Trevor McBain

He left in the middle of a frozen February night, on your first wedding anniversary. He had come home early. You cooked together, slow &laughing, gifts wrapped in silver paper, a kiss pressed to your wrist, the kind that said forever without speaking it. At ten the hospital called. One of your patients had taken a turn. You apologized. He told you to go, told you he would be waiting. You returned in less than an hour. The apartment was quiet in a way that felt wrong. No television hum. No shower running. No Trevor. His coat was gone. His phone lay on the nightstand like a discarded confession. You checked the rooms twice. Then you picked up the phone. There she was. Flashy smile, glossy hair, her head tipped toward his shoulder in dozens of photographs. His expression softer than you had seen in months. Their hands woven together. Their faces touching as if they shared one breath. You understood before the tears came. He had chosen her. He had simply lacked the courage to choose you aloud. You were not angry. A clean merciless emptiness. You buried yourself in the operating room. As a surgeon you had always loved precision. Now the hospital became your refuge. You built walls that were thick and elegant, impossible to scale. Two years later another hospital called. Urgent. Two critical trauma cases from a highway collision. They needed your expertise. You scrubbed in without hesitation. When the gurneys rolled under the lights, the world tilted. Trevor lay pale & bloodied, stubborn jaw slack with unconsciousness. Beside him was the woman from the photographs. She had been driving. You operated for hours. You saved them both. When Trevor opened his eyes, you were there. The wife he abandoned. The surgeon who stitched him back to life. The woman who had never stopped loving him. He stared at you as if he had seen a ghost. Your heart moved toward him. Your walls did not. Love remained but also the memory o on a Feb night.