Page 87 of Finding Gideon
He motioned toward the bench, and we both sat. My coffee had gone lukewarm, but I took a sip anyway.
“Last I heard,” Eric said, “you’d made it to San Francisco. Big hospital, trauma cases. Honestly, I never doubted you’d get there. You always had that drive.”
“Yeah,” I said, a smile tugging at my mouth. “I did make it there. For a while.”
Eric tilted his head, curious. “Still with Angela? You two were inseparable back then.”
My chest tightened. “We’re divorced.”
His expression shifted—not pity, not judgment, just a flicker of shared understanding. “I’m sorry, man. That’s rough.”
“Yeah,” I said quietly. “But it’s okay. I moved to a small town—Foggy Basin. Got my own clinic. I’m not making San Francisco money anymore, but…” I exhaled, glancing at him. “I’m happy. I like the practice and the people.”
Eric’s mouth lifted into a real smile. “Then you landed right where you’re supposed to be.”
We caught up for a few more minutes—talking about mutual classmates, the ways tech was changing rural vet care, the kinds of cases walking through our doors lately. Eric told me about his three cats and a seven-year-old daughter who’d named them all after Marvel villains.
“What about you?” he asked. “Any pets these days, or are you still claiming you’re too busy for one?”
That used to be true. All those years in San Francisco, working insane hours at the hospital, I hadn’t had the time—or the energy—to raise anything right. But now… now was different.
But then there was another truth. I could give Eric an easy answer. In fact, one sat on my tongue. I could shrug and joke about having a roommate who had a dog named Dennis, andthat would be more than enough. That was what I used to do—sidestep, keep it safe. But my chest tightened with something heavier than fear. Gideon deserved more than silence.
“Actually, yeah,” I said. “My boyfriend has a dog named Dennis. He’s… basically part of the deal.” The word boyfriend came out certain, grounded, even as my chest tightened like I’d stepped onto a ledge. It was the first time I’d said it outside of the circle that already knew about Gideon and me. My pulse jumped, waiting for the air to shift, for judgment or surprise.
Eric’s expression softened, warm in a way that wasn’t pitying or patronizing. Just sincere. “That’s great, Malcolm. Really. I’m glad you’ve got that.”
Relief settled in, quiet and strong. Like loosening my grip on a truth I’d been holding too tight. “Yeah,” I said, voice low. “Me too.”
We let the conversation drift after that, but as Eric talked, part of me stayed back in Foggy Basin, curled on that too-small couch with Gideon’s head on my shoulder, the smell of clean laundry and his cologne in the air.
Eventually, someone rang a bell inside to signal the end of intermission. We stood, reluctant to cut the moment short.
“Good to see you again, man,” Eric said. “Don’t let another decade go by before we catch up.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Let’s not.”
We traded numbers, shook hands, and promised to actually use them this time.
As I walked back inside, it hit me how easy it was to lose touch. And how much better it felt not to.
I sat through the next session with my notebook open, pen in hand, pretending to take notes. The topic was handling burnout—how to find balance in a job that never really ends. It should’ve been useful. It was the kind of thing I could use more of.
But all I could think about was Gideon.
He’d probably roll his eyes at the panel leader’s “wellness wheel” slide, but he’d love the part where someone talked about how care doesn’t always have to be big or flashy to be meaningful. That some days, showing up was enough.
I slid my phone out of my pocket and typed beneath the table.
Me: This panel’s about burnout. You’d like some of it. Especially the part where they said rest is part of the job, not the reward.
My phone buzzed a moment later.
Gideon: Oof. That’s a sermon.
Gideon: Also: have you eaten? Or are you pretending to survive on bad coffee again?
I smiled.
