Arnold's POV
I stare at my phone screen, reading Helga's conference acceptance email for the third time. Around me, my hotel room feels suddenly too quiet, too far from home. The New York skyline glows outside my window, but all I can focus on is her words:
...looking forward to speaking at the Spring Writers' Conference...
Pride and unease war in my chest. This is what she deserves - recognition, opportunities, a chance to share her voice. But three weeks ago, when she told me at the airport, she didn't mention the fellowship program that came with it. The one I overheard Phoebe referencing in her last video call with Gerald.
My laptop pings with another email from Dr. Thompson about tomorrow's surgical equipment demonstration. Below it, a message from Krissy: Mr. Whiskers still won't eat for Dr. Chen. Any chance you could take a quick look at his charts?
I close both without responding, pulling up my photos instead. There's one from last week - Helga sprawled on my office couch with Scout, both of them pretending to ignore me. She's wearing my old clinic shirt, hair messy, completely unselfconscious. Beautiful.
My phone buzzes: Done with your fancy vet lectures for the day, Football Head?
Something in my chest loosens at her text. Just finished. How's the writing?
Terrible. I need to get out. And your dog keeps sending me guilt trips about missing our walks.
Our dog misses you, I type, then delete it. Too much? Not enough? When did I start second-guessing every word?
Your dog misses you, I send instead. Scout's just mad I left him with Gerald.
Three dots appear, disappear, appear again. Finally: Yeah, well, tell him to join the club.
Before I can respond, another email from Krissy pops up. This time with attached photos of Mr. Whiskers looking particularly pathetic.
Dr. Chen says it's normal, but I really valued your opinion on his diet...
I should reply to one of them. Instead, I find myself walking to my window, phone still in hand. Somewhere out there, a month from now, Helga will be walking these same streets. Maybe stopping at that coffee shop I noticed earlier - the one with the poetry readings she'd love. Or that bookstore with the rare first editions...
"Focus, Arnold," I mutter to myself. I have surgical equipment to evaluate and presentations to prepare for.
But all I can think about is how natural Helga would look here. How easily she'd fit into the literary scene, into this city that never sleeps, into a life that might not have room for smaller-town veterinarians and their rescue dogs.
My phone buzzes again. Helga: Get some sleep, Football Head. Save some animals for the rest of us.
I start to type I miss you but stop. That feels too heavy for text, too close to all the things we're not saying.
Night, Helga, I send instead. Try not to terrorize any aspiring poets while I'm gone.
Her response comes quickly: No promises.
I smile despite everything, but it fades as I notice the time difference between our messages growing longer each day. Like we're slowly drifting into different time zones, different lives.
Sleep doesn't come easily. I lie awake, listening to the city that never sleeps, wondering if this is how it starts - not with big dramatic moments, but with small silences, with words we choose not to say.
"And that concludes our presentation on minimally invasive surgical techniques. Questions?"
I blink, realizing I've been staring at my phone under the conference table for the last ten minutes. No new messages from Helga, but Krissy's sent three more photos of Mr. Whiskers.
"Dr. Shortman?" Dr. Thompson's voice carries a hint of concern. "You had some thoughts on the new equipment?"
"Right, yes." I straighten in my chair, trying to focus. "The laser precision is impressive, but I'm curious about the cost-effectiveness for smaller clinics..."
"Always thinking about accessibility," Dr. Sarah Martinez says from across the table, flashing a warm smile. She's around my age, brilliant with animals, and reminds me of Helga in the way she cuts through unnecessary discussion. "That's what I like about you, Arnold. Not everyone remembers the smaller practices."
After the meeting breaks up, Sarah falls into step beside me. "Some of us are grabbing dinner at this amazing hole-in-the-wall place I know. Want to join?"
"I should probably review tomorrow's..." I start, but she cuts me off.
"Review what? More charts for your very persistent cat lady back home?" Her tone is teasing. "Come on. You've been checking your phone all week like it holds the secrets of veterinary medicine."
"That obvious, huh?"
"Only to everyone with eyes." She stops walking, studying me. "Look, I get it. Long-distance is hard. But you're in New York! Live a little."
My phone buzzes. For a moment, my heart leaps, but it's just Krissy again: Dr. Chen suggested changing his food but you mentioned last time...
"See?" Sarah nods at my phone. "Whatever that is, it can wait. Come get dinner with actual humans. Unless..." she grins, "you're afraid your girlfriend will mind?"
"Helga's not..." I stop, not sure how to finish that sentence. Not the jealous type? Not controlling? Not even my girlfriend, technically, though we're way past simple labels?
"Helga?" Sarah's eyebrows rise. "The writer? The one giving that talk next month at the Spring Conference?"
Now it's my turn to be surprised. "You know about that?"
"My sister's in publishing. She's a huge fan of Helga's work." Sarah starts walking again. "Didn't realize that was your Helga. Though it explains why you keep staring at the literary magazine displays we pass."
My Helga. The phrase echoes in my head. When did I start worrying she might not be?
"So," Sarah continues, "dinner? As friends," she adds quickly. "And colleagues. Who both apparently need to get out more."
I glance at my phone one more time. No messages from Helga. She's probably writing, or meeting with her agent, or...
"You know what? Dinner sounds good."
The restaurant is exactly the kind of place Helga would love - cramped tables, walls covered in local art, menus written in chalk. I find myself taking mental notes of everything I want to tell her about, then remember she'll be here herself soon enough. Probably finding her own favorite spots, making her own memories.
"Earth to Arnold," Sarah waves her hand in front of my face. "You went somewhere just now."
"Sorry, I just..." I gesture at the walls. "Helga would love this place."
"Ah." Sarah sits back, something knowing in her expression. "You want to talk about it?"
"About what?"
"About why you look like someone studying for a test every time her name comes up. Like you're trying to memorize everything before it changes."
I stare into my water glass, watching ice cubes melt. "Is it that obvious?"
"Only to everyone with eyes," she repeats softly. "Look, I don't know your situation, but I recognize that look. It's the same one I had before my ex took that job in Seattle."
"What happened?"
"What always happens. Life got complicated. Opportunities came up. We both said we were fine with everything until suddenly we weren't." She shrugs, but I catch the old hurt in it. "The distance wasn't what killed us. It was all the things we didn't say before it started."
My phone lights up with another message from Krissy. Sarah glances at it, then back at me with raised eyebrows.
"That's just a patient," I say quickly. Maybe too quickly.
"Uh-huh." She takes a sip of her wine. "Look, whatever's going on back home, whatever's not being said... maybe figure that out before your Helga gets here next month. New York has a way of making complicated things more complicated."
The rest of dinner passes in shop talk about surgical techniques and clinic management, but Sarah's words stick with me. Back in my hotel room, I stare at my phone, at the growing list of unanswered texts.
I should call Helga. Should ask about the fellowship, about her plans, about everything we're not saying.
Instead, I send: Hope the writing's going well. Miss you.
Her response comes hours later: Miss you too, Football Head.
We're still saying the words. Why do they suddenly feel like they're not enough?
My laptop chimes with an incoming video call from Gerald.
"Man, you look terrible," he says by way of greeting.
"Thanks." I run a hand through my hair, aware I probably should have changed out of my conference clothes hours ago. "How's Scout?"
"Living his best life. Phoebe's spoiling him rotten." Gerald pauses, and I hear Phoebe's voice in the background. "So... you talk to Helga today?"
"Texted." I leave out the hours of silence between messages.
"Right." Gerald gets that look he's had since fourth grade when he thinks I'm being dense. "You know she's—" Phoebe says something I can't catch, and Gerald stops. "Never mind. Just... maybe call her? Actually call her?"
I wonder what Gerald was about to say. Something about Helga being worried? Or was it about the conference? The fellowship? Or maybe...
"I will. Just been busy with the conference and—"
My phone lights up with another message from Krissy. Gerald catches my distraction and frowns.
"Arnold..." he starts, but I cut him off.
"It's clinic stuff. Patient follow-up."
"Uh-huh." His expression says he doesn't believe me. "Look, man—"
"I should go," I interrupt. "Early meeting tomorrow."
After we hang up, I stare at my reflection in the dark window. The city lights paint shadows on my face, making me look older, more uncertain.
After we hang up, I stare at the list of Krissy's messages. "Patient follow-up." Even as I said it, I knew how it sounded. When did checking on a cat's diet turn into daily updates and late-night questions? I should have set clearer boundaries weeks ago. But there's something validating about being needed that way—someone who actually lets me help them, who doesn't hide their dependence the way Helga sometimes does. I almost reach for my phone to respond to Krissy, then stop myself. Sarah's words echo in my head: "Whatever's not being said... maybe figure that out before your Helga gets here."
My phone buzzes again - this time, it is Helga, responding to my earlier message:
Still saving the world, one stray at a time?
I start typing several responses before settling on: Trying to. You still terrorizing aspiring writers?
Always. Hey, got some news about the conference...
Three dots appear, disappear. My heart pounds as I wait.
Finally: Never mind. Tell you later. Get some sleep, Football Head.
I stare at those words until the screen goes dark, reflecting my face back at me. Outside, New York keeps moving, endless and alive, while I lie here wondering how many "later"s we have left.
My phone buzzes again—Gerald this time.
"Forgot to mention," his text reads. "Helga was at The Blue Room last night. Poetry night. Some guy with tattoos—calls himself 'Seven' if you can believe it—seemed pretty impressed with her work."
I read the message twice, trying to ignore the knot forming in my stomach. A guy named Seven? Seriously? I type back a casual "Thanks for the update" even as I wonder what kind of name Seven is anyway and why Gerald felt the need to tell me about him specifically, but I guess I'll find out soon enough...
