While I Was Dying, He Was Texting His Intern

So long ago that I'd already forgotten about it.

After a full round of tests,

he told me my allergens hadn't changed.

Which meant the only explanation was emotional.

“Have you been experiencing insomnia or depression recently?”

I froze.

Then it hit me, understanding and bitterness tangled together.

No wonder I'd been getting worse these past six months.

Turned out I cared about him more than I thought.

On the drive back from the hospital,

Maura was still cursing Bertram out.

But I felt nothing anymore.

Maybe it was true what people said: when your body was falling apart,

you stopped caring about love.

My phone buzzed.

“You went to see Dr. Harmon?”

“Yeah.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“I could've gone with you.”

“I didn't go on purpose. Just ran into him.”

“He said one of the results isn't back yet. I'll pick you up tonight. Let me take you in again tomorrow?”

I rubbed my thumb across the divorce papers in my hand

and typed back：“Okay.”

When I got home that evening,

the apartment looked brand new.

Someone had clearly cleaned up.

He stopped me at the guest room door：

“You're still mad?”

I shook my head.

“Then why won't you sleep in the bedroom?”

I thought about it, then gave him one word：“Filthy.”

I meant it.

But he reacted like I'd slapped him.

“She's just a kid.”

“Jemima, that's enough.”

I hadn't heard those words in a long time.

Long enough that they dragged up memories I'd buried.

Freshman year, military training week. I fell for him the moment I saw him.

But he was an iceberg. Nobody got within arm's reach.

After a few attempts that bounced right off him, I started asking around.

He was an orphan. Scholarships and odd jobs and a mentor's charity were the only reasons he'd made it this far.

So I told myself the coldness was armor.

All I had to do was get close enough, be warm enough, and it would melt.

I picked the meat out of my bowl and put it in his.

At his games, my voice alone drowned out the entire crowd.

On holidays when he had nowhere to go, I stayed behind with him.

And every time I pushed too hard, he'd give me the same two words：“That's enough.”

I pretended not to hear.

“Come home with me for Christmas. My mom's cooking is amazing!”

“Don't be sad. From now on, I'm your family!”

……

Then one day a ceiling fan above me came loose, its bolt snapping free, and the whole thing plummeted straight toward my head.

In the middle of everyone's screams, Bertram threw himself over me.

The muffled grunt when it hit him stayed with me for years.

And in all the silences that followed, that sound saved us more times than I could count.

Now I stared at his profile, harder and colder than ever.

There wasn't a trace left of the boy who'd once been terrified of losing me.

I pulled my arm free and walked straight to the master bedroom.

Threw back the comforter. Nothing.

Yanked open the nightstand drawer. Nothing.

Finally, I crouched down and dragged a piece of lace lingerie out from under the bed.

Not mine.

Bertram's lips pressed into a tight line.

I let out a short, hollow laugh and threw the lingerie in his face.

“Bertram, how about you quit while you're ahead.”

Then I turned and went back to the guest room.

The next morning, Bertram delayed going in to work and drove me to the hospital.

The second we reached the office door,

I saw Sybilla inside, there for a follow-up of her own.

So he'd been coming here today anyway.

I was just a stop along the way.

And last time he came to this hospital, it was to get his mentor to see Sybilla.

And I'd actually been foolish enough to think he still cared about me.