Wait for Me
He pressed his back against the rough, cool wall and closed his eyes. It felt as if he might never move again. Yet after a few minutes, he forced himself away and made his way to the doctors’ lounge.
Hours later, he stepped out of the hospital gates. Two strong cups of coffee had chased away the fatigue. A narrow tree-lined path led from the entrance, ending at a busy road. Sunlight pierced the leaves above, scattering trembling patterns across the pavement. He couldn’t recall ever walking this way—always arriving by car. But now, he felt drawn to follow the shifting patches of light, squinting against the brightness. There was nothing waiting for him at home, anyway.
Oliver wandered slowly, savoring the sun and the memory of summer storms now past. July had tipped past its peak, and his holiday loomed ahead. Today, he had won—wrestled a life back from the grip of the reaper.
On one of the benches sat a young woman in a pale dress, hunched over a book. Strands of copper hair hid her face. A sudden, desperate urge seized him—he needed to see her. He stopped beside her.
She turned a page, oblivious.
“Good book?” Oliver asked.
She read a moment longer, then closed it, marking her place with a finger so he could see the title—*My Dear Stranger*.
She lifted her head. Freckles dusted her cheeks, not marring her but lending mischief, charm. Dark eyes, full lips. Fresh-faced, sweet. *Golden*, he thought, watching the sunlight set her hair ablaze.
“Medical interest, or just the author?” he asked.
“I’ve applied to med school.”
“Then we’re nearly colleagues.” Oliver smiled and sat beside her.
“You’re a doctor?” Her gaze brightened.
“A surgeon.”
“You?” She blinked.
“Does it surprise you? Do I not look the part? Or did you picture surgeons as grim old men with gray hair?”
Her lips curved.
“What kind?”
“Good—you know the specialties. I wish I could say plastic. More glamorous. Alas, I’m general. Someone has to remove appendices and gallstones.”
She laughed, light and melodic.
For some reason, he wanted to impress her. Play the seasoned veteran. So he spun tales—how the job lacked romance, how the weight of lives rested in his hands, how the operating table was a battlefield. He even embellished today’s case, weaving in the patient’s frightened family.
At first, she watched him warily. Then, with unmasked admiration. Under her gaze, he felt like a hero—right up until he realized he’d gone too far. But he couldn’t stop. He wanted her to like him.
“You saved a life and say it so casually?”
“It happens. Every surgery is a gamble.” He turned the question back. “What kind of doctor do you want to be?”
“Not sure yet. I still have to get in.” She checked her wristwatch and sprang up. “Oh—I’m late.” Panic flickered in her eyes.
“My car’s just outside,” Oliver said, standing. “I’ll drive you.”
On the way, she told him she lived with her Aunt Margot, her mother’s sister. There was an old cocker spaniel named Pippin—named by her late uncle. Aunt Margot’s legs ached, so walking Pippin fell to her, Lily. And Pippin couldn’t hold it—if she didn’t take him out, there’d be disaster to clean.
“Aunt Margot—difficult?” Oliver asked.
“No! She’s kind. She took me in, even with her bad knees and high blood pressure.”
“Where are you from?”
“Here. My mother died when I was ten—stomach pain for days. She wouldn’t go to the hospital. I came home from school and found her unconscious. Burst appendix, peritonitis. After that, my father drank. Then… a bus hit him. So. Aunt Margot.”
Lily jumped out at her building, turning at the door to wave. Oliver watched her vanish inside.
Alone in the car, the heroics drained away. Just a tired, lonely surgeon again. He pitied her. Bright girl, determined. So young, already shouldering so much.
A month later, back from holiday, Oliver Ward walked the ward corridor. A young cleaner mopped the floor, a copper strand escaping her cap. Something about her tugged at him—a patient? A relative?
She looked up.
“You? Hello.” Her dark eyes sparked with recognition, though he’d forgotten her name.
“Hello. I thought you were starting school, not working?” He shifted to *you* without thinking. “Or is someone here?”
“I got in. Wanted to earn before term starts.”
“Good. Medicine’s best learned from the ground up. Might change your mind. Not a surgeon, surely?”
“We’ll see.” She shrugged, and he remembered—*Lily.*
“Glad to see you.” He walked on, certain her eyes followed. His stride turned buoyant, almost careless.
Each day, he hoped to spot her. Each time, he’d stop, say something trivial.
Once, he found her outside the doctors’ lounge—waiting.
“Last day today. Term starts soon,” she said, flushing. Her freckles darkened, vivid.
“Still set on med school? Let’s celebrate. Wait for me, yes?”
She nodded, smiling, redder still.
Two hours later, Oliver descended to the lobby. Lily leapt up from her chair, blushing anew. They stepped outside together—no longer cleaner and surgeon, just student and doctor-to-be.
Dinner first, then a walk along the Thames.
“Not in a rush? What about your aunt?”
“Gone to Brighton. Pippin died last week. Very old. She couldn’t bear the silence, kept hearing his bark.” Lily sighed.
“Come to mine, then. My feet are killing me. Ever had French wine? No? We’ll fix that.” Nerves twisted in his chest—what if she refused?
She didn’t.
“Sorry, the place is a mess,” he warned, unlocking his flat. “Make yourself at home. I’ll improvise dinner.”
Leftovers from a takeaway, vegetables for salad, a bottle of rosé with a pretty label.
“Your wife—on holiday?” Lily asked lightly, stepping into the kitchen.
Oliver rinsed lettuce.
“Gone. Sick of me never being home, even on weekends. Called the ward at night, didn’t believe I was on shift. We fought. At first, I moped—slept in the lounge. Then… got used to it. Still married, technically.” He handed her a knife. “Help? I’m hopeless.”
“The meat?” She nodded at the container.
“Takeaway,” he admitted, though he’d nearly lied.
They chopped, laughed, brushed hands, hid flushes behind jokes. Drank, ate, talked over each other—silence was danger.
His phone rang. Both froze. He took the call in the other room.
“Emergency,” he said, returning. “Sleep here. Linen’s in the cupboard. Wait for me.”
A crash, multiple casualties. He operated all night. By dawn, he hurried home—for the first time in months, someone waited.
He imagined easing the door open, finding her asleep, copper hair fanned across the pillow. Kissing her warm, sleep-scented skin—his heart hammered at the thought.
He took the stairs two at a time. The door swung quietly open. The clatter of dishes came from the kitchen.
Oliver kicked off his shoes, strode in—and froze.
His wife’s back, in a floral dressing gown. Blonde hair loose.
She turned, smiling.
“Hello,” Emma said, as if hours, not months, had passed.
“Hello. What are you doing here?” Stupid question.
“Pancakes. You must be starving. What happened? The hospital called?”
“How did you—?” He scanned the room for traces of Lily.
“Looking for someone?”
“No, but—”
“She’s gone. I didn’t scare her off.” Emma’s gaze held his. “Isn’t she a bit young for you?”
“Why are you back?”
“I live here. We’re married. I missed you. There’s been no one else.” She took a breath. “And… a baby needs its father. Let’s try again.”
“What baby?” Ice slithered down his spine.
“I’m pregnant.” She searched his face.
“Are you lying? Why wait three months?” The weight settled—inescapable.
“I wasn’t sure at first. Then afraid to miscarry. Now I’m telling you. Aren’t you happy?”
“Morning sickness?” He grasped for doubt. Four years of nothing.
“Bad early on. Better now.” She looked almost apologetic. “I wanted to tell you—rang the ward. They said you weren’t on shift.”
“Nothing’s changed, Emma. I’m still a surgeon. Still never home. On call all night. In a week, you’He sank onto the sofa, clutching the blanket Lily had used, breathing in the faint trace of her perfume, and wondered how dreams could slip through his fingers so easily.
