Page 90 of Six Month Wife
“Yes,” I say.
“Let’s keep moving. We’re cutting the cystic artery next. Clip it tight, or we’ll have bleeding. That slows everything down.”
He demonstrates the clip, then moves his scalpel with precision, and then finally, a clean cut.
“Your turn.”
I steady the clamp in my hand and position it. A beat of hesitation—then I lock the clip in place.
“Perfect,” Kowalski says.
The pressure in my chest eases a little.
We keep going. Step by step, tissue by tissue. Kowalski guides me, but I’ve got the rhythm now. My hands remember. The tension drains as precision takes over.
And somewhere between the cautery and the clamp, I think of her.
Adair.
The way she curled into me last night, skin warm beneath my shirt, breath soft against my chest. No sex. Just sleep. Just trust. And somehow, that felt heavier than anything we’ve done before.
Holding her like that—no pressure, no pretending—was better than sex.
Well… almost.
But it meant something. She let me in, even a little. After everything.
I don’t know where we’re headed. Don’t know if we’ll make it past the six months, or if we’ll crash before then.
But for now, she’s letting me try.
“We’re almost there,” Kowalski says.
I pick up the suction, clearing the field while he extracts the gallbladder through the incision. The techs move around us like clockwork, packing up the instruments, prepping the site for closure.
“Nice work,” he says. “You’ve got good instincts, Matthews.”
“Thanks,” I say, adjusting my mask.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a shape in the observation window. Gunner watches from the theater. His arms are crossed, and his expression is unreadable.
When our eyes meet, he nods once. It's small and subtle, but it lands.
Maybe this is what Roger meant. Not about love. About building something. Solving the kind of puzzle that outlives you.
Kowalski closes the incisions while I hold retraction. Our movements are synced now and confident.
As we scrub out, Kowalski claps me on the shoulder. “You did great in there.”
“Appreciate it, Doc. Thanks for letting me tag along with you,” I say, and I mean it. "If you ever need someone to tag team with, I'm happy to jump in."
I dry my hands and glance back toward the OR—toward the room where I remembered who I am, what I’m capable of. It still feels right, like home.
But when I step into the hallway, it’s not the surgery that sticks with me. It’s last night, the quiet, the way she leaned into me like it wasn’t comfort, but trust.
This isn’t what I planned. She wasn’t what I planned. But maybe that’s the point.
Roger didn’t leave me all this to test my skills in the OR. He wanted to know if I could figure out what mattered outside of it. If I could see that the real risk isn’t failure, it’s going through life untouched.
