Wait for Me
He leaned his back against the rough, cool wall and closed his eyes. It felt impossible to move. But 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 dulled the exhaustion. Just beyond the entrance, a small tree-lined path led to the road. Sunlight pierced the leaves, dappling the asphalt with trembling patterns. He couldn’t recall ever walking this way—always arriving by car. But today, he wanted to trace those flickering shapes, squinting against the light. No one waited for him at home anyway.
Edward wandered slowly, savouring the sun, the faded whispers of summer storms. July had crept past its peak, and soon his holiday would begin. Today, he’d won—snatched a patient back from the reaper’s grip.
On one of the benches sat a young woman in a pale dress, bent over a book. Strands of auburn hair veiled her face. Suddenly, he *needed* to see her. He reached the bench and paused.
She turned a page, oblivious.
“Good book?” he asked.
She read a moment longer, then closed it, marking her place with a finger so he could glimpse the title.
*My Dearest Human*, Edward read upside-down.
She lifted her head. Freckles dusted her cheeks, but they didn’t mar her—brightened her, if anything. Expressive dark eyes, full lips. Fresh-faced. *Golden*, he thought, watching sunlight ignite her hair.
“Medical interest, or just the author?” Edward asked.
“I’ve applied to medical school.”
“Then we’re nearly colleagues.” He smiled approvingly and sat beside her.
“You’re a doctor?” Her eyes sparked.
“A surgeon.”
“You?” She blinked.
“Surprised? Don’t I look the part? Or did you expect some grey-haired, tight-lipped stereotype?”
Her lips parted in a grin. “What kind of surgeon?”
“Impressive you know the nuances. I’d love to say *plastic*—sounds more glamorous. Sadly, I’m just general. Someone’s got to remove appendixes and gallstones.”
She laughed, bright and musical.
For some reason, he wanted to impress her, play the seasoned surgeon. So he spoke of how the job lacked the romance of novels—how the operating theatre was its own battlefield, with strategy, stakes. Mentioned today’s case, embellished with thoughts of the patient’s wife, their children, waiting, fearing.
At first, she watched him warily. Then, with naked admiration. Under her gaze, he *felt* heroic, a wielder of fates. Knew he was showing off but couldn’t stop. He *wanted* her to like him.
“You saved a life and just… *say* it like that?”
“Happens daily. Every surgery’s a gamble. The simplest case can turn tragic.” He turned the question. “What kind of doctor do you want to be?”
“Haven’t decided. Still need to *get* in.” She checked her wristwatch and jolted up. “Oh—I’m late!” Panic flitted through her eyes.
“My car’s parked nearby. I’ll drive you,” he offered, rising.
In the car, she told him she lived with Aunt Margot, her mother’s sister. There was an old cocker spaniel named Whisky—christened by Margot’s late husband. Margot’s knees ached, so walking Whisky fell to her, Emily. And Whisky was ancient, couldn’t hold it—if she didn’t take him out, disaster struck. *She’d* be the one cleaning up.
“Nasty?” Edward asked.
“Aunt Margot? No, she’s kind. Took me in despite her knees, her blood pressure.”
“Where’d you come from? Not local?”
“Born here. Mum died when I was ten. Stomach pains for days—she kept putting it off. I came home from school, found her unconscious on the floor. Called an ambulance. Burst appendix, peritonitis. Dad drank himself to oblivion after. Got hit by a bus—accident or not, who knows? So I live with Margot.”
Emily leapt from the car, dashed to the door. She turned, waved. Edward waved back—then she vanished inside.
Alone in the car, the heroics dissolved. Just a tired, lonely surgeon again. He pitied her. Good girl. Driven. So young, so much already endured.
A month later, post-holiday, Edward walked the ward corridor. A young cleaner mopped the floor. A strand of auburn hair escaped her cap. Something familiar there—enough to halt him. A patient’s daughter?
She looked up.
“You? Hello.” Joy flickered in those dark eyes. He remembered her, though the name escaped him.
“Hello. I thought you were off to uni, not working?” He’d slipped into *you*, not *you*. “Or is someone here ill?” He recalled the dead parents.
“Got in. Wanted to earn before term starts.”
“Smart. See the guts of it before committing. Maybe you’ll change your mind. Not aiming for surgery, I hope?”
She shrugged. *Emily*—her name returned.
“Glad to see you.” He walked on, certain her gaze followed. His stride grew loose, careless.
Every ward round, he hoped to spot her. And when he did, he’d stop, say something trivial.
Once, she waited outside the doctors’ lounge. Knew she was there for him.
“Last day today. Term starts next week,” she said, flushing—freckles darkening.
“No cold feet? Let’s celebrate. Your last shift, your place at uni. Wait for me. Yes?”
She nodded, grinning, redder still.
Two hours later, Edward found her in the hospital foyer. She sprang up, blushing anew. They left together—who cared who saw? She wasn’t a cleaner now. A student. Future doctor.
Dinner at a café, then a stroll along the Thames.
“No rush? What about your aunt?” he asked.
“Visiting a friend in York. Whisky died last week. Very old. Margot left—couldn’t bear the silence. Kept hearing his bark.” Emily sighed.
“Come to mine. Honestly, my feet are killing me. Ever tried French wine? No? That needs fixing.” He faltered, fearing refusal.
She agreed.
“Sorry, wasn’t expecting guests. Place is a mess,” he warned, unlocking his flat. “Make yourself at home. I’ll whip up something.”
Edward scavenged leftovers—restaurant roast beef, salad vegetables, a bottle of rosé with a fancy label.
“Where’s your wife? On holiday?” Emily teased, leaning in the kitchen doorway.
He rinsed lettuce. “Left me. Sick of me never being home, even on weekends. Called the ward nights, doubted my shifts. We fought. At first, I moped. Slept in the on-call room. Then… got used to it. Not divorced yet.” He handed her a knife. “Help? Useless at this.”
“The beef?” She eyed the takeaway container.
“Takeout.” He admitted it, though he’d nearly lied.
They chopped salad, laid the table, brushing hands, laughing off the tension. Drank wine, ate, talked over each other, fearing pauses.
His phone rang. They froze. Edward took the call in the living room. Returned minutes later—urgent recall to the hospital.
“Sleep here. Sheets in the cupboard. *Wait for me*,” he said, leaving.
A multi-car crash. All hands on deck. He operated through the night. At dawn, he hurried home—first time in months he’d had reason to. Emily would be there.
He imagined easing the door open, finding her asleep, auburn hair fanned across the pillow. Kissing her warm, sleep-soft skin—his heart hammered at the thought.
He took the stairs two at a time, too impatient for the lift. Gently, he turned the key. The clatter of dishes came from the kitchen.
Edward toed off his shoes, headed in, expecting breakfast. In the doorway, he froze—his wife’s back greeted him, floral dressing gown, blonde hair spilling over her shoulders.
She turned, smiled.
“Hello.” Casual, as if they’d parted hours ago, not months.
“Hello. What are you doing here?” Stupid question.
“Pancakes. You must be starving. What happened? The night call?”
“How’d you know?” He scanned the room for signs of Emily.
“Looking for someone?” Innocent.
“No, but—”
“She left.” Victoria met his eyes. “Don’t worry, I didn’t scare her off. Isn’t she a bit *young* for you?”
“Why are you *here*?” He bit back a shout.
“I came home. We’re married, remember? I missed you. Realised I couldn’t do without you. There’s been no one else, honest.And as he stood there, the scent of Emily’s perfume still lingering on the crumpled blanket in his hands, Edward realized some dreams were meant to be carried alone, like a weight he would never set down.
