I didn’t care.
Nicole made me feel alive.
Twenty-one years later, that feeling was gone. Replaced by something hollow and sharp around the edges.
And I still didn’t see the truth.
The hernia happened on a Tuesday in July.
I was at our RiNo project site, a mixed-use redevelopment we were converting from an old warehouse. I’d always been hands-on, even after stepping into the CEO role. I liked being around the crews. Liked knowing what was happening with my projects firsthand.
That day, we were short-staffed. I grabbed one end of a steel I-beam to help move it.
Stupid. Reckless. A fifty-four-year-old desk jockey trying to prove he could still hang.
The pain was immediate. Sharp. Radiating low in my abdomen and down toward my groin.
I knew exactly what it was. I’d watched my father deal with the same thing years ago.
That night at dinner, I mentioned it casually. We were standing at the kitchen island, Mia up in Boulder for summer classes. Nicole was scrolling on her phone.
“I think I pulled something today,” I said. “Pretty sure it’s a hernia.”
Nicole’s head snapped up.
“A hernia?”
Her voice had an edge to it I couldn’t place. Not fear. Not concern. Something tighter.
“And you need to get that checked. Soon.”
“It’s not that bad,” I said. “I’ll see how it feels.”
She set her phone down. Face up.
“Hernias don’t just go away,” she said. “They can get dangerous.”
I blinked. “Nicole, I just told you about it.”
She was already opening her laptop.
“There’s a surgeon,” she said. “Dr. Julian Mercer. Presbyterian St. Luke’s. Five-star reviews. Best in Denver.”
She turned the screen toward me.
His photo stared back. Mid-forties. Clean-cut. The kind of confidence that comes from being very good at what you do.
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