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Jack coughed up the first petal after the night of the PittFest MCI. After they had been paired together in the Red Zone, Samira had joined them across the street in the park for the first time. She had undone her hair, shaken it out, and he was done for. He just didn’t know it yet.
The rose petal must have started growing then, or maybe it was even earlier, when she had looked at him with absolute trust and threaded that pigtail catheter into the patient’s heart. Or maybe even earlier than that, when she had asked what else was in his go bag.
He knew it didn’t matter when it had started growing; he knew that Hanahaki was a slow enough disease that those few hours in between wouldn’t matter. He knew because he had watched his wife die of it over three long, cruel years.
He had been there when the first petal came out of Elise’s mouth. She had gotten a strange look on her face, coughed once, then opened her mouth and deposited a perfect rose petal onto her hand.
He had laughed at first, thinking it was a prank, a joke. They both knew how rare Hanahaki disease was; he wasn’t even sure it was a real thing. It seemed closer to spontaneous human combustion—something told to scare children, something so sensational it was impossible not to know about even though they had never actually known anyone who had gotten it.
But then the worried look in her eyes told him the truth.
He had grabbed her hand. “Who is it, Elise? I swear, I’ll drag him here; make him fall in love with you.”
She just continued looking at him, tears starting to form as she shook her head. It took him too long to figure it out.
“But you’re my best friend. I’m your best friend. That’s not how it works.” (He still cringed all these years later when he replayed how confident he had sounded in his head.)
She began to cry in earnest then, and he embraced her, trying his best to comfort her.
“Shhh, it’s okay. We’ll figure this out. I’m not going anywhere, Elise.”
He had made good on his promise. He had stayed by her side through every doctor’s appointment. He had tried. Tried to love her how she wanted to be loved. He’d proposed, then married her, sure that it was the right move and would stop the disease.
When he saw her for the first time in her wedding dress, that huge smile on her face, his heart swelled and he thought, “This is it. I’ll never feel this way about anyone else.” He was so, so sure.
“To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part.” He had said those vows earnestly, honestly, thinking he was doing the right thing.
She had repeated them back to him with so much hope in her eyes that both of them started tearing up. She was marrying the love of her life, and he was saving her life.
Only…he had been right initially. That wasn’t how it worked. She had coughed up her first full blossom that night after their first time making love. It was just a small cherry blossom, but it was enough that they both knew the disease was not only still present, it was advancing. All he could do was repeat “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry” over and over again as he held her crying form and stroked her back.
He knew she tried not to blame him, but how could she not? Her life was in his hands and all he had to do was love her, and he did. So much. Just not like that. It was the greatest failure of his life, and he continued to wear his wedding ring every day as penance.
But then Samira Mohan had blown into his life, and he finally understood. Love was unreasonable and relentless. It didn’t matter how entirely unsuited he was for her. He almost came to appreciate the burn of each petal coming up his windpipe because it was a testament to the reality of his love for her, even though he would never, ever do a single thing about it.
He still had at least another year before he might not be able to hide it any longer. He remembered how slow it had been at the beginning for Elise. He still had time to get his affairs in order.
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Almost a year later he was up to about a few petals a week. It was still easy enough to hide. He’d feel it climbing up, excuse himself if he could, and discard the petals in the nearest biohazard bag. He knew some of his colleagues suspected something was wrong, but he was going to hold off on disclosing anything for as long as he could.
When he went into the empty room to take care of the gunshot graze on his left shoulder, the last thing he was thinking about was how long it had been since the last one, but then Samira had swept into the room, and he had felt the first flutter of a petal deep in his chest.
Oh god, not now, he thought, panicking. There was no way he could hide something like this from her. Not when it was just the two of them in the room. But then she had looked at him, really looked at him, and he couldn’t find it in him to send her away.
He grunted before asking her about what was in the bag, trying to delay the inevitable. Then, as soon as he said, “I’ll pay for it” the tickling in his lungs disappeared. He wondered if it was just a reaction to her being so close to him while shirtless. Perhaps her presence was a panacea and as soon as she left, it’d be back. But no, the feeling never returned. He was…cured? But that wasn’t possible. Couldn’t be. There were only two outcomes of the disease: death or…the object of affection returning one’s feelings.
He took a deep breath, the first one he had taken since he had first coughed up a petal. It seemed the impossible had happened. Samira Mohan had fallen in love…with him. He couldn’t believe it.
It was a new complication, a new secret to keep until the timing was right. But at least now he was going to live. He decided right there and then to quit the SWAT gig. He couldn’t throw this new chance at life away. Not when there was so much to live for. He began to plan for the future he never intended to have.