Chapter 2

"Get ready. We've got wounded coming into the ER," Marcy says.

"How many?"

"At least twelve," Marcy replies. "And one firefighter."

The adrenaline surges through my veins as I rush around the ER, following Marcy Peters step for step as we prepare for the flood of bodies coming through the doors any minute. As a nursing student, I've been shadowing Marcy in the ER for about a month now. Every night is different, and very few of them haven't had moments of pulse-pounding exhilaration. There's always a rush of activity and something exciting going on, and there are always lives hanging in the balance.

A lot of RNs opt to go into lower-stress departments where there isn't so much at stake on a nightly basis. I can see why and don't blame them for it. Maybe it's morbid, or perhaps masochistic, but I have to admit, the rush I get from the flurry of frantic activity with literal life-and-death consequences while doing my rotation in the ER is unlike anything I've felt before. More than that, it's addictive.

I've never considered myself to be a thrill seeker or an adrenaline junkie, and some might object to my characterization of ER shifts that way, but there is no other way I can describe them. There might not be much going on for the first couple of hours, but when those doors bang open and paramedics wheel somebody in and the action starts, it's an adrenaline-fueled buzz to save their life. It's electrifying in ways I've never felt before. And, for lack of a better word, that kind of excitement is absolutely compelling.

My head is buzzing so loudly that I don't even hear the ambulances roll into the bay and almost jump out of my skin when the doors crash open and the EMTs start rolling our victims into the ER.

"Stay on my hip and get ready to do what I tell you to do," Marcy tells me.

"I'm ready."

As gurneys start filling the department floor, Marcy takes charge and starts barking orders to the nurses standing by. The movements are fast but efficient and well-ordered. The doctors, nurses, and staff whirl around the ER department floor like they're running through a well-choreographed dance. And all the while, I stay on Marcy's hip, handling anything she tells me to handle, and helping where I'm able. She seems pleased with my efforts.

With the victims of the structure fire being well cared for, Marcy turns just as the doors from the ambulance bay crash open again. The EMTs roll in another gurney, and when I see who's strapped to it, my mouth grows dry and my heart stops dead in my chest. As they roll the patient over to us, I stand rooted to my spot, unable to move. Unable to think. Barely able to even breathe.

"Harlow!"

Marcy's voice snaps me out of my paralysis, and I look at her, my head swimming. "Sorry."

"Are you okay?" Marcy presses.

"I'm fine."

"If you're not, tell me now. I need somebody who's here with me."

"I'm here, Marcy. I'm good. I promise."

Her gaze lingers on me for a moment, her face skeptical. But she finally nods, and we snap into action, helping to get the patient from the EMT's gurney onto the bed in the ER bay. Once we've got him settled, the paramedics give Marcy an update on the patient's status and a description of his injuries. Numb, I listen to it as my eyes drift down to him. The paramedics have already cut his turnout coat, suspenders, and t-shirt off, leaving him in just his boots and pants.

He's unconscious, and his face is black with soot. Blood is dried and crusted at the corners of his mouth as well as around his nostrils, and he's completely motionless. If not for the monitor tracking his heartbeat, I might think he's dead.

"Okay, thanks. We've got it from here," Marcy says, then turns to me. "Ready?"

"Ready."

The EMTs roll their gurney out, and I pull the curtains around the bay closed, giving our patient some privacy as we work on him. Although I do everything Marcy asks me to do, my motions are stiff, almost robotic. My mind is numb, and I'm simply working by rote, relying on my training to get me through it all. We work on him for almost half an hour before we manage to slow down enough to breathe.

"Okay, he's stable. He's banged up, but he's going to be fine," Marcy says.

With my eyes still on him, I find myself unable to speak, so just nod. I peel off my gloves and drop them into the trash can, then run my hands over my face. Hunter lies stretched out on the table in front of me, his face battered and bruised, but he otherwise looks as if he's merely sleeping. The relief I feel knowing he's going to be okay is indescribable.

"What's with you?" Marcy asks as she strips off her gloves and tosses them in the can.

As the adrenaline coursing through my body begins to ebb, I'm left trembling. I hear her words, but they don't register at first, and I have to look at Marcy, hoping she'll repeat what she just asked. Annoyance flashes across her face.

"I asked, what is with you?" she repeats.

"I'm sorry. I … I know him."

"Jesus Christ, Harlow. You should have said something from the jump," she scolds me. "You never should have been working on him."

"Marcy, i-it's fine. I handled myself."

"Barely," she growls. "Your head wasn't in the game. Your emotions were getting in the way. In the ER, we can't afford to have our thoughts clouded like that. With somebody's life hanging in the balance, we have to be on point every single second."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Sorry isn't going to cut it, Harlow. If your attention had slipped?—"

"But it didn't," I counter. "I did my job, Marcy. I didn't let my personal feelings get in the way of caring for him as a patient."

"Harlow—"

"Marcy, there is always a chance we're going to have somebody we know wind up on a table in front of us, and we're not always going to have the option of handing them off to somebody else," I tell her. "We either find a way to push past our personal feelings and do the job or we shouldn't be doing this line of work. I did my job."

She purses her lips and looks at me as if she remains unconvinced, and part of me fears she's going to ding me on my performance evals, which will be critical to getting my certification. A frown curls my lips downward and irritation flashes through me. Yeah, maybe it wasn't the most professional thing ever to not say anything about knowing Hunter, and maybe I was a little stiffer and robotic than normal, but I did my job. At no point was his life in danger because of the emotions churning inside of me.

"Come on. Things here are under control," she says. "Let's go get a cup of coffee."

Marcy checks in with Rebecca, who's running the charge desk, and tells her we're going to grab a cup of coffee. Feeling like I'm walking the Green Mile, I follow her out of the ER and down the long corridor that leads to the lounge. The rubber soles of our shoes squeak sharply on the tile flooring of the hallway, and the air around us is thick with the scent of bleach and antiseptic. The corridor beneath the fluorescent lights is blindingly white, and the walls are lined with pieces of colored glass art I've always found beautiful.

We turn right, and at the end of a long hallway is the staff lounge. Marcy holds the door open for me, and we walk inside. A pair of nurses I don't know are huddled together in the far corner, gossiping over their meal. As Marcy takes a seat across the room from them, I walk over and pour us both a cup of coffee and dress them before carrying them over and setting one down in front of Marcy. After that, I take my seat across from her and stare into my cup, waiting for the lashing I'm about to take.

Marcy has been an RN for about twenty years. She's a no-nonsense kind of woman who isn't afraid to dress you down if she feels you deserve it. She pulls no punches. It's one of the things I respect most about her. As tough as she is, though, she's also not afraid to deliver praise when it's warranted. Just as she's unafraid to call you out when you screw up, she's also always the first to tell you when you do something good. Despite our age difference, I've come to like Marcy a lot, and we've become pretty close over the last couple of months.

"You're right," she says. "We will sometimes have the bad luck of having somebody we know wheeled into the ER. And you're also right that we aren't going to have the luxury of being able to pass them off to somebody."

A small grin quirks the corner of my mouth. "But?"

"No buts. You're right. And you did your job just as well as you always do," she replies. "The only thing I would remind you of is that every second counts and we can't afford to let it faze us. Not even for a moment. You froze out there for a few seconds. You rebounded, but you let seeing that guy throw you."

"I did. And I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

"Hopefully you'll never be in that position again," she says. "But if you do find yourself in that spot, just remember what I said."

"I will. I promise."

"I know you will," Marcy says with a grin. "Now, tell me about the man out there. And how long have you been in love with him?"

My cheeks immediately grow hot as a nervous laugh bursts from my mouth. "What? I'm not—what are you even talking about?"

"Uh-huh," she says dryly. "Lying ain't your strong suit, kid."

I quickly take a drink of my coffee, ignoring that it's scalding my mouth as I try to hide my flushing cheeks and look of embarrassment behind my cup.

"I'm curious, Harlow. Who is he to you?"

A soft laugh passes my lips. "Honestly? He's my ex-boyfriend's father."

Marcy's eyes widen, and she can't hide her look of surprise. "Wow. I didn't see that coming," she says. "But it sounds like an interesting story, so let's hear it."

Her eyes are sparkling, and she's got a wide smile on her face. I know Marcy well enough to know that she's not going to let it go until she gets what she wants. And what she wants right now is a story about me and a man I haven't seen in a few years now.

Of course, barely a day goes by when I don't think of him. But after I broke up with Micah, I had no reason to be at their house, so I honestly thought Hunter Weston would only live in my fond recollections for the rest of my life. This isn't the way I wanted to see him again, of course, but at least I can take some comfort in knowing that he'll be all right.

"There's really no story," I tell her. "I dated his son, Micah briefly. We were together for like less than a year. We broke up a few years ago, and I haven't seen Hunter since."

"He clearly made an impression on you."

Try as I might, I can't keep the smile off my face. "I always had a crush on him."

"Well, you're free and single, and I didn't see a ring on his finger," Marcy says. "So, maybe it's fate bringing you two together again."

"Marcy, he's two decades older than me."

"And?"

"He's old enough to be my father."

"Listen, kid, the older you get, the less age matters. You're an adult. He's an adult," she says. "If there's one thing I've learned doing this job as long as I have, it's that life is short. Very short. And we've only got one go ‘round, kid. If something or somebody makes you happy, it's on you to go out there and take it. If you don't, you may spend the rest of your life wondering what if? That's not how I'm going to go out. What about you?"

I sit back in my chair and take a sip of my coffee, Marcy's words rattling around in my head. I'm twenty-three years old, so my mortality isn't something I've really given a lot of thought to. But she's right. Life is short, and it's on us to find those things that make us happy, that make us fulfilled, whether it be a physical thing or a person, grab onto them, and never let them go.

Like Marcy, I don't want to leave this life wondering, what if?