Page 103 of Ten Day Affair

I shake my head a little too quickly. “No. Absolutely not. That would be a disaster. This is best, even if he was fishing for a specific reaction.”

Arden raises an eyebrow, already unconvinced. “A disaster?You sure? Sounds more like you’re trying to protect yourself.”

“Asking him to stay any longer than he has to is a colossally bad idea. Like, full-on emotional avalanche bad.”

Arden leans back on the couch, arms crossed. “Not convinced, but what's one day, anyway?”

“He needs to go.”

She doesn't respond. I guess she's made her case. For some reason, I'm compelled to make her understand. Or am I trying to convince myself?

"Once he’s gone, maybe I can finally settle back down. You know, go back to my normal, boring life. Quiet, predictable. Surgery rounds, endless hours of charting, double espresso shots just to remember what year it is. That’s what I need.”

She gives me a look that I know well. “Sounds thrilling.”

Tomorrow is best. Clean break. No lingering goodbyes or false promises.

So why does the thought of him leaving make it hard to breathe?

By the time I'm home and I've done every chore I can think of, the house is spotless and quiet. Yet somehow, sleep still eludes me.

I lay my scrubs out for tomorrow, take a shower, and slip into my comfy sweats and a hoodie. Stepping onto the deck, I close the sliding door behind me.

The air hangs thick, even this late. It smells like salt and the faint sweetness of the sea oats near the dunes.

I take the stairs down and walk toward the water. The tide is high, so I don’t need to go far. I let the water tickle my toes. The full moon makes the tiny specks in the wet sand sparkle.

After a moment of digging my toes into the sand, something I've done since I was a kid, I turn back toward my house. His house is just to the right of mine, one deck over. It's close enough to hit with a well-thrown shell, which makes it incredibly dangerous on a night like tonight, when I'm feeling weak.

I keep my pace slow as I head back to my steps.

His deck is empty, his patio furniture tucked in. There's no glass on the rail, no movement.

Only one window glows inside the house, a low lamp in the front room, casting just enough light to see the shape of the sofa. A sofa I know intimately.

I pause. My hands rest loosely at my sides. No fists, no tension. Just stillness.

I wait longer than I mean to, giving him every chance to appear. To step outside. To look down and see me standing here.

He doesn’t.

Eventually, I look away.

I walk back toward my stairs without checking over my shoulder. It’s better this way. I know it. He leaves tomorrow. Or maybe he’s already gone.

Back on my deck, I lean against the rail for a minute. His house sits quiet beside mine, a little darker now from this view.

I step inside and shut the door behind me. No more checking windows. No more late-night walks. No more waiting for someone who’s already packed a bag.

I lock up, rinse a glass at the sink, and kill the kitchen light.

Tomorrow, I’ll be at the hospital before sunrise.

And maybe by then, this won’t feel like something I lost.

It will just be something that I passed through.

TWENTY-FOUR