Page 24 of Under Southern Stars
I freeze. “What?”
“Not in a creepy way. Just…Station 5 was too quiet. Not enough challenges. Not enough…opportunities.”
“Opportunities?”
“To bring you coffee. Hear your voice. Watch you orchestrate controlled chaos like you’re conducting a symphony.”
“Jack…”
“I know. Workplace dynamics. Recent divorce. Single mum. Complications everywhere.” He reaches across the table, touches my hand lightly. “But maybe complicated’s worth it?”
I turn my hand over, let our fingers tangle briefly. “Maybe it is.”
The food arrives, breaking the moment. But something’s shifted. This isn’t pretend anymore.
Maybe it never was.
We eat, we talk, we laugh. He tells me about a sheep farmer who thought he was having a heart attack but had actually been kicked by a ram in a very sensitive area.
“Wait, wait,” I’m crying with laughter. “He called 911 for that?”
“111 in New Zealand, but yeah. Thought his chest pain was cardiac. Turns out the ram got him in the wedding tackle and the pain radiated up.” Jack’s accent gets thicker when he’s storytelling. “Poor bloke was mortified when we worked it out.”
“What gave it away?”
“The hoof-shaped bruise on his nethers.” He’s laughing too now. “He made us promise not to tell his wife. Apparently, she’d warned him about that particular ram.”
I tell him about the time Madison tried to set me up with her soccer coach, not realizing he was married to the assistant coach—who was also a man.
“She was so embarrassed. Kept apologizing to both of them for weeks.”
“Smart kid, though. Good instincts about you needing to date.”
“She’s too smart. Tonight she basically told me to stop overthinking and just feel things. Used Chappell Roan lyrics as a therapy session.”
“The youth of today,” he says solemnly. “Wise beyond their years.”
“She likes you, by the way. Or at least the idea of you.”
His eyes light up. “Yeah?”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late. Fifteen-year-old approval is the gold standard.”
The waiter clears our plates, offers dessert. We order tiramisu to share, more wine. The restaurant’s emptying around us.
“Rodriguez is going to win that bet,” I say.
“Good. He’ll be insufferable otherwise.”
“This is nice,” I say, surprised by my own honesty. “I forgot what this felt like.”
“What?”
“Just…talking to someone. Not about patients or schedules or custody arrangements. Just…talking.”
His thumb brushes over my knuckles. “We can do more of this. If you want.”
