“I have a spare set of drops in my backpack.”
I’m about to argue further, because it’s fun to rile her up, but her pager goesoff.
Today is technically a day off, for us to pack up the last of our belongings before her final shifts at the hospital.
Wincing, she grabs the pager and reads the screen.
When we left Pine Harbour the day after Boxing Day, we spent the whole road trip back to Ottawa talking about our lives together, our future, and how we would survive the last six months of her residency training.
Because Rory becoming a fully-trained doctor is a goal worth making some sacrifices for, but we lost each other once and we didn’t want to risk that again.
The partridge timer became an integral part of our “hang in there” plan.
Once a week, on a day Rory isn’t on call, we give each other a guaranteed-uninterrupted ninety minutes. At first, we used it to talk. Some weeks we used it for sex. And then we started to use it for…doing things. Playing cards. Going for a walk.
And for six months, not a week has gone by that Rory hasn’t made those timer dates a priority.
Until, maybe, today.
Because today is the day of the week we were going to do that—after we finished packing.
But last night, a twin mom who Rory has been following in and out of antenatal over the last six weeks went into labour.
“Go,” I say, even before she has to explain what she’s reading on the screen.
“I might only be an hour or two,” she promises.
I know better.
And this time, it’s all right. More than all right. “As much as I want to bicker about packing all day, I can handle this myself. Go. Be with your patient.”
“We weren’t bickering.”
“As soon as you’re gone, I’m opening up that box and putting the shit you keep on your bedside table in theBedroombox.”
Her mouth drops open, then snaps shut.
I take her chin in my hand and lift her face. “Do you want to get ice cream tonight?”
Her expression softens. “One last gelato in Little Italy before I drag you back to Pine Harbour?”
“Exactly.” I rub my thumb against her bottom lip, enjoying the way she holds still for me, how her mouth drags open and her expression goes soft. “Roar, don’t feel badly about going to the hospital today.”
“I don’t,” she whispers, but her voice hitches.
She does.
And she wants to go anyway.
“There’s never enough time, but we always make time. And we have.”
“But we need to pack.”
“I want you to imagine for a second that I’m capable of completing the packing job that I’ve already done ninety percent of.”
Her eyes narrow. “I’ve helped as much as I can.”
“Sure. Yes. I know.”
