Chapter 4
Caleb was standing by the kitchen counter. He was holding a half-full glass of water, already gone cold.
His shirt collar was slightly open, and his eyes were bloodshot.
Our eyes met, and his Adam's apple bobbed as his voice rasped out, hoarse and strained. "I switched to an early flight. I'm heading back to the department."
Back then, those were the words I dreaded hearing most.
Just to have him stay for dinner, I'd pull three straight all-nighters to get my reports done.
I'd obsess over every track on the playlist for the drive to the airport, wanting it to be perfect.
Now, I let my eyes drift over his tense shoulders, barely caring.
"Okay," I said.
I opened the fridge and grabbed a carton of milk.
The front door opened and closed.
The sound of the suitcase wheels rolling over the hallway tiles faded into the distance.
The half-full glass of water sat untouched on the coffee table.
Over time, the water evaporated bit by bit. All that remained was a faint, milky ring at the bottom of the glass.
*****
It had been fourteen days. Our pinned chat stayed silent.
No more blurry lunch photos. No more complaints about the evening rush hour on the overpass.
All those little snippets that kept our long-distance life alive were gone completely.
I threw myself into the regional handover, pouring every ounce of energy into it.
The only thing lighting up those quiet nights was the flood of sales numbers on my screen.
The calendar turned, and the day I'd marked in red was already behind me.
It was nine o'clock at night.
Outside the office blinds, the traffic below wove together into ribbons of red and white lights.
My phone buzzed next to my keyboard.
The screen lit up with Caleb's name.
I picked up.
"Maeve, I can't come over tonight," he said.
In the background, the ER was noisy and chaotic, with muffled sobs barely audible through the commotion.
"Alice screwed up the paperwork and mixed up the patient's bed number. The family's making a scene in the ER. She's a nurse. If nobody steps in for her, she could get fired," Caleb explained.
My chest felt heavy, like the air was stuck in my throat.
I entered the last bit of data and hit save.
"Does it really have to be you?" I asked.
There was a pause on the other end.
Caleb's voice suddenly picked up, urgent. "She's from a regular family. Her self-esteem is so fragile. Who else here would even bother to look out for her if I didn't? Do you really have to be so petty about this right now?"
My gaze lingered on my own reflection in the computer screen.
I didn't say another word and hung up.
It was past midnight.
I'd just picked up a glass of ice water when the door opened.
Caleb stood in the entryway, reeking of disinfectant and the chill of the night.
He was holding a clear plastic box. The sides of the box were clouded with moisture.
The plant-based cream had melted into a messy puddle of white mush.
Red jam was spilling out of the paper liner, dripping down the edges of the plastic box.
"I walked three blocks and checked every 24-hour bakery before I finally managed to get this," Caleb said.
He offered the box to me. "Alice kept crying, so I couldn't get away. Looks like I owe you a birthday. Will that do?"
I stared at the cake. It was ruined, just a pile of mush now.
Then, the weight in my chest melted away, gone like it was never there.
He pitied Alice for being so soft. But he figured I was strong enough to put up with all his careless neglect, like I was supposed to take it.
I didn't reach out to take it.
My gaze landed on the entryway table.
I stepped back, my hand resting on the guest room doorknob.
"Just put it on the table," I said.
The light from the blinds cast sharp lines across the desk.
The regional sales report scrolled across the screen.
The coffee machine let out a short buzz, signaling the brew was done.
I picked up my mug and leaned back in my chair.
I opened my social app with my thumb.
There was a little notification dot on my feed.
Alice's profile picture popped up.
My thumb hovered over the screen for a couple of seconds.
I tapped it open.
The first photo was a page from a patient handover report.
The signature in the bottom right corner was pressed hard and unmistakable.
The way the "Maxwell" ended with that familiar upward flourish was instantly recognizable.
It was Caleb's handwriting, no doubt about it.
It wasn't the usual sloppy scribble. Every stroke was written with the utmost patience, densely detailing the precautions for each patient.
I swept left and looked at the second photo.
On the stainless steel desk in the duty room sat two bowls of seafood risotto.
Beside them were several plates of exquisite dessert.
In the background, Caleb's white coat hung quietly. A stethoscope hung down from the pocket's edge.
Below was a line of small text. [Thanks to Dr. Maxwell's kindness, even the night shift feels cozy now.]
At the end was a red heart.
My gaze shifted from the heart to the comments section.
A doctor from the same department left a teasing comment. [Whoa, Dr. Maxwell never even bothers with the cafeteria, and now he actually queued up for seafood risotto from that legendary spot?]
Alice dropped an emoji in reply. [Yep, according to him, I've gotten way too skinny lately and need to put some meat on my bones.]
My fingers clenched tighter without me even realizing it.
The metal frame pressed painfully against my knuckles, the chill slowly creeping into my skin through my white-knuckled grip.
My stomach twisted with a sour ache, and my chest tightened so much it felt impossible to breathe.
I double-tapped to zoom in on the late-night snack photo.