Page 62 of The Grumpy Vet
I'm starting to doubt whether telling Linus not to offer him a contract extension was a good idea. I mean, yes, it's selfish on our parts, but it keeps Dario here. Maybe if he stayed for another six months, he'd be ready to make the decision on his own to stay for good?
Or maybe not.
Outback life isn't for everyone. It's tough and isolating. It's small-town realness amplified to the power of ten. Everybody, and I mean everybody, knows everything about everyone. There are so few modern conveniences available out here. No food delivered to your door. No online shopping arriving the next day. Or even within a week. No hookup apps with row after row of available options.
It's just the people who are crazy enough to call this place home and a whole lot of open space and sky.
Dario probably misses his life back home. His daily surfs. His favourite meals delivered to his door. His friends.
But you don't know that for sure. Don't be an idiot and let him walk away. Talk to him.
Mrs. Wilson is still droning on about her fucking geese, and I've had it, interjecting in the middle of her way-too-vivid explanation of their pooping pattern.
"We'll get someone out there today, Mrs. Wilson… I can't tell you what time exactly… It will be as soon as humanly possible… Okay. Okay. Yep. Fine. Sooner than that… Okay. I have to go now. Bye."
I slam the phone down on her as she's mid-sentence. Not my most professional moment, but her geese are fine—Wilby was out there last week—she's just overreacting, and I'm running three consults behind.
Five very long hours later, the last of the day's appointments are done, Mrs. Wilson's geese have been thoroughly checked out—Fitz and Muir popped in on their way back to the clinic and suggested a vitamin supplement—and now Linus is driving Dario and me to the hospice. Because on top of today being non-stop chaos, he got a call about thirty minutes ago saying his dad has taken a turn for the worse, and he needs to get there as fast as he can.
The vibe in his ute is tense, to say the least. No one is talking because what is there to say? We don't know whattook a turn for the worseactually means, but it can't be good given the man's fragile state.
Linus swerves into an empty spot in the carpark, but instead of leaping out of the car like I expect him to, he kills the engine, drops his head, and sighs.
Only…it's not a sigh. It's a sob.
Dario is in the passenger seat and places a hand on his leg, while I shuffle closer from the back and rub his shoulder. It probably doesn't make any difference, but it's the only thing we can do.
Dario's worried eyes meet mine. I imagine he's thinking the same thing I am. This could be the day Linus loses his dad.
"You should probably go in, Linus," Dario urges him softly, his implication clear. There may not be a lot of time left. "Take as long as you need in there. We'll wait out here, but we'll be thinking of you."
Linus sniffs then lifts his head. "Actually, would you mind coming in with me?"
His deep voice is barely above a whisper. I'm witnessing another part of him, the small, child part. My heart beats heavier in my chest, and I fall even more deeply in love with him than I already was.
"Of course," I say, giving his shoulder a squeeze. "We'll be right there with you if that's what you want."
"It is," he says, unbuckling his seat belt. "I want my father to meet the two men I love."
And with that, he gets out of the car, leaving a shell-shocked Dario and me staring at each other.
I tap the driver's headrest. "Did he just say…?"
"Yeah, I think he…"
Linus is already walking towards the entrance. "We have to go. We need to be there for him," I say.
"Absolutely. Shit. My head is spinning."
"Mine, too."
Dario and I rush out of the car and join Linus, each of us holding one of his hands as we breeze past the nurse's desk. The whole place smells like every hospital I've ever been to, the air thick with antiseptic and a hint of something citrusy.
The linoleum floor squeaks under us as we step into a small, dim room. A fan hums weakly in the corner, stirring the hot, dry air. We let go of Linus's hands as he approaches the bed and hang back a little, holding each other's hands instead.
"Hey, Dad," Linus says. The old man's eyes are only partly open, his chest barely moving beneath the thin hospital blanket. "I want you to meet some people."
His dad doesn't respond, but Linus waves us over anyway. We get closer to the bed, and I get my first proper glimpse of the man. His skin is pale and waxy, his lips dry and cracked. Dark sunspots cover his weathered hands. He looks so small and frail, nothing like the tall and imposing figure Linus has described him as.
