It was the seventh day of my hospital stay for a leg fracture. I was in the middle of a heated hand of Gin Rummy with a few other patients when my phone buzzed. It was Arthur. “Where are you?” he asked, his voice clipped and efficient. “On a business trip. I told you three times already,” I said, my eyes fixed on my cards, heart barely fluttering at the sound of his voice for the first time in years. There was a beat of silence. Then, “Hazel. Look up.” I froze. I slowly raised my gaze toward the door of the ward. Arthur Rhodes stood there, his face like a thundercloud, dressed in his charcoal-gray surgical scrubs. He walked toward my bed, his presence instantly draining the air from the room. Arthur was the city’s top orthopedic surgeon—brilliant, precise, and emotionally as cold as a scalpel. “A fracture,” he said, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous register he used when a resident messed up a procedure. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you come to my hospital? And why the hell did you lie about a business trip?” I looked at him, the man I had loved for two years, and felt a weary smile tug at the corner of my mouth. “Dr. Rhodes is a busy man,” I said lightly. After all, he had reminded me of that fact constantly. Don’t call me for every little thing, Hazel. I’m busy. Don’t be so clingy. “I figured I could handle a minor thing like this myself,” I added. “I didn’t want to be a nuisance.” 1 The other patients sensed the tension and scrambled away. A stray card fluttered to the linoleum floor. Arthur picked it up, his face an unreadable mask of clinical detachment, and placed it on my bedside table. “Hazel, you’re still sulking,” he said, the familiar edge of impatience creeping into his brow. “I didn’t miss our anniversary on purpose. How long are you going to keep punishing me for one night?” Seven days ago. Our second anniversary. I had booked the table at Alinea weeks in advance. We had just sat down; the menus hadn’t even been opened. Then his phone rang. He was up and gone before the water was poured. “Patient emergency,” was all he said. I had sat there under the pitying gaze of the sommelier for twenty minutes before leaving. I told them to keep the deposit. An hour later, I was scrolling through Instagram when I saw a post from a gala downtown. Phoebe was in the shot, looking radiant. In the corner of the frame was a man’s arm in a tailored suit sleeve, the cuff linked with the very watch I had bought Arthur that morning. I was staring at that photo, my eyes blurred with tears, when I missed a step on the pedestrian bridge. I went down hard. The ambulance, the surgery, the admission—it was all done by 11:00 PM. That’s when he finally called. “I’m home. Where are you?” I was staring at a chipped piece of black paint on the hospital bed rail, my leg elevated and throbbing. “Were you with Phoebe today?” He hesitated. “Phoebe tweaked her back at the event. An old injury flared up. I had to go, Hazel. I’m her doctor.” It was always Phoebe. Last month, she saw a spider and “twisted her hip” out of fear; he left mid-surgery recovery to check on her. Two months ago, the movie had just started when she texted saying her back ached from standing too long at a photoshoot. “I’ll make it up to you,” he’d say. It was always an “emergency.” It was always “necessary.” I closed my eyes and took a jagged breath. When I didn’t speak, he sighed—a sound of profound exhaustion. “Fine. Stop the drama. I’ll take some time off and stay with you later this week, okay? Now, where are you? I’ll come get you.” I could see him in my mind: pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes narrowed in irritation. I laughed, a dry, hollow sound. “I begged you for two weeks to take one night off for our anniversary. How long would I have to beg for the ‘later this week’?” “Hazel…” His voice turned cold. “Something came up. I’m out of town on business,” I lied, my voice steady. “I don’t need you to take time off. Goodbye, Arthur.” For the first time in our relationship, I hung up on him. 2 Back in the present, Arthur stared at me in the hospital bed. “If a former med school classmate hadn’t spotted your name on the surgery schedule, were you ever going to tell me?” he demanded. “Hazel, grow up. Stop making things so difficult for me.” I went rigid. Difficult. That was his favorite word for me. When I had night terrors and asked him to stay up with me, I was difficult. When I wanted him to bake a cake with me for my birthday, I was being unreasonable and difficult. When I had a fever and wanted him home, he told me he was an orthopedic surgeon, not an internist, and that his presence wouldn’t clinically change my temperature—so why was I being so difficult? I had learned to take melatonin for the nightmares. I ordered my own birthday cakes. I drove myself to the clinic. And now, I had even managed my own surgery and hospitalization without a word to him. And yet, I was still “making things difficult.” Three months ago, Phoebe called him at midnight claiming her stomach ached. He didn’t even hesitate. He was dressed and at the door in three minutes. I had blocked his way. “You’re a bone surgeon, Arthur. What are you going to do for her stomach ache that a Tylenol and a heating pad can’t?” He had looked at me with genuine confusion. “She’s not like you, Hazel. She’s fragile. She can’t handle things on her own. I have to take her to the ER.” “Why is it that when I need you, it’s a ‘nuisance,’ but when she calls, it’s a ‘responsibility’?” Arthur’s expression had shifted to something bordering on contempt. “Phoebe was an only child, born late to her parents. She was sheltered. She doesn’t have your… resilience. Do we really have to debate this now?” I was stunned into silence. Then his phone rang again. Phoebe’s voice, honey-thick and trembling, came through the speaker: “Arthur, where are you? It hurts so much.” “Almost there,” he said, and he pushed past me without another look. I had stumbled against the shoe rack, the sharp corner digging into my ankle. The pain was so sharp I doubled over, but he was already gone. Remembering that, I let out a long, slow breath. I looked up at him. “You’re in luck, Dr. Rhodes. I’m being discharged today. I don’t suppose borrowing your car for the ride home would be too much of a ‘difficulty’?” His jaw tightened. He wanted to snap back, but he swallowed his words. In the passenger seat of his Tesla, I felt something hard beneath my hip. I reached down and pulled out a tube of high-end lip gloss. Arthur glanced at it and immediately said, “I gave Phoebe a lift to an interview the other day…” “Give it back to her next time you see her,” I interrupted, tossing it onto the console. He went quiet, glancing at me for two long seconds. I stared out the window at the Chicago skyline, refusing to give him a single word more. When we got into the apartment, he finally spoke. “Come to my clinic in two days for the follow-up. I want to check the hardware they put in your leg myself.” I hopped toward the bedroom on my crutches. “No thanks. The team at the other hospital was great.” He grabbed my arm, his brow furrowed. After a moment, he said, “I’ll take the day off. We’ll spend it together. Happy?” I looked at him, genuinely puzzled. “Why?” He looked frustrated now, a simmering, impatient heat. “Isn’t this what you wanted? You’ve been silent the whole ride home, waiting for me to apologize, waiting for me to ‘make it up’ to you. Fine. I’m taking the day off. I’m compensating you. Is that enough?” The suffocating weight in my chest suddenly doubled. I wrenched my arm out of his grip. “Arthur, maybe we should just—” Break up. The words were on the tip of my tongue when his phone shrieked. He checked it and turned back to me. “Emergency consult. A multi-car pileup. We’ll talk when I get back.” 3 To my surprise, Arthur actually followed through. The next morning, he was in the kitchen making breakfast. The morning light caught the back of his neck as he carefully plated an omelet. For a fleeting second, my heart ached with the ghost of the love I once felt. Then the doorbell rang. Arthur dropped the spatula and went to the door. Phoebe walked in, sliding into the spare pair of guest slippers as if she lived there. “I heard Hazel got hurt,” she said, her voice airy. “I came to check on her.” Before I could say a word, she sniffed the air. “Oh, Arthur, that smells amazing. I haven’t had your cooking in forever. Is there enough for me?” Arthur didn’t even look at me. He just grabbed a third plate. “Have a seat,” he told her. I hobbled to the table on my crutches. I looked down at my plate and saw a thick garnish of cilantro mixed into the eggs. I felt a wave of nausea. Arthur knew I hated cilantro—it tasted like soap to me. He had known that for two years. Phoebe beamed. “Arthur, you remembered! I love extra cilantro.” I stopped pulling out my chair. I looked at the green flecks on the eggs and felt like I was looking at the epitaph of our relationship. “I’m not hungry,” I said, turning back toward the hallway. “You two enjoy.” Arthur looked up briefly, said nothing, and handed Phoebe the hot sauce. I shut the bathroom door behind me, my eyes stinging. As I turned, my crutch caught on the edge of the shelving unit. The whole thing tipped, and I went down in a clatter of glass jars and plastic bottles. Arthur burst in. He lifted me up, his eyes landing on my scraped, reddened knee. He went strangely still. “Hazel,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “If you didn’t want Phoebe to stay for breakfast, you could have just said so. You don’t have to hurt yourself for attention.” I stared at him, my breath hitching. I remembered a rainy night months ago. My stomach had been cramping so badly I went to his hospital to find him. I had just sat down in his office when Phoebe’s assistant burst in. “Dr. Rhodes, Phoebe’s back is spasming. She needs you now.” Arthur had stood up immediately. I grabbed his hand. “Arthur, did you hear me? My stomach is killing me.” He had looked at me for a long time, then whispered, “Are you faking it?” “What?” “Are you actually in pain, or do you just want to stop me from seeing her? Even if you hate her, she’s still my patient. Don’t be petty, Hazel.” The door had clicked shut behind him. I had sat there, clutching my abdomen, unable to breathe. Later that night, I drove myself to a different ER. It was acute appendicitis. Lying on that cold operating table, I felt a bone-deep exhaustion—the kind that makes you want to let go of everything. That feeling was back now. “Arthur,” I whispered. “I think we’re don—” Another knock at the front door interrupted me. It was Jules, a friend I’d made in the hospital. She held up a Steam Deck and a bag of takeout. “We had a date, remember? Gaming and actual food.” I took a breath, letting my shoulders drop. I smiled at her. “Yeah. Let’s go to my room.” 4 The next afternoon, Arthur insisted on taking me for my follow-up. I just nodded, too tired to fight. The tension in the car was thick, a low-pressure system of unspoken resentment. When he pulled into the parking lot of his hospital, I frowned. “You’re at the wrong place.” “No, I’m not.” He got out, grabbed my crutches, and helped me out of the car. “I want a new set of X-rays. I need to see it myself.” I followed him through the sterile halls—the paperwork, the imaging, the radiation room. When I came out, Arthur was nowhere to be found. The nurse looked sympathetic. “Dr. Rhodes got a call and had to run. He said he’d be back to pick you up in a bit.” The sky outside turned a bruised purple, and within minutes, a torrential downpour began. I waited for twenty minutes, then texted him: It’s pouring. Don’t worry about coming back. I’ll just call an Uber. He didn’t reply. I took a cab back to the apartment. I let myself in, my clothes damp from the dash to the door. The lock clicked. I stopped dead. Phoebe was standing in the living room wearing one of Arthur’s white button-down shirts. A towel was draped over her head, her cheeks flushed pink from a hot shower. Arthur was handing her a hair dryer. They both turned to look at me. I gripped my crutches until my knuckles turned white. My mind went blank, a white noise of shock. Arthur’s face paled. He took a step toward me, panic flickering in his eyes. I instinctively stumbled back, nearly losing my balance. He froze. “Hazel, wait. Phoebe was being followed by some stalker… her place was surrounded. She had nowhere else to go. She got soaked in the rain… nothing happened. I swear.” Phoebe stepped out from behind the sofa, her long legs bare beneath the hem of his shirt. “Arthur was just worried about me, Hazel. Please, don’t make a scene.” I could feel myself shaking. Not with anger, but with a cold, absolute clarity. I turned to leave. Arthur ran out and caught my arm. “Hazel! We really—” “Arthur! Enough!” I shouted, my voice trembling. “It’s over.”
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