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“Let me finish.” From the corner of my eye, I see her nod. “And now I’m hoping that together we can make one more good choice because I want more. I want more chances of throwing caution to the wind, more choices. I want it all. And I want it with you.”
Finally, I raise my eyes and find her staring directly at me with tears streaming down her face. The loving emotion on her face is enough to give me the confidence to move forward. I bring my other hand up and reveal the black velvet box. I flip it open and unveil a stunning vintage engagement ring with vine-like patterns on the sides of the band that lead to a diamond resting like a flower open in bloom.
Taking a deep breath, I continue, “Marry me, Rose O’Leary.”
Rose covers her face with her hands and sobs. For a second, I fear she may say no, but then she lowers her hands and smiles through her tears. “Of course, I’ll marry you. Yes. A thousand times, yes. I love you so much, Michael.”
I pull the ring free and slip it on her hand, pleased to see that it fits her finger perfectly. Rose breaks into another sob as she stares at the ring in astonishment before she smiles again and grabs my face. She pulls me forward, and our mouths crash together. When I pictured tonight, I didn’t expect I’d be proposing naked in bed with my cock still buried inside her. But as far as choices go, this is a damn good one.
Our story may have started out strangely and took some unexpected detours. We may have gotten lost on the way back to each other, but I don’t regret a single choice because each one led us to this moment.
And if I had the choice to do it all over again, I would.
The End
Epilogue: Lily
Six years ago
Columbia
Another monstrous mosquito lands on my arm. One so large, I can actually count the stripes on the blood-sucking dinosaur as I watch it stick its needle into my flesh.
Bastard.
I would smack the damn thing and send it back to the hell it came from, if I wasn’t busy helping keep a man’s intestines inside his body.
As painful as the sting the bug leaves behind on my body after it drinks its fill and flies off to find its next victim, it’s nothing compared to how our tent of war-torn patients feels. I gaze at the overflowing cots and makeshift gurneys with an inward sigh. Another attack on a helpless village has left dozens of innocent men, women, and children dead or injured. So many families have been torn apart as a result of a war they never wanted. So many lives destroyed…
I was an emergency doctor in Chicago for a couple of years and saw it all. At least, I thought I had. Bullet holes and stab wounds are elementary when faced with full-body chemical burns and partial disembowelment. I once saved a man who came in with a knife sticking out of the side of his neck, but here…I’m losing patients left and right because there’s just not enough help, medicine, or technology.
Accepting and understanding the harsh reality around me is enough to make me ache for home, and I take nothing for granted anymore.
My current team and I have been in Columbia for a few weeks now doing relief work. This is my third rotation over the last year. It’s not always like this—no, that’s a lie. It is. I like to think my presence here is helping, however small or large that is, and for the most part, that’s why I keep coming back. But to be completely honest, the pay for three months’ work here is almost the same as an entire year's salary back home, and I have a mountain of student debt to pay off with big plans for the future. I want to buy a condo, get a new car since my old beetle is on its last leg, and take a really long vacation where I spend more time in a bikini than scrubs.
“He’s crashing! Get the paddles!” the lead doctor shouts. A moment later, she’s yelling, “Clear!” We all step back with our hands in the air.
My eyes lock on the black computer screen, willing the green line to correct itself, but it remains flat.
“Again! Clear!”
I glance at the patient, and my heart sinks at the sight. His face is pale, and his lips are turning blue. He’s gone. It’s clear as day, and the lead doctor knows it too because after one final attempt, she calls time of death.
“Dr. Song!”
I raise my head and turn in the direction of the person who called my name. It’s Dr. Cole, and he’s waving me over frantically. I snap my gloves off and tug my protective apron off, tossing both in the trash bin, and hurry over. When I step up, a nurse hands me a set of new gloves and an apron.
“What do we have?”
“Six-year-old girl with an open compound fracture to her left arm. I need to set it, but she only speaks Spanish and won’t calm down.”
I lean forward and give the terrified girl a kind smile before asking her in Spanish. “What is your name?”
She whimpers in loads of pain but latches on to the familiar language. “Louisa.”
“Hi, Louisa. My name is Dr. Song, but you can call me Lily. All of my favorite patients do.” I wink at her and earn a small smile and giggle in return. I glance over at my co-worker, and he nods. Turning back to Louisa, I try to assure her as best I can. “Now, I understand your arm hurts, right?” She nods meekly. “Well, my friend here will help you feel all better, okay? But first, tell me what’s your favorite color?”
“Pink,” she admits right away.
