“That’s what love does,” I said. “It makes the pain worth it.”
He rose and pulled me into a hug! Tight.
“Thank you,” he whispered. “For back then. For today. For everything.”
I hugged him back.
“You’re welcome,” I said. “You and your mom — you’re fighters.”
I hugged him back.
Emily remained in the ICU for some time. I visited her every day. When she finally opened her eyes after a light sleep, I was standing beside her bed.
“Hey, Em,” I said.
She offered a faint smile. “Either I’m officially dead,” she rasped, “or God has a very twisted sense of humor.”
“You’re alive,” I said. “Very much so.”
“Ethan told me what happened. That you were his surgeon… and now mine.”
I nodded.
She reached out and laced her fingers through mine.
“You didn’t have to save me,” she said.
“Of course I did,” I answered. “You collapsed outside my hospital again. What was I supposed to do?”
She chuckled, then winced. “Don’t make me laugh,” she said. “It hurts to breathe.”
“You’ve always been dramatic.”
“And you’ve always been stubborn.”
“It hurts to breathe.”
We sat quietly for a while, the steady rhythm of monitors filling the room.
“Mark,” she said.
“Yeah?”
“When I’m better… would you want to get coffee sometime? Somewhere that doesn’t smell like disinfectant?”
I smiled. “I’d like that.”
She gave my hand a gentle squeeze. “Don’t disappear this time.”
“I won’t.”
“I’d like that.”
She was discharged three weeks later. The following morning, she texted me: “Stationary bikes are the devil. Plus, the new cardiologist said I have to avoid coffee. He’s a monster.”
I replied: “When you’re cleared, first round’s on me.”
Sometimes Ethan comes with us. We sit at that small coffee shop downtown. Other times we just talk — about books, about music, about what Ethan hopes to do with his life now.
