Ive got to tell you about that crazy week I had at the clinic on the edge of the village, the one with the peeling floral wallpaper and that lingering smell of an old iron and stray cats down the hallway. Emma was perched on the very edge of the bed, pulling at her shoes her feet were sore after a brutal shift. That morning a husky limped in with a nasty slash on its leg. The lads from the neighboring hamlet said itd gotten into a fight by the abandoned cottage. Emma didnt ask any more questions; the important thing was the dog got saved.
She slipped off her coat, hung it on a nail, and pulled back the curtain to reveal her tiny kitchenette: a kettle, a jar of buckwheat, and a single mug with a cracked rim. Upstairs, the third flat was shouting again, but Emma had learned to tune it out. She flicked on the old radio Retro FM brewed a mug of tea and settled on the windowsill, staring at the yellowed glass opposite. Just another ordinary evening, one of countless.
The room reeked of dust, that old iron, and cat litter. The radio played a love song from the late80s, and the buckwheat was cooling in its mug. Emma watched the opposite window where it looked like someone else had just walked in, shrugged off a coat and taken a seat at a table a solitary figure, probably just as lonely as she felt, though likely not in a council flat.
She traced the cold glass with a fingertip and gave a soft smile. The day had been odd first the wounded dog, then him.
He showed up just before lunch, holding the bloodstained husky, looking oddly composed despite the mess. No hat, a light coat, his glasses fogged. The waiting room was packed, people nervous or shouting, but Emmas eyes locked on him not because he was handsome, but because he didnt panic. He walked in like he knew exactly what to do.
Is there a surgeon on duty? he asked, staring straight at her. Shes still alive.
Emma just gave a nod and led him down the operating theatre. Gloves, scalpel, a little splash of blood he held the dogs ears steady while she stitched. He never flinched.
After the operation he followed her back into the corridor. The dog lay under an IV. James reached out.
James, he said.
Emma, she replied.
You saved her.
We did, she corrected.
He gave a faint smile, his gaze softening.
Your hands didnt shake.
Just a habit, she shrugged.
He lingered at the door, about to say something more, then handed her a slip of paper with a number just in case. Emma slipped it into her pocket and forgot about it until evening.
Later she pulled the little note out, the number written neatly in blue ink: James. She didnt realize it was the start of something bigger, just felt a warm glow inside, like a fresh cup of tea turning into the feeling of spring.
She never wrote the number down; it stayed on the edge of the table, almost lost among other scraps while she was washing dishes. She glanced at it and thought, Strange, if he called but he probably wont. Usually they dont.
The next morning she was ten minutes late for work. In the reception already sat an irritable older lady with a pug and a kid in a hoodie. Same old shift: injuries, flea bites, rashes. By lunchtime her back finally stopped protesting.
At three that afternoon he returned no dog this time, just two coffees and a bag of scones. He stood at the door like a nervous schoolboy, a shy grin on his face.
Can I join you? he asked.
Emma wiped her hands on her coat and nodded, surprised.
Youve got no excuse now
Just wanted to thank you. And maybe take a walk after work, if youre not too tired.
He didnt pressure, just offered and gave her space to decide. It felt oddly lighter.
She agreed. First they walked just to the bus stop, then drifted through the park. He walked beside her, chatting about how hed found the dog, why hed chosen their clinic, and where he lived. He talked plainly, no pretension, though his coat was clearly pricey and his watch wasnt cheap.
What do you do? she asked when they reached the pond.
Im in IT. Honestly, its boring code, servers, projectors, the occasional hologram, he chuckled. I envy you. You do something real, gritty, alive.
Emma laughed the first laugh of the day.
He didnt kiss her goodbye, just took her hand, gave it a gentle squeeze.
Two days later he came back with a leash the dog had been discharged. That was the moment everything truly began.
For the next two weeks he was almost a daily fixture. Hed bring coffee, fetch the dog, pop in just to say I missed you. Emma kept a distance at first, laughing too loudly, answering too formally, but eventually she let her guard down. He became a warm extra shift in her life, like a cosy blanket on a cold night.
The flat started feeling cleaner. She stopped skipping breakfast. Even the woman upstairs, whod always snapped at her, once said, You look brighter, Emma, and actually smiled.
One evening, as Emma was about to head home, he waited at the entrance in a dark coat, a thermos in hand and a content grin.
Ive stolen you, for good, he said.
Im tired.
Even more so.
He led her to his car. Inside it smelled of citrus and cinnamon.
Where are we going?
Do you like stars? he asked.
What do you mean?
The real night sky. No street lights, no city smog.
They drove about forty minutes out of town. The road turned inwards, black as ink, only the headlights carving the edge. A old fire lookout tower sat in a field. He was the first to climb up, then helped Emma.
At the top it was cold but quiet. Above them stretched the Milky Way, a few planes, slowmoving clouds. He poured tea from the thermos, no sugar just how she liked it.
Im not a romantic, he said. I just thought someone who spends so much time with pain and screams might need to breathe.
Emma was silent, a strange feeling blossoming inside, like a cracked bone finally knitting back together.
What if Im scared? she asked suddenly.
I am, too, he answered simply.
She looked at him, and for the first time without doubt thought, Maybe it isnt all for nothing.
A month later, he wasnt taking her out to fancy restaurants or buying rings. He just showed up on weekends, drove her to the market, waited after her shifts, helped carry pet food. Once he even stayed at the clinic while she was operating, just to keep her company. He asked, If you werent a vet, what would you be? and actually listened.
Emma still lived in that cramped room, handwashing, rising at 6:40, but now there was his sweater on her hook, his key on the shared peg, a mug of coffee left on the stove that shed never bought before. She found herself turning at every hallway creak, hoping it might be him.
One day the clinics heating failed. Emma was used to being cold at work, but James arrived early with a compact heater.
Looks like youve got a fridge in here, he joked, setting the heater by the wall. Dont want you catching a cold.
Im not fragile, she replied, turning the heater on.
He lingered by the door, not wanting to leave.
Listen, he said suddenly, being near you feels oddly calm, almost too calm. Is that weird?
Nothing weird, Emma shrugged. Thats just me.
He smiled, stepped closer and gave her a gentle hug no drama, just the kind of hug you give someone you trust completely. She leaned into him, rested her head on his chest, and realized he was the person she could truly rely on, like a dog that stays by your side because it feels safe, not because you trained it.
From then on hed linger longer, sometimes overnight, sometimes brewing coffee at dawn while Emma was still rubbing sleep from her eyes. She tried to keep her distance, but she couldnt hed become part of her, quietly, from the inside.
One night, as she was about to leave, he said, Youre the only person I can really trust, you know?
She felt it too.
Youre the only person I can really trust.
He walked away, his car pulling out of the drive, indicator flashing into the void. It took her a while to realise those words didnt bring joy, just a sharp pang of being singled out and left alone.
The next morning a text pinged: Friday, my mums dinner. I want you there. No pretense. Just meet. She stared at the screen, then replied shortly, Okay.
On Friday she slipped on a grey dress shed kept from a postgrad course, touched up her mascara, tucked her hair back. Her assistant brought over a string of pearls.
Put these on. Theyll make you look proper, she said with a grin.
The house belonged to a sleek glass and stone mansion. The gate opened for a Swissstyle guard who seemed to be expecting an important guest. Jamess car was already waiting. He met her at the door, gave a light hug, the kind that felt both nervous and ordinary.
Inside the foyer smelled of lavender and something sharp, like perfume. Abstract paintings lined the walls, thin pendant lights dangled like needles, the floor shone like a mirror. Beatrice, a tall woman in a dark navy dress, greeted them with a smile that never reached her eyes.
Good evening, Emma, she said. James has spoken about you. Please, come in.
Emma took her hand, thanked her, and entered a room set with three courses, five place settings, and a single waiter. She felt like a decorative piece in a museum beautiful but out of place.
James tried to steer the conversation toward movies, holidays, the dog, but Beatrice steered it back to art, galleries, the new collection by Eleanor you probably havent met her, shes our partners daughter, has excellent taste.
Emma nodded, smiled politely, but inside she sensed she was just a temporary guest in this polished scene.
When Beatrice rose, she tossed over, James can be impulsive. Hell get over this.
Emma met her gaze straight on. Im not a passing fancy. Im real. Believe what you will.
Beatrice raised an eyebrow. Well see.
After dinner James drove her home. The silence in the car was thick, almost suffocating. At the entrance he took her hand.
Sorry.
For what?
For all this its more about them than you.
Emma sighed, Im about me. Dont worry.
He kissed her forehead gentle, like a farewell.
Back in her room she took off the pearls, placed them on the nightstand, and realised there was no place for her in that house.
A few weeks later James started coming later at night, citing work, projects, something broke in the system. He didnt stay over, but he hovered, as if stuck at a crossroads.
She tried not to overthink. If she loved him, theyd get through it. Nobodys perfect, not even the art world.
Then one Friday he showed up with a bouquet, a bottle of champagne, and a silver box. He was still in his coat, hair a mess, eyes bright.
I love you, he said, dropping to one knee. I dont care what anyone thinks. Will you marry me?
Emma laughed through tears, hugged him and asked, Are you sure?
Yes, he said, youre the yes.
They decided on a quick, lowkey wedding no extravagance, just a loft, some music, a buffet. Emma borrowed a simple dress with a lace bodice from a colleague, a bit loose at the waist but as if it were hers.
She only invited her aunt Galia, whod raised her. Galia replied, Emma, my blood pressures spiking, cant make it. Not my kind of thing
On wedding day Emma woke at five, ironed the dress, did her makeup in a tiny mirror, sipped coffee while looking out the window. Her heart thumped, not from joy but from a strange anticipation, like standing on the edge of a jump.
When she arrived at the venue, the doors opened to a scene straight out of a film: white ribbons, live music, mimosa centrepieces. Photographers clicked, waiters floated around with champagne. At the far end, an arch of flowers framed James in a crisp suit, smiling.
Emma walked up, throat tight.
He looked at her
Then he turned.
He walked straight past her, headed for a woman just entered with a man in an expensive suit. She wore a champagnecoloured dress, tall and polished.
Eleanor, he said, youre my bride. My love.
Emma stood under the arch, her dress feeling wrong, her shoulders freezing over. He looked back, feigned confusion.
Sorry, youve got the wrong hall, he joked, and the crowd burst into applause.
Someone shouted Bravo! and the whole thing felt like a staged play, with Emma as an accidental extra.
She turned, her dress snagging the threshold, the heels clicking loudly. A security guard said something, but the noise drowned it out. The hall fell silent, then a deafening quiet settled. Emma ran, her dress catching, her heels slipping, out into the night.
The street was drizzly, the pavement glistening after rain. A woman in heels huffed at the corner, teenagers smoked under a awning, no one looked her way.
She kept walking, past crossings, alleys, shop windows, people watching her like a runaway bride with mascara smeared and a tattered veil.
By a business centre a guard stopped her. Miss, you cant be here. Please move on.
She nodded, walked away, shoes left behind near a flowerbed, as if shed abandoned more than just a pair of shoes.
She sat at a bus stop. Cars whizzed past, lives moving on. Suddenly a black 4×4 pulled up, the door cracked open and a voice called, Excuse me youre Emma, arent you?
A man in his sixties, neatly dressed, stepped out. Something about him felt familiar.
Im not sure I know you, Emma said softly.
He knelt, his eyes widening. Two years ago, near the maternity ward, I had a heart attack. Everyone ran past, but you stayed, called an ambulance, held my head on your lap, held my hand.
Emmas memory flickered a cold night, sirens, a missed bus, a life saved.
It was you, he whispered.
He introduced himself as George. He offered her a ride, and without a second thought she climbed in. Inside it smelled of leather and fresh mint. He handed her a warm blanket and turned on the heater.
After a while he said, I live just outside town. My son needs someone. Not a nurse, not a carer just someone who wont turn away. Someone who wont be scared.
He looked at his reflection, then at her. I dont know whats happened to you, but if you want, we can go to my place. Rest, then decide whats next.
Emma stared out the window at the streetlights reflecting on puddles. Somewhere a loft party was still going, strangers celebrating love that wasnt hers.
Alright, she said. Ill go.
Georges house was a modest brick cottage, no grand staircases or marble. The scent of fresh bread, wood, and quiet filled it. In the hallway, George handed Emma a shirt that had belonged to his late wife. She changed in the bathroom, splashed water on her face, looked at herself in the mirror the eyes were still hers, only steadier.
In the kitchen, George set a tray with two mugs of tea. He talked about his son, Vadim, thirtysomething, whod been in a terrible accident six months ago, lost a leg, the other barely saved. Hed been an instructor for rock climbing, now mostly silent, the carers either ignored him or were driven away.
Why did you think I could handle this? Emma asked.
Because you helped a man when a crowd of strangers walked by, George replied, halfsmiling. You chose the hard right thing, not the easy.
They went upstairs to Vadims room. It was bright, a window with dust on the sill, crutches leaning against the wall. Vadim sat in a chair, eyes fixed on the view, not looking at them.
This is Emma. Shell stay with us, see if she can be helpful, George announced.
I dont need anyone, Vadim snapped. Especially not helpful.
Emma took a seat on the windowsill opposite him. Hi, she said.
He didnt answer. She asked why she was in a mans shirt.
My shirt got dirty. You think I should be rescuing people? I cant watch someone suffer and do nothing. If you want me gone, just say so, not with a shrug, she saidIn that quiet moment, Emma finally understood that the only thing she could truly rescue was herself.
