Chapter 18

Kent

The fluorescent gleam of the Mercy Hospital emergency department washes over me as I step through the sliding doors, still feeling the phantom warmth of the Hawaiian sun on my skin. Let the night shift begin. The stark contrast settles the weight of reality back onto my shoulders. I'm home, back to the controlled chaos that never seems to sleep.

"Kent! How was the wedding?" Shelly Sable calls from behind the nurses' station, her voice a familiar beacon in the sea of beeps and hurried footsteps. She's our nurse in charge with an uncanny ability to read people, and right now, she's all smiles and curiosity.

"Beautiful," I say, pausing with my hand on the back of a nearby chair, the memory of Cordelia's joyous laughter echoing in my mind. "The Big Island didn't disappoint. It was like stepping into a postcard every morning."

"Who'd you take with you?" Shelly props her elbows on the counter. She's always had a knack for sniffing out the personal details we doctors try to keep under wraps.

I laugh, a genuine sound that surprises even me. "Just a friend," I admit, but there's a lilt in my voice that wasn't there before the trip. A friend. Amelia's image dances across my thoughts, her smile bright against the tropical backdrop, laughter mingling with the ocean breeze.

"Uh-huh, just a friend." Shelly grins, waggling her eyebrows. "Not a girlfriend?"

"Shelly, you know I keep things light…" I trail off, shaking my head, dismissing the thought before it takes hold. As she turns away, though, I let my guard down, at least within my own mind.

Amelia. Her name is a soft whisper in my head, a gentle wave lapping at the edges of my consciousness. We spent days exploring hidden beaches and sharing meals under starlit skies. Yet here I am, back in scrubs, pretending she didn't leave a mark. This feeling is new for me, this reluctance to sever what should have been a temporary connection. I've always been good at compartmentalizing, slicing cleanly through ties when they threaten to tangle around my ankles.

But Amelia… She's different. Her laughter echoes in my ears, a melody I want to hear on repeat. Her gaze, warm and inviting, seems to linger on the edges of my vision, and I wonder if what I'm feeling is as foreign as it seems. Is it possible she slipped through the cracks of my well-fortified walls?

I push the thought aside as my work buzzes at my hip, a demanding chirp that pulls me back to the present. Duty calls, and I answer, letting the rhythm of the ED sweep me along. Yet as I move from patient to patient, part of me remains on that distant shore, waves tickling my toes, Amelia's laughter wrapping around me like the caress of island breezes.

Sometime later, I press my stethoscope against the taut skin of Lucas Jones's abdomen, his flinches painting a picture of pain I'm all too familiar with. "Deep breaths, Lucas," I instruct as my hands move with practiced precision.

"Feels like I've been skewered," he grunts, sweat beading on his forehead.

"Appendicitis is a likely culprit, but we'll run some tests to be sure." I signal Nurse Donna South, who hovers nearby with her omnipresent clipboard. "Blood work, urinalysis, and a CT scan, please. We need to check for infection and inflammation."

"Got it, Dr. Johns," she responds, scribbling down my orders.

"We'll take good care of you, Lucas," I assure him before stepping away, my mind already racing through the next steps if surgery is needed.

The crackle of the ambulance-bay radio jolts me back to the immediate needs of the ED. I pivot on my heel, dashing to the double doors just as they burst open, revealing a stretcher and the pale form of a man, an oxygen mask strapped to his face.

"Thirty-two-year-old male, chemical exposure," the EMT rattles off, the urgency in his voice matching the rapid clip of my heartbeat. "Heart rate dipping between thirty-five and flatline, temp at one-oh-four, high cee-oh-two levels."

"Let's move!" I bark. Susan Clark, my nurse, is already at my side, our movements synchronized. As we strip the patient's clothes, shears slice through fabric like it's nothing. "Intubating now," I announce, sliding the laryngoscope past parched lips and swollen tongue, securing the airway. My hands don't shake; there's no room for hesitation when a life hangs in the balance. "High-flow oh-two," I command, and Susan adjusts the valves with swift efficiency. The numbers on the monitors begin their dance, and for a moment, there's a harmony in the beep and hiss of machinery that drowns out everything else. "Call ahead for hyperbaric oxygen therapy," I say, watching Susan nod before she turns to make arrangements. This is what we do—a relentless push against the reaper's grasp.

As I send the patient off, hurtling toward hope in the form of pressurized oxygen, I'm left with the echo of a laugh that isn't here, a warmth that's absent from the sterile cold of the ED. I shove Amelia's image aside, focusing on the task at hand. But even as I prepare for the next emergency, the next life to save, her presence is a persistent pulse beneath my skin, a rhythm I can't escape.

Hours later, the final click of the sign-out screen feels like a small mercy after the relentless pace of the shift. Sixty-three patients. Each one a life I've touched, a puzzle to solve, a responsibility that weighs on me even as I shrug off my white coat. The fabric settles over the back of the chair with a soft sigh, one that mirrors the exhaustion settling into my bones. The nap I had after taking Amelia home and before coming to work was clearly not enough.

I head into the locker room and shower away the edge of today, convincing myself I'm only this tired because I didn't get enough sleep while I was in Hawaii. I blame that on Amelia, but it was worth it.

Fishing my cell phone from my pocket, I contemplate reaching out to her, but it's way too soon, and I'm way too unsure. She's likely tired and recovering from the trip as well. Instead, I pull up my rideshare app and call for a car. As I step outside, the air is cooler than the controlled climate of Mercy Hospital, and it stings my cheeks as I step onto the sidewalk. After a minute, my rideshare pulls up—a nondescript sedan—and I slide into the backseat with a grateful groan.

"Long day?" the driver asks, glancing at me in the rearview mirror.

"Something like that," I reply.

As the car hums into motion, I fish out my phone, thumbing through notifications until Cordelia's email catches my eye. There we are—Amelia and me—frozen in digital pixels, smiling, oblivious to any camera. The warmth of her hand in mine that day feels like a ghostly pressure now.

Is it love? Cordelia's words tease from the screen, pulling a chuckle from somewhere deep inside me.

"Love? Nah, I don't do love," I mutter under my breath, but my fingers hover, betraying my uncertainty. Rhonda and Spencer flash through my mind, their easy laughter, their hands always finding each other without looking. That kind of connection tugs at something vulnerable within me. I shake my head, trying to dislodge the image of Amelia's impish grin, the way her eyes crinkle when she laughs. But they cling stubbornly, refusing to be cast aside. Why wouldn't she fit into the kind of future I've scarcely allowed myself to imagine? Maybe she's the reason I'm suddenly able to imagine that kind of future.

"Everything okay back there?" the driver's voice interrupts my musings.

"Fine, just…thinking," I say, my gaze drifting back to the photo. Amelia feels both incandescent and impossible to ignore. It's just a picture, and yet it whispers of potential, of what-ifs that I've never given space before.

"Thinking can be dangerous," he offers with a knowing look.

"Tell me about it," I agree, the corner of my mouth lifting despite myself.

My reply to Cordelia remains unsent as we pull up to my place. I thank the driver and make my way to the door. With a nod to the doorman and a direct ride to my floor, I'm inside my condo. I throw my keys on the counter and sink into the couch, alone with the echo of a night spent saving strangers and the quiet realization that maybe I want to carve a little room in my life for something more.