Page 113 of Under Southern Stars
Jack: Bit of a hiccup, mate. Working through it. She's seeing the sights. Thanks for checking.
“Sophia’s friend from the hospital,” I explain, pocketing the phone. “They’ve noticed something’s off.”
“Of course they have,” Charlotte says. “That’s what happens when you mess with someone people care about.”
The reminder that Sophia has a support system, people who will notice if she isn’t okay, hits harder than I expected. She isn’t alone. If I can’t fix this, she’ll still have people looking out for her. The thought is simultaneously comforting and devastating.
“I really fucked this up, didn’t I?” The question is rhetorical.
Charlotte’s expression softens slightly. “Yes, you did. But fucking up is part of being human. The question is what you do next.”
“I don’t know what to do next,” I admit. “I’ve never…I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. And I’ve never screwed up this badly, either.”
“Start by being honest,” Charlotte says. “Completely honest. No more curated versions of yourself. The real Jack—with all the privilege and the baggage and the family complications.” She squeezes my shoulder. “If she can’t love that version, then it was never going to work anyway.”
I nod, watching a hawk circle over the distant hills. “I know.”
“Dinner’s at seven,” Charlotte says, turning to leave. “Don’t be late. And shower first, because youstink.”
I manage a weak laugh. As she walks away, my phone buzzes again—another message from Nate.
Nate: Hiccups happen. She's a tough one, our Sophia. You need anything, say the word. I've known her for years if you need advice.
The simple offer of support from a man who clearly cares about Sophia hits me hard. These are her people. The family she’s built for herself at Metro General. If I want to be part of that, I need to be worthy of it.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I type:
Jack: Actually, mate, if you've got a minute, I could really use some insight. I lied to her about something really big.If you've seen her get really angry, what worked to get back in her good graces?
The moment I hit send, I regret it. What the hell am I thinking, dumping my relationship crisis on a colleague halfway across the world?
The minutes stretch as I wait for a response, each passing second confirming I’ve crossed a line. Then, finally:
