[photo by Marcelo Leal from Unsplash]

Topher

Friday morning starts early, thanks to another restless night. The plus side is I'm ahead of schedule on my rounds, which means I can take my time with Emma Williams. I knock twice and enter her room. She smiles, lifting her arthritic hand just an inch off the mattress. I take it in mine and sit on the edge of her bedside chair. "How are you this morning?"

"I'm just fine," she says, but the words don't mean anything to me. It's the same thing she said when she came into the ER with a broken hip. Only that day, her face was twisted with pain.

"Did you sleep last night?" I ask.

"I only called for the nurse one time."

Not quite an answer, is it? Not that I need one. Her eyes are tired, her skin sallow. I glance at her IV fluids. The bag is full, recently replaced, but she's not sufficiently hydrated. I give her hand a gentle squeeze before I stand to adjust the flow, increasing the drip.

What Emma needs most, I cannot give her. Her brittle bones will not heal fast enough for her insurance company, and because there are no other options, she will likely be transferred to a skilled nursing facility.

"You look different today, Dr. Thompson."

I reclaim my seat, recapture her hand and give her a smile. It's amazing how observant she is. "You're not the only one missing out on sleep," I say.

"Not because of pain, I think."

"No. I have a lot on my mind lately."

Her eyes sparkle with comprehension. "A woman," she says decidedly and I huff.

"You're absolutely correct. Her name is Emma Williams and I'm trying to figure out how to keep her here with me a bit longer."

"Someone young and beautiful, I think."

She narrows her eyes, studying me, and I cannot hold her gaze. It makes me feel transparent.

"I hope she knows what a treasure she's found in you," Emma says.

I smile, accepting her compliment out of respect but there's an adverse physical reaction in my chest. After I made my declaration to Leni's unconventional little family they seemed to accept me with open arms. What would they think if they knew the truth? I have doubts about her secret—doubts so substantial my head still aches from the cognitive tug of war.

"Do you believe in miracles?" Emma asks.

I snort a laugh, run a hand through my hair. This question is stalking me.

"I can only promise that I'll do everything within my power to make sure you get the one you've been praying for."

★ ★ ★

It's half-nine and my chest is absurdly tight. Honestly. How have I let it come to this?

I close my fist around my mobile as I push out of the employee entrance and into the blinding sun. I haven't contacted Leni since I backed out of her driveway Sunday evening—although in that moment, I wanted to ring her straight away, to keep our addictive banter going for the entirety of my drive home. But that was before the haze of my infatuation wore off.

There was a palpable shift in that tiny house after I promised to protect Leni. Matt was instantly affable. Dee's smiles came easier. And Leni herself... Well, I can't say she was wholly at ease with her sister's curiosity. Or rather, the full-on interrogation: my family history learned, my character scrutinized. But Leni made little effort to curtail Dee's line of questioning. She opted instead to offer moral support in the manner of her soft, warm hand on my bicep. And eye contact, that although brief, elicited the harmless variety of heart palpitations that were my constant companion in med school. In this case, however, stress was not the initiate.

After Leni eagerly agreed to let me take her out, I surrendered my resolve to suppress Mum's prophesy and allowed myself try it on: Destination, a fishing cottage in Hatteras. Soul mate, the reserved enigmatic who fished me out of the Atlantic.

Unfortunately, the lifestyle doesn't suit. I want to believe that Leni is somehow capable of performing medical miracles—I truly, desperately do—but I am too much like my father.

I cross the parking lot, shrugging out of my lab coat, and toss it onto my Jeep. There's really no excuse for my behavior, is there? I understood all of this before I arrived home Sunday night—I should've confessed my doubts as soon as possible. But the truth is simple: I've procrastinated this call because I do not want to tell her. I don't want to risk rejection.

The question now is how long am I to allow this cowardice?

I select Leni's number and make the call. She answers on forth ring, laughing. "Hi, Topher."

"Is this a bad time?"

"No, timing isn't the problem. I forgot that my phone was in my back pocket. Set on vibrate."

The humor in her tone melts the tension in my neck and shoulders. "My call startled you?"

"To say the least. I made a huge mess on the floor. I mean, I dropped a bucket and it spilled."

"What did you spill—or should I ask?"

"Alligator rations. I'm not exactly sure what's in the mix, but trust me when I tell you it's a nasty bunch of slop."

"Sorry," I say. "Should I let you go?"

"No—it's fine. Are we still on for tonight?"

"Of course. What time should I—"

"Oops," she says. "Hold on a minute."

There is a scratching sound, like she's using her hand to cover the mouthpiece. "Thanks, but I'll take care of it," she says, muffled.

"I've got it, Leni. Finish your call."

The responding voice is deep and amused.

"No, really, John. This is beyond disgusting."

"Then at least let me help you," says John—who is clearly a wanker.

"Topher, can I call you right back?" Leni asks.

Does she sound annoyed with this John person or is it wishful thinking? "Certainly," I say. The call ends abruptly, generating a sensation that feels quite like nausea in the pit of my stomach. I check the time. Then pace a strip of molten asphalt for the remaining twelve minutes of my break—which is more than enough time to convince myself that I will allow my cowardice to thrive a bit longer. The conversation I need to have with Leni should be conducted in person.

My mobile rings another eight, excruciating minutes later, as I'm typing patient notes into the computer.

"I'm sorry that took so long," Leni says. "I had to go ahead and feed the alligators or John was going to do it for me."

Her decidedly annoyed tone gives me a ridiculous jolt of happiness. "I hope I didn't get you into trouble," I say.

"No, not at all. John is just...being John."

A wanker with a hero complex. "Right. So about this evening—"

"Some place other than the beach," she says, repeating my own words in a playful tone.

The heart palpitations resume. "Shall I pick you up?"

"I get off at five. Can you come around six?"

"I'll be there."

"Good."

The satisfaction in her voice makes me grin like a twit. I should end the call before I act as such.

"Hey Topher," she asks, before I've a chance. "What's your last name?"

I smile. Fully. I too, noted the missing information when I changed her name in my contacts from Galene to Leni. "Thompson—Christopher. Topher is a nickname. Obviously. Sorry I didn't introduce myself properly."

"It wasn't a proper meeting."

"No, I suppose it wasn't. What about yours?" I ask.

"What would you say the odds are of an unidentified orphan being adopted by a couple whose last name is Smith?"

"Seriously? Your legal name is Galene Smith?"

"I'm not having you on," she says with a smile I can hear—and feel. God help me. "I used to tell my parents I was going to change it to Jane when I turned eighteen."

"I'm pleased you didn't. Somehow, it suits your...uh, situation." Hang up. Right now. "I'll see you at six, Leni."