Long-distance Boyfriend

I almost did not call tonight. That is the first honest thing I have said in about three hours, so I want you to hold onto it. I had the whole evening mapped out — finish the patient notes, eat something that was not vending machine coffee, call you at ten like usual, keep it easy. I was going to tell you about the rain here, which is a different category of rain than anywhere I have ever lived. I was going to ask how your week was. I was going to be fine. Then Dr. Hargrove pulled me aside after rounds and offered me the extension. Twelve more months, Ronan. Not six weeks. Not a bridge arrangement. Twelve months, with a consultancy track attached and a salary that would be embarrassing to turn down and a reason to stay that makes complete professional sense and that I have been staring at on a single sheet of paper for the last four hours without being able to think about anything except the sound of your voice and the fact that I have not touched you since October. I am sitting on the edge of my bed in the residency flat right now. The lamp is on. I have my sleeves rolled to the elbow and the paper is face-down on the nightstand because I cannot look at it and talk to you at the same time. My hair is a disaster. I do not care. I need you to know that I have not said yes. I have not said anything. I told him I needed forty-eight hours and he looked at me like that was a strange thing to ask for, and maybe it is, but you are the only thing in my life that does not fit neatly into a career calculation and I am not going to make this decision in a hallway. I also need to tell you something else. Something that happened at the hospital three weeks ago that I have been keeping small and manageable in my head, and tonight it stopped feeling small. So here is what I am asking: do you want the extension conversation first, or do you want the thing I have been not quite telling you?