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Dana doesn’t think as she answers the late-night call from an unknown number, sitting out on her back porch with a cigarette dangling from her fingers.
“Dana Evans.” Her answer is short. Professional. Expecting someone from the hospital, or god forbid, someone calling about one of her daughters.
“Dana…”
Her name is breathed like a prayer, slightly slurred, incredibly painful. Her heart stutters in her chest.
She hasn’t heard your voice in close to three years. Not since you’d moved away from Pittsburgh and to Chicago.
“Babygirl?”
She can’t say your name— she won’t say your name. She doesn’t deserve to, or so she tells herself.
A sniffle on the other end draws her back from her self-castigation. “Yeah. Hi.”
The line goes silent, but she can hear the sounds of the city in the background, a stark difference from her suburban home. “What’s-“
“I miss you.” You blurt out on the other end, a breath sucked in through your teeth. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have called. I don’t know what I’m thinking. Have a good night-“
“No.” She’s stern in her response, cutting you off. “You called for a reason. What’s going on, sweetheart?” The pet names leave her without thought, an old habit that almost felt too good to use again.
You almost whimper sadly, choking back the sound. You’re wasted. Out with some of the other surgical residents. “I’m getting married.” You finally say, leaning against the brick wall of the bar.
Dana’s heart drops to her stomach, a soft “oh” leaving her in a breath. “Congratulations.” She mutters half-heartedly.
“Thanks.” You scoff a laugh, your shoes scuffing against the pavement. “I don’t even know why I wanted to tell you. Fuck, D, I’m so drunk and you’re the first person I thought to call.”
She wants to be happy for you, she really does. “What’s his name?” She finally croaks out, clearing the lump in her throat.
“Uh- Her. Sasha.” You can’t muster the energy to sound excited. You love your fiancée, you really did, but god, you loved Dana more. You always would. “She’s um, she’s inside right now. In the bar.” You clarify unnecessarily, like you’re desperate to keep Dana on the phone.
“Yeah? Tell me about her.” Dana lights up her second cigarette, pulling her knit sweater tighter around her shoulders.
You’re silent for a beat, staring at the glowing neon sign above the bar's entrance, watching it flicker in and out. "She's... she's good. Really good. Cardiothoracic fellow." The words feel hollow as you say them. "She's patient with me. Doesn't deserve the mess I am."
Dana closes her eyes, exhaling smoke into the cool night air. Every word from you is a knife twisting, lodging deeper and deeper into her chest. "You're not a mess, babygirl.”
"Don't." Your voice cracks as tears spring to your eyes. "Don't call me that when you're not-" You stop yourself, pressing your palm against your eyes. "Not when it doesn't mean anything anymore."
"It means something." Dana's grip tightens on her phone. Three years and the ache hasn't dulled even a little. "It always meant something."
You laugh, bitter and wet with tears, though you try to hide it from her. You couldn’t stand the thought of her aching over your tears. "Then why did you let me go?"
The question hangs between you, Dana knows the answer– things she’s attempted to tell herself hundreds of times. Her daughters. Her marriage, rocky as it was. The almost three decades between your ages. The hospital politics. All the logical, sensible reasons that had felt so important at the time, but not important enough to stop it all from happening.
"Because it was the right thing to do," she whispers finally. "Because you deserved better."
"I didn't want better." Your voice is small now, vulnerable in a way Dana hasn't heard since that last night in your apartment. "I just wanted you."
Dana's hand shakes as she brings the cigarette to her lips again. "You're getting married."
"I know."
"To someone who can be there for you." The words hang heavy, the silent explanation there. She could never have actually been there for you– it was all a fantasy, wishful thinking.
"I know." You slide down the brick wall until you're sitting on the cold pavement, knees pulled to your chest. "But I'm calling you at one in the morning, drunk off my ass, because she asked me to set a date today and all I could think about was you."
“Jesus.” Dana curses, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You could never leave well enough alone.”
A wet laugh comes through her end of the phone, her heart sinking at the realization that you’re crying.
“I haven’t stopped thinking about you. You haunt my fucking dreams, Dana. I want to be over you, but I can’t fucking move on.” You choke back a sob, your head falling to your knees.
Dana's cigarette burns forgotten between her fingers, ash growing long. She can hear you falling apart on the other end, and it's tearing her apart. "Sweetheart, you're drunk. You need to get yourself together and go back inside to your fiancée."
"Don't tell me what to do." You sound like a petulant child, but there's real pain hidden under it. "You don't get to make that choice for me anymore."
"I'm not-" Dana stops, finally ashing her cigarette and putting it out in the ashtray. She tries to tamp down the bitterness that rises in her chest. "You called me. What do you want me to say?"
"Tell me you don't think about me." You almost beg her, choking on the words. "Tell me you moved on. Tell me it meant nothing to you."
The silence stretches so long you think she might have hung up.
"I can't."
It's barely a whisper, but it cracks everything open. Dana inhales shakily, watching her own hand tremble as she grips the arm of her chair. "I think about you every goddamn day. I see something funny and want to text you. I hear a song and remember you singing it off-key in my kitchen. My girls ask why I'm distracted and I can't tell them it's because I'm wondering if you're eating enough, if you're sleeping, taking your fucking meds."
You're openly crying now, not bothering to muffle the sound of your sniffles and shaky breathing.
"But you're building a life there," Dana continues, her own voice thick and gravely. "You're becoming the surgeon you always wanted to be. You found someone who can give you what you need, what you deserve. I couldn’t-”
“Dana, please, stop.” You sob into the phone, fisting your shirt over your heart as your chest stabs painfully. You can’t have her go on, you can’t give yourself that little bit of hope that maybe there is a chance despite everything.
"I'm sorry," You choke out. "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have called. I just—when she asked me about the date, all I could see was your face. The way you looked at me that last morning."
Dana remembers it, too. Almost getting caught by Benji the week before– she’d been making dinner when you’d texted something far too obvious. Guilt and paranoia had started creeping in, the thoughts of you wasting your life on someone who will never truly be yours, of knowing this would end poorly if she didn’t fix things– end things.
"Where are you right now? Exactly where are you sitting?" Dana asks, her voice shifting into something more controlled, more present.
You look around through blurry eyes. "Outside Miller's. I'm on the ground like an idiot."
"Are you cold?"
The question is so mundane, so caring, that it makes you cry harder. "Yeah."
"Go back inside. Get warm. Drink some water." Dana stands up from her chair, pacing the length of her porch. "Is Sasha good to you? Does she make you laugh?"
"Dana-"
"Answer me." No nonsense, almost stern.
You wipe at your tears with your sleeve. "Yeah. She does. She's… she's incredible.”
"Then you need to go back in there." Dana's voice cracks despite her best efforts. "You need to go back to her and you need to build that life you're supposed to have."
"But what if the life I'm supposed to have is with you?" The words tumble out before you can stop them. "What if I make the biggest mistake of my life by not getting on a plane tomorrow?"
Dana closes her eyes, gripping the porch railing. Every fiber of her being wants to tell you to come home. To leave everything and come back to Pittsburgh. But she can see her daughters' graduation photos through the window. She thinks of her marriage, loveless as it's become. She thinks of the hurt she would cause if you came back to her.
"You know it wouldn't work. We both know that." Dana's voice is hollow, defeated. "The age difference, the distance, everything I couldn't give you then—I still can't give you now. I'm not what you need anymore. I never really was."
"So that's it?" Anger floods your voice, sharp and defensive against the pain. "You're just going to let me walk away?"
"I let you walk away three years ago." Dana's words are quiet, final. "This time, you're the one who has to let go."
It feels like a punch to the chest. You scramble to your feet, the world tilting slightly as the alcohol and emotion make you unsteady. "Fuck you, Dana."
"Yeah." Her laugh is jagged, mirthless. "Fuck me."
Silence falls between you, filled only by the sound of your uneven breathing and the muffled noise of the city around you.
"I need to go," you whisper, but don’t pull your phone away to end the call.
"I know."
"Dana?"
"Yeah, sweetheart?"
"I love-"
"Stop." Her voice cuts through like a blade, sharp with desperation. "Don't say it. Please. Don't make this any harder than it already is."
You close your eyes, nodding uselessly into the phone as tears continue to fall. "Okay."
"Just...be good to yourself. Be happy. That's all I've ever wanted for you. All I'll ever want."
"Me too," you force out, your knuckles white around your phone as you try to hold onto this moment for just a few seconds longer. "Goodbye, Dana."
"Goodbye."
She says your name then, your actual name, and it crashes over you like a wave, drowning you in the finality of it. The weight of that ending settles into your bones, cold and absolute.
The call disconnects with a hollow beep. You stare at the screen, at her contact information still glowing there.
Behind you, the bar door swings open. Sasha's voice reaches you, tinged with worry and affection as she calls your name.
You drag in a shuddering breath, wipe roughly at your face with your sleeve, and turn toward the sound.
Toward your future.
But when you pocket your phone, Dana's number is still there.
It always will be.