**Wait for Me**
He leans against the rough, cool wall, eyes shut. It feels impossible to move. But after a few minutes, he forces himself away and walks to the doctors’ lounge.
Hours later, he steps out of the hospital gates. Two strong coffees have chased off the exhaustion. A narrow tree-lined path leads straight from the entrance to the road. Sunlight filters through the leaves, casting flickering patterns on the pavement. He can’t recall ever walking this way—he always drove. But now, for some reason, he wants to tread that shifting tapestry of light, squinting against the glow. No one’s waiting for him at home anyway.
James strolls slowly, savoring the sun, the memory of summer storms. Mid-July already, with his holiday just ahead. Today, he won—wrestled another life back from the Reaper.
On a bench sits a young woman in a pale dress, bent over a book. Copper-red strands hide her face. Suddenly, he aches to see it. He stops beside her.
She turns a page, still reading, unaware.
“Good book?” James asks.
She reads a moment longer, then closes it, marking her place with a finger so he can see the cover.
*My Dear Fellow Man*, he reads upside down.
She looks up. Freckles scatter across her face, but they suit her—lively, charming. Dark, expressive eyes, full lips. Fresh-faced. *Golden*, he thinks, watching her hair catch the sun.
“Interest in medicine, or just love the author?” he asks.
“I’ve applied to medical school.”
“Then we’re nearly colleagues.” James smiles approvingly and sits beside her.
“You’re a doctor?” Her dark eyes brighten.
“Surgeon.”
“You?” She sounds skeptical.
“Surprised? Don’t I look the part? Or did you expect someone silver-haired and grim?”
Her lips curve. “What kind of surgeon?”
“Impressive you know the specialties. I’d love to say plastic—sounds posher. Alas, I’m general. Someone’s got to remove appendices and gallstones.”
She laughs, the sound bright and warm.
For some reason, he wants to impress her—play the seasoned surgeon. So he tells her the job lacks the romance of books. The weight of responsibility. A life in your hands, the operating table a battlefield of strategy. He even mentions today’s case, embellishing with thoughts of the patient’s wife and children, their anxious wait.
At first, she watches him warily, then with open admiration. Under her gaze, he feels almost heroic—a wielder of fates. He knows he’s showing off, but he can’t help it. He wants her to like him.
“You saved a life and say it so casually?” she asks, serious.
“Daily occurrence. Every surgery’s a gamble. Routine cases turn tragic.” He turns the question back. “What kind of doctor do you want to be?”
“Not sure yet. First, I’ve got to get in.” She checks her watch and jumps up. “Oh no—I’m late!” Panic flashes in her eyes.
“My car’s right outside,” James says, standing. “Come on, I’ll take you home.”
On the drive, she mentions living with her Aunt Marge, her mother’s sister. There’s an old spaniel, Whiskey—named by her late uncle. Aunt Marge’s knees are bad, so she walks him, though he can’t hold it long.
“Grumpy?” James asks.
“Aunt Marge? No, she’s kind. Took me in despite her aches and high blood pressure.”
“Where are you from, originally?”
“Lived here all my life. Mum died when I was in Year 6—stomach pain for days, too stubborn for hospital. I came home from school and found her unconscious. Appendicitis burst. Dad drank himself under a bus after. So, Aunt Marge.”
At the flat, she bolts from the car. At the door, she glances back. James waves, and then she’s gone.
Alone, the heroism drains away. Just a tired, lonely surgeon again. He feels for her. Good girl. Driven. So young, so much hardship.
A month later, post-holiday, James walks the ward corridor. A young cleaner mops the floor. A copper strand escapes her cap. Something familiar there—a patient? A relative?
She looks up.
“You? Hi.” Her dark eyes light up. He remembers her, if not the name.
“Hi. Thought you were off to uni, not mopping floors?” he asks, slipping into first names. “Or here for family?” He recalls her orphaned state.
“Got in. Just earning before term starts.”
“Smart. See the grit before committing. Not surgery, I hope?”
“Maybe.” She shrugs. He remembers—Emily.
“Good to see you.” He walks on, certain her gaze follows. His stride feels lighter, almost careless.
Each shift, he watches for her. Stops to chat when he finds her.
Once, near the doctors’ lounge, he catches her waiting.
“Last day today. Term starts soon,” she says, flushing—freckles darkening.
“Still set on med school? Let’s celebrate. Your last shift, your place secured. Wait for me, yeah?”
Emily nods, smiling, redder still.
Two hours later, he finds her in the hospital lobby. She leaps up, blushing. They leave together—no one to care now. She’s a student, not staff.
Dinner first, then a walk by the Thames.
“Not in a rush? What about your aunt?”
“Visiting a friend in York. Whiskey died last week. Old age. Aunt Marge left—couldn’t bear the silence.” Emily sighs.
“Come to mine, then. My feet are dead. Ever tried French wine? No? That needs fixing.” He’s nervous suddenly, braced for refusal.
But she agrees.
“Sorry, the place is a tip,” he warns, unlocking his flat. “Make yourself at home. I’ll cobble something up.”
He roots through the fridge—leftover takeaway, salad fixings, a bottle of rosé with a fancy label.
“Where’s your wife? On holiday?” Emily asks, leaning in the doorway, faintly teasing.
James rinses lettuce.
“Gone. Sick of me never home, even on weekends. Called the ward at night, didn’t believe I was working. We fought. At first, I moped—slept in the on-call room. Then… got used to it. Not divorced yet, though.” He glances up. “Help? I’m useless at this.”
“The meat?” She eyes the takeaway box.
“Guilty.” He almost lied, claimed he’d cooked it.
They chop salad, arrange cold cuts, bumping elbows, laughing off the awkwardness. Over wine, they talk fast, dodging silences.
His phone rings. Both freeze. James steps out to take it. Moments later, he’s back—emergency call.
“Sleep here. Linens in the cupboard. Wait for me,” he tells her, rushing out.
A multi-car crash. All hands on deck. He operates through the night. At dawn, he hurries home—first time in months he’s eager to return. Emily’s there.
He imagines it—easing the door open, finding her asleep, copper hair fanned out. Kissing her warm, sleep-soft skin… His heart stutters at the thought.
He takes the stairs two at a time, too impatient for the lift. The door creaks open. The clatter of dishes drifts from the kitchen.
Kicking off his shoes, he heads in, expecting breakfast. Then freezes in the doorway.
His wife’s back is turned—pink floral robe, blonde hair loose.
She glances over her shoulder. Smiles.
“Hi,” Sarah says casually, as if she’d left hours ago, not Emily.
“Hi. What—what are you doing here?” Stupid question.
“Pancakes. You must be starving. What was the emergency?”
“How’d you know?” He peers past her, hunting for traces—Emily’s scarf, her shoes.
“Looking for someone?” Sarah asks lightly.
“No, but—”
“She’s gone,” Sarah says, meeting his eyes. “Don’t worry, I didn’t scare her off. Isn’t she a bit young for you?”
“Why are you here?” He clenches his fists, fights the urge to shout.
“I came home. We’re married, remember? I missed you. Couldn’t do it alone. There’s been no one else, honestly. And… a child should have its father. Let’s try again.”
“What child? What are you—?” Ice slithers down his spine.
“I’m pregnant.” She searches his face.
“True? Why wait to tell me? You vanished for three months—” The weight of it presses down, inescapable.
“At first, I thought it was nothing. Then… scared to miscarry. James, aren’t youShe forces a smile, hands resting on her stomach, while he stares past her at the rumpled blanket in the corner, still carrying the faintest trace of Emily’s perfume.
