【 46.
Forty-six
Hasrat 】
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[ Hasrat • longing/desire ]
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MAY WAS ONE of the loveliest months in New York, what with its warm-but-not-hot mornings and chilled-but-not-freezing nights.
That’s the best way any child could describe the weather right then.
“You’ll be turning six next month, right?” Zach asked, sticking his tongue out to lick the three scoops of ice cream filling the waffle cone in his hand. From where he was seated on the grass of the park, a strong breeze blew past.
Scarlett dabbed the tissue paper over the corner of her mouth, where she could feel the stickiness of smeared ice cream. “Yeah,” she grinned. “I was telling my grandma I wanted a mermaid themed party—with a swimming pool and everything.”
Zach snickered and leaned back on his elbows, cool earth and damp grass tickling his skin. “You wouldn’t need a wig at least.”
A sigh fell past Scarlett’s lips. “Very funny,” she grumbled, taking another chunk of her ice cream, “but my shade of red is very different from Ariel’s, so your little redhead joke didn’t work this time.” She smiled triumphantly and bit into the top edge of her cone. “Anyway, it’s not like I want the theme because of Little Mermaid or anything. I just like mermaids.”
“Then it’s going to be a daytime party, right?” Zach stated, nodding to himself. Chocolate, vanilla and strawberry filled his taste buds. “My birthday’s in August, so I still have time to decide. But I think I might go for a Neverland theme.”
“You and your love for Peter Pan,” she scoffed, shaking her head. “Why do you like it so much?”
“I don’t know,” he shrugged, beginning to bite into the waffle cone, “I think I just like everything about the Lost Boys. Seems cool to never grow up.”
“Well, I want to grow up,” Scarlett said proudly, straightening her shoulders and sticking her chest out. “The faster I grow up, the faster I can become a ballerina.”
“I’m going to become a football player,” Zach declared with a huge grin. “Going to become famous and sign autographs for everyone.”
“Why do you want to become famous?” Scarlett asked, scrunching up here face. “I want to be a famous ballet dancer too, but it’s not only to become famous. I like ballet a lot.”
“I like playing sports too!” Zach defended, sitting up straight and frowning at Scarlett. “And I’m really good at all of them.” He took another bite of his cone and chewed on it slowly. “And... I don’t want anyone to forget me.”
Scarlett stopped licking the last remaining bit of her ice cream and stared at Zach in bewilderment. “Whatever do you mean?”
Zach licked his lips and thought for a while. “When we first came to America, my father said that it’s a shame to forget everyone we left behind at home—those who died and were alive. But especially those who died. He said that everyone has two deaths. The first is when they leave this world and the second is when the last person who remembers them leaves this world too.”
Scarlett continued to stare at him with wide green eyes. “Whoa,” she breathed, “that’s so grown up. Such adult-like stuff. It’s so cool.”
“Yeah?” Zach asked shyly, looking down at his knees.
“Yeah,” she enthusiastically nodded, gobbling down the rest of her cone.
Zach smiled as his cheeks warmed and looked up again. “He always remembers the names of the people who are no longer with us. My mother too. And I started to think that after I die, I want people to remember me.”
“Oh my,” Scarlett gasped, her mouth staying open. “Zach, why are you thinking about such stuff? You’re almost eight! We’re just little kids, you know.”
He laughed lightly, “Oh, it’s just a thought I had when dad told me about all that. It would be nice to have someone remember me when I’m not there anymore. So I’m going to grow up and become famous—then even if I die, there’s going to be hundreds and thousands of people who’ll know my name. If I can never be a Lost Boy and have to become an adult, at least I can live forever by just dying one death.”
“Well, what if you never become famous?” Scarlett asked, placing her chin in her hand and frowning hard.
“You always think about the worst things,” Zach complained, throwing her an annoyed look.
She shrugged. “I was just saying.” She glanced down at her slightly sticky hands, seeing a few brown and pink stains on her fingers. “It’s okay though,” she suddenly said, lifting her head and offering Zach a warm, soft smile. “Even if you never become a famous person, I’ll remember you.” Scarlett extended her hand and stuck out her little finger, “It’s a promise, Zach. I’ll always remember you.”
Zach stared at her pinky with a surprised expression, before meeting her eyes and matching the smile on her face with one of his own. And then he reached out with his own hand and wrapped his pinky around hers. “I’ll remember you too,” he promised, “even if you don’t believe in two deaths.”
A boomerang from a group of slightly older kids whizzed past Scarlett and Zach’s intertwined pinkies, the object’s sharp edge nicking their skin. Both fingers were given a light, barely noticeable cut—but enough to cause tiny droplets of warm blood to surface and smear against each other’s, blending hers into his and his into hers.
“Ooh!” Both of them exclaimed in unison, pulling their hands away and examining their fingers.
Zach used the hem of his jeans to wipe away the faint trace of blood while Scarlett pulled a clean tissue out of her small pouch-bag and used that instead.
“Your grandparents are packing up their mat,” Zach suddenly pointed out, jutting his chin towards the direction in which Scarlett knew her Nana and Granddaddy were seated, keeping an eye on both her and Zach. “Maybe it’s time to leave.”
Her dad’s parents were always so worried in crowded areas, always warning Scarlett and Zach about kidnappers and cannibals and other silly things. It used to be so irritating before, but now that they usually invited Zach along whenever they took her out, Scarlett didn’t complain and grumble as much.
“My mum was telling me about a new Disney cartoon coming out next month,” Scarlett told Zach as they both got to their feet. “Pocahontas, or something. I think it’ll be out on June 23rd. But, like always, my grandparents might book the tickets before my parents and take me themselves. Do you want to come along?”
Zach shrugged. “Yeah, why not? They made Lion King last year and it was awesome. This might turn out really good too.”
Scarlett grinned, “Oh my God, yes! We’ll have so much fun.”
Six days before the release of Pocahontas, Scarlett and Zach’s lives were changed forever—putting to test the innocent promise by two kids that the Universe had sealed with blood.
THE TWELFTH FLOOR of the headquarters of Iskandar Industries has an elegant stone flooring of laminate slate that complements three of the lobby’s crisp white walls and even its fourth—an accent wall of a rich, dark metallic blue. Dome-shaped pendant lights hang down from the ceiling in sets of three, their white bulbs encased in sleek black fixtures with gold metal rimming. A large, black L-shaped reception desk with built-in LED lights running along the underside of its edges sits in front of the blue wall, the logo and initials of the company displayed on the smooth, shiny surface.
It is in front of this desk—his secretary’s desk—that Zachary Hawthorne stops.
“Good morning, Mr Zachary.”
“Good morning to you too, Verity,” he returns the greeting warmly. Verity Jones has been with him for quite a long while now; a woman in her early forties with the kind of experience and organisation skills—not to mention the dedication—that Zach knows is priceless in the current market. There’s an odd sense of comfort he’s grown to find in her consistency since the first day she began working here; the way she always dressed in a three-piece skirt suit of a single colour, her afro-textured hair always pulled back into a tight bun, and a shade of dark burgundy lipstick that he sometimes forgets isn’t her natural colour.
“You’ve received yet more requests for an interview by twenty different news channels—all of which I politely declined and then moved to the spam folder. Nothing to do with the company, Sir, just about the case.”
Zach sighs, but offers a nod of appreciation. “Anything else?”
“Everything else comes after lunch, Mr Zachary. It’s Monday so nothing’s scheduled for until after one pm because the first half of the day will be filled with your status-update meetings. I’ve sent the reminders to each Head of Department, so they know what time slots have been allocated for them and when to expect you in their cabins.”
“Priority?”
“Dumont from Sales and Marketing,” Verity responds easily, not having to even refer to the screen of her laptop. “There’s a bit of a… block there.”
Zachary frowns, not wanting his Monday morning to start off on an unfavourable note.
“I know, I know,” she sighs heavily. “But it’s to do with the supplies for the armoury of that prison—Jefferson Correctional Centre—and I think your intervention is needed. Dumont’s handled it as far as he can, but he’s about to lose it.”
“About to lose what?” Zach asks sharply, having a strong feeling Verity isn’t talking about his sales HoD’s patience or state of mind.
“The contract,” she tells him with a slight wince.
“Bullshit,” Zach snaps, stepping away from the desk and pulling out his phone. “JCC’s contract with us lasts for at least another two years. There’s no way they can pull out. This is—goddammit—” he whips around and strides towards the elevator. “Tell Dumont I’m heading towards his department right this instant.”
It takes less than a minute for the elevator to take Zach down to the seventh floor, where the entire department for sales and marketing is located. Stepping out into the lobby and making his way to the glass double doors, he enters the open-floor layout of the office that’s headed by Ashley Dumont—a man who forbade everyone in this company from addressing him by his first name because he refuses to believe it’s a unisex one.
If it’s anybody else, they might have not told it to Zach’s face that the name is strictly off-limits, but Dumont isn’t only an employee that works as the HoD of this entire division—he also happens to be Zach’s friend.
“Mr Hawthorne,” a young intern blinks up at him, seeming alarmed to run into the man whose birth name is plastered on every legal document of the Iskandar group of companies.
“How’s your first week been so far?” Zach asks the boy in his early twenties, keeping the urgency of the situation at bay for now. He doesn’t want to scare the boy with his own irritation of the situation that arose out of the blue—or, worse, make the intern think that Zach is one of those haughty, narcissistic types that can’t spare a second for an employee that’s not in an executive or managerial position.
Zach could’ve been this boy a long time ago, starting out fresh and naïve as an intern in a highly reputable company with hopes of establishing a good start to a promising career. But he wasn’t. He could have been—but wasn’t.
While it is true that Zach built Iskandar Industries from scratch, all on his own, there was luck on his side too. Because of his adopted name.
The attachment of Hawthorne to his identity helped Zach build a solid, loyal customer base earlier than the average time a company normally takes to do so. It brought him benefits he never intended, gave him advantages he knows a lot of new entrepreneurs can only dream of getting—factors he’s always, always grateful for. Before long, his name was already making it on the headlines. Mostly it was about how Sebastian Hawthorne’s only son was choosing to make his own fortune and legacy rather than living wild until he one day inherits all that his father leaves him.
At least a lot of people saw—and still see—him for his own efforts and hard work, rather than credit all his accomplishments to the Hawthorne name. Zach remembers there being accusations of nepotism during the initial stages of his quickly-rising fame amongst the corporate giants of New York, about how daddy’s little rich boy had an unfair advantage and a jump-start in building a career that other people his age don’t have.
A lot of those claims died down once he showed them with his own actions that he deserves every bit of the fame and power and respect that comes with being where he is. After all, no investor or customer will choose to keep spending their money on a sinking ship, right? And when both groups of people kept growing for Iskandar Industries, it sent out a clear statement that Zachary Hawthorne is a man of his own making.
Of course it doesn’t change the fact that Zach did have fortune on his side in comparison to others just as talented as him who might come from less-reputable and resourceful backgrounds. But he cannot hold himself accountable for that now, can he? Life is unfair to everyone on some scale—there are things that worked horribly against him, as there are things that worked incredibly well for him.
And Zach has always fought through the pain that was thrown his way, so he isn’t going to be one to shy away when opportunities knock on his door either. There’s a fine line between being selfless and downright idiotic, after all.
He takes another moment with the boy, before excusing himself and then heading towards the mini private conference room at the far end of the office space that was built for emergency meetings such as the one Zach is about to have with Dumont.
“Why’s JCC acting up now?” Zach demands as soon as he enters the glass-panelled room.
“Budget cuts,” Dumont mutters in response, twirling a pen between his thumb and index finger. “Been happening with prisons around the country since recently.”
“Jefferson Correctional Centre isn’t state-owned, it’s a goddamn private prison. Why the hell do they need budget cuts?”
Dumont stuck his hands out helplessly on the circular table, shooting an incredulous look at Zach. “How the hell would I know? Ask their group’s HoDs for the pricing decisions they make—I belong to the Iskandar group of companies, in case you forgot that for a moment there.”
“Don’t be a smartass. I’m not in the mood.” Zach runs a hand through his hair, releasing a frustrated sigh. “We’ll just supply the arms to the prison guards then—whatever they carry on their bodies during their shifts. But pull back the heavier stuff. We won’t be selling to stock up the prison’s armouries.”
Dumont frowns at that, “Contract clearly states we’re their sole supplier of all kinds of arms—and it only expires in another two years, Zach.”
“They’re clearly adamant on not buying at the regular prices, or else it wouldn’t have come to the point of me hearing about it. But we can’t take this to court and file a lawsuit for breach of contract, Dumont. It’s too reckless—and I don’t want to lose JCC. We’ll still be able to function without them, but it’ll send a message to our other clients that we’re ready to throw them under the bus than work out a solution that can benefit both parties. If we want their loyalty, we need to earn it. But,” Zach pauses, cocking an eyebrow, “they still need to understand who has the upper hand here. If they want to cut down on their spending, then so be it—but they can do that by reducing the quantity of their purchase, not by us surrendering and lowering our prices. If we do that, it’ll set a trend and allow other customers to start bargaining too. I don’t negotiate, Dumont.”
The man across Zach chuckles slowly and shakes his head. “Still got to be the one calling the shots, huh?”
“Don’t tell me you expected me to relent,” Zach says, but smiles in return.
“What do you take me for?” Dumont scoffs. “I was just wondering what you’d come up with to get out of this situation without surrendering control, and dammit, you did not fail.” Releasing a deep sigh, he throws down the pen and then frowns at Zach. “By the way, isn’t JCC where Felix is incarcerated?” He shakes his head and curses under his breath. “Prick. Sometimes I still can’t believe he stole from us.”
It’s needless to say Dumont was a part of this company since ages ago, when Felix Darwin worked here too. Zach merely sighs at his friend’s words but doesn’t respond. He hardly thinks about what happened five years ago anymore—it’s become nothing but an annoying memory rather than a painful one.
But there happens to be another reason to harbour deep hatred for the man, a reason that Zach learnt of two months ago during a sleepless night in a hotel room in Chicago.
The mere reminder of her words make his blood simmer, and yet again he can feel that itch in the front of his mind. That need to do something, but having no clue what or how. The knowledge of Felix rotting away behind bars doesn’t seem to bring any consolation regarding what he did ten years ago to the one person Zach now cares for so irrevocably.
On instinct, his hand slides into his suit’s coat pocket and pulls out his phone. Her name is nowhere to be found on the several notifications filling up his lockscreen, despite Zach having left two missed calls several hours ago.
Must be a longer than usual surgery or something, he tells himself.
Besides, Zach can’t busy his mind with scenarios of why he hasn’t got a response yet—there’s so much on his schedule today already. He glances up from his phone’s screen and nods at Dumont. “Keep me posted on how it goes. Let me know if I need to step in and handle them directly.”
“Already on it,” Dumont returns as Zach turns around, walking out of the conference room and then through the office of the sales and marketing department, hoping that none of the other HoDs have frustrating news for him.
THIRTY BLOODY HOURS.
That’s how long the operation took.
“I can’t feel my legs,” Rose groans, stepping out of the operation theatre and sliding down to the sanitized floors of the narrow corridor, leaning her head back against the wall as her eyes flutter shut. “Oh my God, I’m not going to be able to stand for this whole week.”
Dr Harrison chuckles at her words, the sound coming from above her because apparently the fifty-three year old man doesn’t have a problem standing. “This was easy.”
That makes Rose’s eyes fly open. “I’m sorry?” she asks incredulously.
“You know, the longest surgery took place right here in Chicago. Four days. Ninety-six hours. The thirty hours we just did should seem like a walk in the park.”
“Tell that to the team who performed that four-day operation, not to someone who just performed their longest one ever.”
“Right,” he smiles warmly, moving aside as the nurses file out of the room with heavy exhaustion in their eyes and gait. “The longest I’ve been inside a theatre was when I was part of a team that performed a 48-hour operation. Trust me, Rose, if you plan on climbing this ladder, today’s got to be one of the better days.”
She mumbles something incoherently and waves a hand in the air, before shutting her eyes once more and dropping her head against the wall again. “You’re wrong, by the way. About the longest surgery. The Chicago one happened in 1951. But that record was broken in 2001. It lasted for more than four straight days—went on for a hundred and three hours, actually. Eleven month-old twins conjoined at the head. They had to—”
“Nonsense,” he cuts her off, the corners of his lips turning down. “I’d have heard about it. I’ve practiced in a lot of states.”
Rose bites back the retort at being interrupted so callously, reminding herself that she’s only been here for a month and a half, and Dr Harrison is her senior and a well-known member of the faculty in this hospital.
“Well, this didn’t take place here in America,” she tells him calmly enough. “It was in Singapore. They f—”
“Oh,” he cuts her off again, a smile slipping onto his face as he releases a short, patronising laugh. “Don’t believe everything you read, girl. Especially such claims from third-world countries. I mean, come on, Rose. South Asia setting records in the medical field?” He sighs and leans down to squeeze her shoulder. “I’m sure you’re still learning and eager to digest any information out there. But do check your sources.”
Rose watches Dr Harrison’s figure fade away as he continues walking, all the while fuming with clenched teeth and balled-up fists. It’s insane how worked up she can get despite all her energy being drained to the point of nothingness over the course of the last thirty hours.
Nobody expected the removal of a series of brain tumours from one single patient to take such a long time. It took two other surgeons beside herself, six anaesthesiologists and seven nurses to get the job done—not to mention the entire ordeal was broken down into five separate surgeries.
The instant the patient was rolled out of the theatre to the ICU, Rose decided to wrap up things here and then head straight home, where she’s going to sleep and then get out of bed only several days later.
This kind of physical exhaustion is something she’s never felt before in her life, not that she wants to complain too much. After all, she played a role in saving someone and the success of the surgery has her insides warm and inflated—well, at least until narcissistic and outdated and clearly misinformed Dr Nobody-Can-Know-Better-Than-Me Harrison decided to burst her tired-but-happy bubble. Stupid prick.
“Singapore isn’t even a third world country,” she mutters under her breath and then pushes herself up to her feet, forcing her body to gather enough strength to walk forward.
Rose already discarded the used scrubs and surgical gloves, but she also needs to get out of the rest of her attire, not to mention that thorough post-surgery shower she’s going to take in the surgeon’s locker room. It’s only protocol after any procedure—especially before meeting the patient’s family—and she knows they’ll want to meet one of the doctors on the operating team, given the extensive amount of time the procedure took.
Although she has a strong feeling Dr Harrison would’ve taken it upon himself to be the one to have a chat with the family as soon as he walked out of the OR, Rose knows there’s nothing stopping her from doing the same.
It’s something she’s always done throughout her career in the medical field—talking to the patients before and after their surgery, and also providing whatever assurance possible to the loved ones waiting on that patient. And she isn’t about to let the ego of a surgeon who was quick to patronise her get in the way of what she does.
Much later, Rose finds the wife and child walking to the hospital room that was assigned for the patient to be transferred from the ICU once his vitals are entirely stable. The packet of crackers in the little boy’s hand tells Rose they’re probably coming from the hospital’s canteen.
She walks forward, meeting the duo halfway. “Hey,” she smiles down at the boy. “Can’t escape hunger even in hospitals, huh?”
He smiles back shyly, and pulls at the end of the packet, creating a rustling noise in the otherwise silent hallway.
“Sorry,” his mother offers and Rose looks up to meet her tired eyes and apologetic smile. “He’s just a very introverted kid. Gets that from his father.”
“It’s alright,” Rose’s face softens, “I hope he gets his father’s bravery too, because Mr Lovell was very strong when we were taking him in for the surgery.”
“Really?” the boy asks, wide eyes staring up at Rose from underneath thin lashes.
“Really.” Rose reaches out and ruffles his hair. “Your dad’s going to be okay, kid. Just give it a few hours. It was a very, very long operation, right?”
“I know,” Mrs Lovell says, causing Rose to shit her attention towards the woman. “Thank you so much. I know I thanked the doctor who spoke to us right after the operation, but I just can’t help saying it over and over again. I can’t begin to imagine how exhausting it must have been for you.”
Rose shakes her head and waves it off. “I signed up for this when I chose the medical field—all of us here at the hospital did. So you don’t need to worry about anybody involved in your husband’s surgery. You just make sure you and your son get a lot of rest, okay? Staying awake for Mr Lovell to regain consciousness won’t speed up the process. His vitals are good; you have nothing to worry about. So there’s no need to stress.”
“Thank God,” Mrs Lovell breathed out, placing a palm on her chest. “When Dr Harrison came out of the operating room and spoke to me, it was mostly medical terms and language I couldn’t understand. He did tell me the surgery went well and that my husband will be kept under observation for a while, but I wanted to know more about his condition… about how stable he is. I didn’t ask because I knew how many hours the operation went on for, and it seemed bothersome to pester the doctor for information that he himself didn’t feel the need to share.”
“Mrs Lovell, you have every right to ask any person from the surgical team that attended to your husband about his condition and progress.” Rose pauses to force back the urge to yawn, not wanting to do so in front of the patient’s family. “While the procedure lasted for thirty hours, it actually confessed of five different surgeries so there were slight time lapses in between—the operation didn’t happen at a stretch. There are tumours that can take only three to four hours to remove, and then there are times like this.” She smiles tiredly and lifts a single shoulder into a shrug, “Brain surgeries are always of such a delicate nature; it’s hard to determine a standard duration for such cases.”
After a few more exchanges between them, Rose bids her goodbye to both the mother and son, and then walks away.
She stops by the chief anaesthesiologist to inquire about it being alright for her to leave and when the woman gives Rose the green signal, she thanks her and then moves on to do the last thing she usually does before leaving the premises.
It doesn’t take that long to find the relevant people but once she does, Rose thanks the OR staff, and those seven nurses, and the anaesthesiology team for their help and effort in making the surgery a success, before finally stepping out of the hospital doors and heading towards her car.
She cannot wait to get home, take a long, hot bath and then sink into the bed.
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When Rose enters the apartment that’s only two blocks away from the hospital, she lets out a long, lung-deep sigh and sags her shoulders against the closed door.
“Home sweet home,” she murmurs to herself, before leaning away from the door and heading further into the hall. She could’ve just bought a house and given it a makeover entirely according to her tastes and style, rather than going for an apartment from one of the luxury complexes that operates under her mother’s real estate properties. But…
But there’s a letter in a half-torn envelope that sits above Rose’s dressing table which prevents her from getting a permanent residence here. It came to her two months ago, a week after Zach left for his home—the approval of her license to operate in the state of New York.
Rose completely forgot about even applying for it in the first place. And there’s something frightening about the irony in the turn of events, of how Micah chose New York in hopes of it bringing him closer to Dahlia, but has only paved the way for Rose to be in Zach’s proximity once again.
She hasn’t told Zach about it yet. She’s still undecided herself.
Does she pack up her things and head towards the particular state? Or does she ask the board to revoke that license and allow her to apply for another state instead? After all, Rose has never had any particular location in mind—all she wants is to offer her services across borders.
It will be stupid to think that she can be in New York and avoid Zach—because once she’s there, neither of them will want to stay away from one another. So is it a wise choice to go there? These two months have been so infuriatingly, achingly long even despite all the text messages and phone calls. Given both their tiring schedules, there have been more texts rather than calls. Either she was in the operating theatre when he was free, or he was in a conference room when she was free.
But were these two months excruciatingly long only for her? After all, when it came to the two of them, all she has had to do was miss him. On the other hand, Zach did more than just miss her; he said his final goodbyes, had to tell his parents about the affair—who didn’t take the news well in the slightest bit—and then he had to clear out all of Dahlia’s belongings from his home before selling the place off altogether and moving into the bachelor pad he used to live in before his marriage.
And Rose isn’t sure if he’s done with that chapter of his life. What’s she supposed to ask him anyway? Whether the wound has become a scar? Whether his healing process is done with and she can waltz back into his life in a physical form rather than just a voice through the phone?
Is two months long enough? Rose knows what the two of them went through should’ve taken several months—if not years—to get over. The break of trust and the severity of the betrayal was too immense in nature, after all. But Rose’s already harsh perspective of love and relationships, along with other aspects of her personality, allowed for her to move past it faster than normal. She understands it was different for Zach—but even she knows that it was easier than the average person for him to start letting go too. Rose figures it must be to do with how both of them were never alone in the entire ordeal, that they had each other throughout the pain and the heartache, which most people don’t have and therefore take longer to heal.
So, again, is two months long enough? For someone like Zach? He’s neither like Rose, who could let go all too soon, nor like the miserable heartbroken person who takes years to be okay again. He’s somewhere in the middle—and how much time do people like him need?
Thinking of him reminds Rose of the two missed calls he left behind, and she pulls her phone out of her bag, running her thumb fondly across the screen that displays her call log.
It’s just like Zach to stop with two missed calls; the first one being him trying to reach her and her being unable to answer, while the second call is him trying her again when she hasn’t responded in several hours—just to check whether she’s free and has only simply forgotten to return his call. He hardly tries again after that second call, understanding that if she’s still not picking up, it must be because she hasn’t had the chance to check her phone—which could only mean that she’s not yet out of the OR.
While Rose enjoys the possessiveness he’s displayed once or twice before while he was here in Chicago with her, she’s glad that part of him doesn’t exist when it comes to her profession. She knows of doctors—both male and female—who come out of the operating room only to find their phones bombarded with texts and calls from their partners or spouses. As if removing a tumour from the brain or a spinal reconstruction is something that can be done within a matter of minutes without the surgeon’s utmost dedication and attention.
Sighing to herself, she enters her bedroom and then drops the phone on the comforters, deciding to return his call after she’s done with a long, hot bath. It never satisfies her to just be done with washing her body in the hospital’s locker room—coming home and taking that second shower is a must-do for Rose.
Once she’s in her bed, tucked underneath a warm and fluffy blanket in silk pyjamas, with the central heating system running through the apartment, Rose rings Zach’s number.
He answers on the fourth ring. “It’s midnight here,” he greets, voice low and smooth with just the right amount of gravelly as always. Listening to him speak to her through the phone is different than when he does so in person; his voice pours right into her ear when they’re talking this way. It reminds her of the grains of fine sand, smooth to touch yet rough to rub against skin.
“I know,” she smiles, “you’re always one hour ahead of me.” Her eyes flicker to the rectangular clock on her bedside table, reading the time displayed in red neon lights. 11:02 pm.
“Long day?” Zach asks, and despite sounding tired himself, she can hear the faint smile in his voice. If she closes her eyes, Rose can picture that slight upwards tug of his full lips and the hint of exhaustion in his dark, dark eyes.
But the exhaustion seems different now—it isn’t the emotional kind he used to wear when he was here. It sounds more like of a physical nature, like he’s tired from work rather than pain. Like he’s worn-down from meetings and field visits to his manufacturing sites rather than from heartbreak.
Like he’s living instead of coping. Instead of surviving. Instead of dealing.
He’s living. Zach is living.
It causes a smile to blossom across Rose’s lips.
“Days,” Rose corrects, muffling a yawn. “Took more than twenty-four hours. This is the longest I’ve operated on a patient, you know? Thirty hours, Zach! I went into the OR when the sun was starting to sink, and when I came back out, it was still dark. Felt like I stepped into some other dimension and returned with no time passing in the real world. Except, you know, my whole body aching and screaming for sleep completely contradicted that.”
“Wait,” he sounds like he’s frowning, “are you sleepy right now? Because—”
“No, no,” she quickly jumps in, “I’m good. Seriously—”
“—because thirty whole hours is no joke, Rose. Maybe—”
“Zach, stop,” she sighs, “I’m dead tired, yes, but I don’t feel the sleepiness as much as I feel the exhaustion. As long as I’m just resting on the bed and not moving about, I’m good.” And also because she needs this phone call. If her line of work isn’t such a demanding one that keeps her occupied often, Rose doesn’t know what would’ve become of her sanity. It’s always once she leaves the hospital and comes back to a silent home that Zach’s absence hits her hardest in the gut.
It never matters whether she comes from a laidback, uneventful day or a packed, tiresome one such as tonight. Because the minute her feet crosses the threshold, the longing attacks her—in her bones, in her heart, in her soul.
It never matters whether she’s sleepy or not, because between the space of her entering her apartment to changing her clothes, every single moment between Zach and her would’ve played out in her mind like a broken record. Missing him is always the last, last thing on her mind when she hits the bed and drifts off to sleep. Always. It’s infinitely worse on the days and nights she isn’t on call at the hospital—unbearable even.
She finds pieces of him in the craziest of places—the other day when a kid was drinking out of a passion fruit flavoured juice-box in the hospital. When the fiancé of one of her patients brought a bouquet of red flowers with a get-well-soon card. When the sky is starless and clear at night. Whenever there’s contact with blood during her surgeries. When she saw a little girl running around with untied shoelaces.
It drives Rose insane sometimes.
They say distance makes the heart fonder, but in her case, it’s only making her heart ache.
“Why’d the surgery take so long this time?”
“Let me tell you a secret, Zach: sometimes, nobody really knows why a certain operation ends up taking so much time. Especially neurosurgery procedures. It’s one of the pitfalls of performing it—we start a small, simple procedure and then it just evolves into a bigger one and keeps growing. It’s more likely in brain-related operations. Those ones are nearly always open-end. I mean, once we actually literally get into a patient’s head, we might discover certain factors that don’t really show up on the X-ray, you know. Gets messy sometimes.” Rose yawns again, louder this time and her eyes tear up. “Nobody thought the removal of the tumours would take this long, but here I am, barely able to feel my leg joints.”
“I mean,” Rose goes on, sinking back into the headspace of a surgeon, “Mr Lovell didn’t have just one single tumour, right? And we had to remove one while making sure the other doesn’t break—that sort of thing can be fatal. Removing both the aneurysm and the stem hemangioblastoma required splitting the entire operation into five different surgical procedures. Hell, even Mrs Lovell was concerned about whether the medical team could put up with the strain of such a long operation. She was super sweet despite obviously worrying for her loved one who just underwent brain surgery—and do you know what Dr Harrison’s response was?” Rose scoffs loudly, rolling her eyes at the ceiling. “To patronise me! I swear it gets harder every day to hold my tongue, but he was the leading surgeon of tonight’s procedure and several other operations that I’ve performed with him so I can’t just put him in his bloody place. Oh my God, did I even tell you what he did the other day?”
Rose sits up in the bed and leans her back against the pillows, thin eyebrows rising into her hairline. “He walked out of the OR with blood splatter on his surgical pants to talk to the family—probably forgetting to follow protocol out of concern that I might do it instead—and the little girl that was there asked him whether that was her mother’s blood on him. Like, how callous and stupid can a surgeon with as much experience as him even be, Zach? And he dares to belittle me? To think of me as some naive little girl who’s playing at being a doctor? And that too, just because I told him he was wrong about the longest recorded surgery in history.”
She breathes hard once she’s done and throws her head back with a groan, squeezing her eyes shut and running a hand over her face. “I’m sorry,” she grumbles, scowling at the memory of Dr Harrison. “He really gets on my nerves.”
Zach’s chuckle sends liquid heat down her spine. “Don’t apologise—at least, not as long as you don’t start giving me the gory details of your escapades inside operating theatres.”
“Now that you mention it—”
“Rose,” he says warningly, “I swear to God I will cut the line.”
“Do it,” she says nonchalantly, knowing that he’s aware it’s a bluff. “I’m not desperate to talk to you.”
“Is that so?” Zach murmurs, his voice dropping a notch. The lowered tone dances across Rose’s belly like the flapping of all winged creatures. There’s a sudden, sharp yank behind her navel that resonates deep into the pit of her stomach.
Is he flirting with her? Bloody hell. Rose isn’t prepared for this.
“How was work for you?” she suddenly asks, rushing to change the subject. The unexpected shift in his demeanour has left her stunned and alarmed. And she doesn’t want to proceed with that line of conversation while being caught off-guard.
“Packed schedule as usual,” he responds, sounding casual and relaxed once again. If he’s aware that she intentionally changed the subject, he’s not showing any signs of it. “Hit a small bump, but that should be sorted out come tomorrow morning.”
“Small bump?” Rose echoes. “What happened? Do you have your own version of Dr Harrison there?”
That makes Zach laugh. “No,” he says. “Well, at least, I’m not on the receiving end of anybody’s patronisation in my own company—but as much as I try to create a safe and healthy working environment for my employees, I’m not naïve enough to think that some of the senior executives don’t belittle the efforts of my junior staff and interns.” He sighs heavily, and when he speaks again, his tone is a touch softer; “But trust me, I’ve been given that patronising treatment by a lot of leftists and liberals, so I know what you feel like with Dr Harrison. I also know what it feels like to have to hold your tongue and not react the way your instincts want to, given the platform on which the belittlement is being done.”
“You always understand, don’t you?” Rose asks quietly, a small smile lifting the ends of her mouth upwards. “No matter what it is that’s bothering me.”
“You understand too, Rose,” he says softly. “Because whatever that happens to one of us is something that the other has already gone through or is going through. That’s why we empathise so well with each other, right? It’s the same script, just different players and different scenarios.”
Right. Just like how one such script was about saying goodbye, except Zach’s version included Dahlia and Rose’s included Micah. Like how one consisted of burning down a house full of memories and the other consisted of watching a body being buried six feet under.
Just like how this particular script was about being patronised in their line of work—except Zach’s version included bigoted politicians with narrowed minds and an intolerance for differing perspectives, while Rose’s included established surgeons with inflated egos and an arrogance that comes with years of experience.
“I love how you simplify these things,” Rose tells him suddenly, appreciating how it makes more sense to think of the chain of events in their lives as some form of parallel scripts. “What was that small bump at work anyway then, if not having your very own Dr Harrison?”
“It’s nothing,” he says flippantly. “Really. It wasn’t even to do with the mechanical part of work, but more about the legal sides of it. Contract issues. It’ll bore you.”
“No, it won’t,” she counters, having always wondered what it must be like in the industry Zach is heavily involved in. It’s the other side of the coin of her own profession. “I’m curious to know—and—well,” Rose pauses as her cheeks grow too warm, “you let me rant. So let me be useful.”
The laugh that erupts from Zach is louder now, the sound full and rich and unrestrained. She’s never heard him laugh this way before. It brings tears to her eyes—happy, happy tears. God, he’s turned her into such a sap. It’s disgusting, really. But in a good way.
“Rose, you just came out of a room after operating on someone’s brain—successfully—in a procedure that lasted for more than an entire day. You can’t get any more useful than that.”
“That’s different,” she mutters under her breath, burying herself beneath the thick blanket as her cheeks burn harder with the next words she utters, “I want to be useful to you.”
There’s a sudden pause on his end, and when he clears his throat, Rose is hit with the possibility of him blushing too. She’s only ever seen him do so once, and she tries to recreate the image in her mind now. The natural glow of his tanned skin must be dusted with a washed-out, subdued red—there must be those rose-gold sunsets on the apples of both his cheeks again.
“You don’t…” he trails off with a long sigh, the drawn-out breath carrying traces of something Rose cannot put her finger on. “Well, we normally have fixed term contracts with our clients and customers. At the end of each term, we either let go of the customer or they move on to another supplier—but most of the time, we just mutually agree to renew the expired contract and continue doing business together.”
“Right,” Rose can’t help but remark, a grin spreading across her face, “because who wants to move onto someone else after dealing with the likes of Zachary Hawthorne himself? That’s not an upgrade—it’s like going from platinum-class to silver or gold.”
“Who’s doing a great job of simplifying things now?” Zach asks, the smirk in his voice unmistakeable.
Rose laughs, the shaking of her shoulders causing the bed to slightly shake too. “So what happened? They demand too much in the renewal?”
“Nah,” he sighs, and Rose hears a faint movement, realising that he must have turned around in his own bed. Her stomach flutters at the thought of him being in the same position as she’s in—nestled comfortably underneath his sheets, his attention entirely on her, telling her about his whole day when what he’s really saying are the three words ‘I miss you’. She knows because it’s the same for her too.
There’s still something indescribably intimate underlying the current situation; both of them being in their own beds, miles and miles away from one another—yet with each other’s voices speaking directly into their ears, almost like… like they’re having a conversation while lying on the same bed, voices a mere whisper between their close proximity in the dead of the night. Rose instinctively runs her palm down the empty space beside her, feeling her breaths quicken and then grow unsteady.
“Nothing like that,” Zach goes on, completely oblivious to Rose’s flustered state. “We still have two years left for their contract to expire. But they’re suddenly making demands that go against the conditions we agreed on. It’s one of the reasons I prefer security companies rather than prisons. You don’t get stupid budget cuts with firms that provide bodyguard services and such.”
“Oh, so this was a prison?”
“Mm,” he says tiredly, the drowsiness thick in his voice. “This particular one gets the body armour for their officers from us, like tasers and holsters and even the security personnel’s guns that they carry on themselves while patrolling the perimeters and transporting inmates—stuff like that. But prisons also have these secure facilities—armouries, we call them—that are stored with higher grade weaponry in case of any riots that break out inside or any hostage situations that might occur within those walls.” Zach pauses and Rose hears something like a muffled yawn from his end, and when he speaks again, his tone is a little subdued than before. “This prison’s now asking for reduced prices on both the body armour and the stocks for its armouries. Can’t do that, not with the quality of the resources that go into making the end product.”
Rose picks a lock of her hair and wraps it around her index finger. “Did you explode at them?”
“What?” Zach asks, sounding bewildered. “No, Rose, of course not. I don’t—I don’t deal with my customers the way I—”
“—get angry with me?” she chimes in, smiling wickedly. “That’s nice to know.”
“Shut up,” he mutters. “There’s only been a handful of times I’ve lost my cool with you.”
“Those times were more than enough.”
“Right,” he drawls with heavy sarcasm, “because you have no temper at all and can always keep a cool head.” Zach scoffs through the phone. “Piss off.”
Rose snickers and shakes her head to herself. Sometimes it’s just easy to rile Zach up—especially in times like these where his inhibitions are lowered and his restraints dulled down with the need for sleep. “I was just pulling your leg,” she tells him with a smile that he can’t see but hopefully can hear. “What happened, so? You said tomorrow morning should clear it all up.”
“Yeah, I made it clear to the person I’ve delegated this responsibility to that the prison can have the body gear at the usual price, but we’ll have to stop the sale of whatever it needs for its armoury. It’s a win-win situation, after all. The group that owns the prison gets to cut down on their costs and we’re not making any exceptions that might encourage other customers to think they can bargain with me after signing on the terms and conditions included in our legal contracts.”
“In other words, you made it crystal clear who’s in charge,” Rose points out, raising her brows despite Zach being unable to see the gesture. “So this is what you meant huh?” she murmurs, letting the lock of hair uncurl from around her finger, “about needing to have total control about the outcome of a situation.”
“Hmm,” his voice caresses the shell of her ear, sending a burst of warmth down the side of her face. “Enough about work. I want to know how you are doing.”
“These days there’s not much of separating me from work, so asking me about work is almost the same as asking me how I’m doing.” She sighs deeply, “There’s so much I sometimes think I’d like to do other than shifts at the hospital.”
“So do them,” Zach says. “Get out there, Rose. Can’t only live within the walls of the operating room, your apartment or your parents’ place.”
“I don’t know,” she mumbles under her breath, curling a fist around her blanket, “I’d get these sudden urges to do something, but then…” She glances at her fingers that clench and unclench around the thick material. “But then it’ll just hit me that I want to—to do those with you instead.”
There’s a pause on both sides of the line, nothing but their own and each other’s low breathing filling the silence around one another.
And then, “Things like what?” Zach asks softly, his tone alarmingly gentle.
Rose feels her heart flutter at the sudden burst of tenderness from him that she can feel all the way through the phone itself.
“Just… things,” she says quietly, slipping further underneath the sheets and pulling the blanket over her head even though there’s nobody to hide or muffle her voice from. “Go on one of those ninety-minute day cruises that take you on a riverboat through the Chicago River for a tour of all its architecture. Go to the Briar Street theatre and watch a performance of the Blue Man Group. Visit the Art Institute of Chicago, then the Museum of Science and Industry. Hell, make a stop at every renowned bakery and try to decide which makes the best croissants and cinnamon rolls.”
Rose grows quiet and releases the hold on her blanket, tracing patterns on it with her fingertips without actually touching the material. “But most of all… I really want to stroll down the Chicago Riverwalk beside you. It’s this open, pedestrian waterfront located on the south bank of the Chicago River. I remember going there once while I was on vacation and flew down from London. It’s so beautiful, Zach. There are food vendors scattered all over, and there’s even seating for us to just sit and watch all the watercraft and marvel at the legendary architecture and the skyline of all those skyscrapers when night falls.” She exhales softly and smiles to herself. “It’s so stupid. You were here and none of this occurred to me then, but now…” she swallows hard and curls her body into herself, “now that you’re so far away, all I can think about each day is all that I want to do with you by my side. Things I should’ve done while you were still here.”
“Rose,” Zach whispers, his voice thick with a myriad of emotions. “Rose, come on. When I was there with you, neither of us were in the headspace to consider doing any of that. You can’t torture yourself with what-ifs of unlikely scenarios—that’s more pointless than regretting things that could have actually happened.”
“I know, Zach,” she mutters, “I’ve told myself that countless times. Doesn’t make it any easier.”
“Hold on for just a little longer, Rose,” he says quietly, a hint of desperation in his own voice. “I know that it’s next to impossible with your sudden calls to the hospital to take time off and come visit me, not to mention it’s only been two months since you got your feet back into work. It’s the same situation with me too, and I don’t think I see myself being able to fly to Chicago anytime soon. If the circumstances were different, I’d find a way to clear up my schedule and be there—I need you to know that—but with all the weeks I didn’t involve myself with work, there’s been a lot of catching up to do. And…”
Zach makes a frustrated noise at the back of his throat, “and it’s just infuriating sometimes. I hate this distance. I hate not being able to just see you whenever I want… Despite having stayed in Chicago for only about a week, these two months in New York haven’t got rid of how used I got to having you in close proximity and seeing you on a daily basis. I thought it’d get easier, that eventually the intensity of your absence will fade away, but goddammit, I—” she hears him take in a deep, shaky breath before releasing it in a heavy exhale, sounding like its coming from the depths of his lungs.
“I miss you, Rose.”
Rose shuts her eyes.
He said it. He said it.
“Everything reminds me of you,” he says in a hoarse voice, “even the thin layer of snow I see outside the window as the first thing when I wake up. Anything cold always makes me think of you, which is ironic really, because of how warm it makes me feel on the inside.”
Rose smiles with her eyes still closed, her chest swelling with tiny little explosions. Is it the sleepiness? Is that what’s making him speak without restraints?
“I can’t even look at a stupid rose without hoping today’s the day I get to see you again, despite being aware of high unlikely that is.”
Rose’s heartbeats start to race. The words are almost at the tip of her tongue; I can be there with you, Zach. I’ve been holding onto my license for a while now, a license that’ll allow me to do what I love even in New York. But the words never leave her mouth.
Zach’s low, longing chuckle spills through the phone and fills her up. “Anytime I smell croissants, I just turn around on instinct and then have to remind myself you’re not the only one in this world that eats them.” A few beats of silence tick by, before he breaks it with a barely audible sigh. “It’s driving me insane, Rose,” he confesses in a serious, troubled voice. “I can’t deal with only phone calls and texts anymore, but there’s nothing I can do about it and that just makes me irrationally mad.”
Rose lets her eyelids flutter open, finding the curtained windows of her bedroom staying completely still with the lack of wind in the room right now. “Everything about this sucks,” she tells him with a sleepy smile, “but at least we’re in this misery together. I’m going to take comfort and assurance in that.”
“What do you need assurance for?” he mumbles. “You longing for and missing me could never be one-sided.” He pauses and then, almost like an afterthought, “I doubt anything ever was.”
The implications of those words make Rose’s heart thump wildly in her chest, and there’s that harsh flapping of wings in her belly again. Nothing was one-sided from the beginning? Has he always felt that tether between them the way she has, then?
“I’m dozing off,” Zach suddenly says with a light laugh. “We should probably call it a night.”
“Mm,” she mumbles lazily, feeling her own eyelids grow heavier than before. “You need to wake up extra early, don’t you?” She groans into the pillow, “You and your stupid morning jogs.”
“I don’t have this body because I laze around with zero effort to maintain a healthy lifestyle, you know.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” the words tumble out of her mouth naturally.
Zach’s bark of laughter this time around has a teasing, daring edge to it and ignites a spark in her gut that’ll probably last till sunrise. “If you want pictures, all you need to do is ask.”
Rose gasps, her whole face turning red to the point that she can feel the colour flooding her skin. Yanking the phone away from her ear, she turns her face to stare at his name on her screen and blinks at it before bringing it back to her mouth and thundering—“I AM GOING TO SLEEP. GOODNIGHT!”—and then pulling the device away again to press her thumb down hard on the screen to end the call.
She tosses the phone away and it lands on the blanket, right next to her thighs. Her heartbeats are erratic, completely derailed from their systematic rhythm and going haywire like a bee’s nest that was kicked and prodded.
What the hell is wrong with Zach? He’s never said anything remotely suggestive to her, not even after they kissed. Yes, they spoke about it, but there’s a difference between directly, honestly addressing whatever’s happening between them—which they did on the night before he left Chicago—and actually making coy, teasing remarks. And tonight he didn’t just flirt with her once, but he did it twice. It’s insanity. Pure insanity.
Her brain has been completely fried out of functioning ability.
Rose is not even sure she can handle this side of Zach—and that is saying something, because she’s barely begun to see it.
thank you so much for waiting, for reading, for showering me with a lot of motivation and love - but most of all - thank you for your incredible patience ❤
on another note, I don't write explicit, graphic sex scenes. But that's not to say that there won't be mature content - because let's face it, #Rosary are non-virgin adults in their early thirties. So don't expect high school behaviour here 😂 (if you're an old reader, you'll have noticed how the physical intimacy differs in my books based on the setting -- TYE (innocent because highscool) then BFE (had more racy scenes because college) and now TDDUP which is a whole NewAdult fiction.
Thank you to Potato_tot_ for these edits of Zach & Rose :