hospital. I badged through the employee entrance and made my way to the trauma wing, nodding at nurses I recognized, and sidestepping a janitor mopping the hallway near the elevators.
Calla was in Trauma Bay 3.
She was elbow-deep in a patient's abdomen, her focus absolute, her hands moving with the precision that had made her one of the best trauma surgeons in the program. I heard that the patient was a construction worker, impaled by rebar at a job site with bowel perforation, significant blood loss, and crashing vitals.
I stood in the doorway and watched her work.
She was beautiful like this. I'd thought so the first time I'd seen her in an OR, back during our residency when we were both too exhausted to be anything but honest. There was a stillness to Calla when she operated, a calm that seemed almost supernatural. The world could be falling apart around her and she wouldn't flinch. She'd just keep working until the crisis passed or the patient was gone.
I'd fallen in love with her in an operating room. And I remembered why just by watching her like this.
The surgery took hours. I lost track of time, leaning against the wall outside the trauma bay, watching through the window as Calla fought to save a man she'd never met. Nurses came and went. Residents rotated in and out. The patient coded twice, and twice Calla brought him back.
Finally, sometime past midnight, she stepped away from the table and let the residents close. I watched her strip off her gloves and gown, her movements slow with fatigue. She said something to the attending beside her, nodded at whatever response she received, and turned toward the door.
When she saw me, her face went pale. For a moment, she just stood there, frozen, her eyes searching mine for something I couldn't name. Then her hand flew to her mouth.
"Oh god. What time is it?" she mouthed.
"Late," I mouthed back.
