Chapter 2

December in Seattle is so much colder than December in Georgia. That's why I have the cheapest rug I could find just to put right next to my bed so I don't freeze my toes off when I step on the cheap linoleum that covers every square inch of my new-to-me studio apartment. Which, by the way—is falling apart.

The walls are weathered white and turning slightly yellow. They said it was water damage when I moved in. But I have no choice, as I'm paying for all the bills alone now and, quite frankly, struggling. I haven't even let Cheyenne, my best friend who lives ten minutes away, come over because I'm ashamed of my current living situation. That's why I'm working six days a week at the hospital—to try to make it better.

It's four p.m. now, and I have exactly two hours and forty-five minutes until I return to work. My body feels heavy with exhaustion, like I can barely move, so I get out of bed in search of coffee. Liquid courage. The only thing that pushes me to keep on moving, to keep on trucking along.

My feet touch the fluffy rug next to my bed, my toes sinking into it comfortingly, and I exhale roughly. Just another day in the life of Bailey Thomas—my new last name. I dip my hand under my oversized t-shirt, touching the scar on the side of my torso, the one where he sank the knife between my rib cage.

I'm lucky I'm alive. I'm damn lucky I even made it to a hospital before passing out, or dying, even. But I did, and I asked them to keep me in private status so Robert couldn't find me. And that's when Cheyenne told me it was ‘the last fucking straw', bought me a one-way plane ticket, and now I'm here. In Seattle, Washington. With her.

I left everything behind, including my phone and car, not wanting to be tracked. Except sometimes, I wonder if it was all for nothing. Whether he'll find me no matter how far I run from him. He has a knack for chasing me, and I have one for running. Will I flee again if he comes to me? Or will I be strong and face him head-on? But I already know the answer to that. The fear that travels through my body—making me shiver—at the thought of seeing him again. Well, that answers all of my questions.

I can't face him again.

My body will freeze on the spot, a deer in headlights, and panic will take over until I can't breathe again. Maybe I will die after all.

Now I'm going to therapy weekly, thanks to him. What a fucking gift he's given me. The one that keeps on giving. I'm fairly certain I will never be able to trust a man again, no matter what my counselor Katherine has to say about it.

It's funny how different she and I are—night and day. Both of us are twenty-six, so I would've thought we'd have more in common. However, spending time with her only accentuates the fact that she's so put together, and I'm a mess. Maybe I'm wrong, and she has trauma hiding behind her Colgate smile, or perhaps she has the best relationship with both her mother and father and is lacking all the issues I have. It's hard to see eye to eye with someone like her, but at the same time she might be my only friend other than Cheyenne. And that's just sad. But I can't lie, she is kind to me. If it were up to that woman, I'd be healed by now. She'd do it with her bare hands if she could. Nevertheless, that's not how life works, and we both know it.

I am still paranoid everywhere I go, afraid that death will finally catch up to me. It's why I sprint to my car in the hospital parking lot. Always terrified he'll be waiting for me in the shadows of the awning right next to the employee's back door. The only thing protecting me, I hope, is that he needs a badge to get through those doors. That is, unless he enters this hospital as a patient. Or as a guest.

But I don't want to think about that.

I know I self-sabotage. That I'm a pessimist. A negative Nancy. But I can't help it, can I? How do I recover from this? All I see when I close my eyes are images of me crawling through glass. My knees and hands shredded, my heart torn to pieces. Blood trailing after me. A gash on my side.

And I can't unsee any of it.

I slowly pad across the space between my bed and the small kitchen, opening a cabinet above the stove since I don't have a pantry, and pull out the coffee. I fill the water compartment, replace the filter, and dump coffee in it. The fantastic aroma wafts through the air, filling my nostrils, and I take a deep breath. Sometimes, I think coffee is the only thing in my life that brings me joy. Even Cheyenne can't manage it most of the time, although I pretend she does. I don't want to hurt her feelings. So when she invites me over for wine, facials, and chocolate cake, I give her my best smile and pretend it makes me happy. The wine helps me pretend, if I'm being honest. It doesn't erase the fact that lately it's been hard to feel anything aside from despair.

Despair at the life I'm leading.

Starting over has been challenging. The past six months have been harder than I thought. Grueling, even. It takes all of my strength to put one foot in front of the other, especially when my future looks so bleak. I can't imagine a time when I won't be working six days a week, exhausting myself beyond repair, all because I could never let someone else in again. It's not that I don't have needs. It's just that I don't need a man to satisfy them. No. The toys in my nightstand are enough for me, and they will be for a long time to come.

I pour the coffee into a mug along with a shit load of creamer and sugar in it, because I'm that girl, and take a sip. The hot liquid rolls down my throat, instantly soothing me. I need to put on my big girl pants—or scrubs—and get my shit together. Despite hating my life, I do enjoy my job for the most part. I can get through it just fine as long as I don't talk much to my patients. However, some of them are persistent, to my chagrin. As long as no men grace me with their presence, I'm mostly fine.

It's just when there's a dick between their legs that I start feeling angsty and like I need to flee. I don't think that feeling will ever go away.

Getting my phone from the bedside table, I check it.

Chey

We still on for five?

Fucccckkk.

I totally forgot I made plans to have breakfast for dinner with her, but I'm really not in the mood. It's one of those days. A day where cancelations are the only acceptable answer.

Bailey

I'm soooo sorry. Still in bed. Feel dead. Rain check?

Chey

You suck. I still love you, though. But fine…whatever. See you soon? Maybe you can come to learn to skate on your day off and fall on your face?

I smirk. I seem to do that a lot.

Cheyenne teaches skating lessons to toddlers and figure skaters at the nearest Olympic arena, and she loves her job so much. Occasionally, I go watch her, jealously clutching my heart in a vice grip. I don't mean to feel that way; I just wish something brought me as much joy as teaching brings her. Nursing used to be that way for me once upon a time, until I had to uproot my entire life.

Sometimes I join Cheyenne at the rink and skate. I can't say I'm any good at it, but she's really good at teaching. I'm still marching, not quite ready to glide. Every time I try, my stomach dips, and I feel like I'm going to fall on my ass. Which is why I'm decked out with butt pads—I didn't know those were a thing—knee pads and a helmet. I look ridiculous. Yeah, she laughs every time. But I am getting better. At least, that's what I tell myself.

Bailey

Saturday.

Chey

You're not gonna sleep?

Bailey

Do I ever? Fuck sleep. It's for the dead.

Chey

That's the spirit. See ya there, babe.

I gulp my coffee down, because I'm taking forever, and when I look at the time, it's already five thirty p.m. So much for breakfast. I guess, an Uncrustable it is.

I brush my teeth, jump in the shower, and then get dressed. My hair is wet, but I still put it up in a ponytail, wearing a big scrunchie so my hair doesn't break—damn thin strands—and look at myself in the mirror. My sea-foam green eyes have dark bags underneath from lack of sleep, thanks to my nightmares, so I do my skincare and then correct them with plenty of concealer.

Next, I do the rest of my makeup because I look dead to the world without it. I don't even know why I bother. It's not like anyone freaking cares what I look like at work, except me. Although there's nothing orderly about my life, my appearance is the only thing I can control. Which is why I always try to look presentable. Being in control of something is crucial to my survival lately, especially when most of what I do feels so out of my norm.

By the time I'm all done getting ready, my Uncrustable is defrosted, and it's time to go. The drive to the hospital is thirty minutes one way, and I'm already pushing it on time. If I'm not careful, traffic will get the best of me and I'll be late.

With my food in hand and my work bag, I check that my bat is in its rightful place, then exit my studio apartment, locking the bolt on the way out. I look left and right before making my way to the stairs and running down them two at a time. Before I step down from them, I look around again, then sprint to my car when I deem it safe. I always park right in front of the stairs for a quick escape if it's ever needed. I don't even care if I look nervous and I won't ever deny it. But last time was the last time, and I will never put myself in a position again where I'm vulnerable enough to be abused once more.

I shut myself in the car and lock the doors, throwing my work bag to the passenger side of the vehicle and pulling out of the parking lot. It's six now, and I have forty-five minutes until I have to be there, clocked in and ready for report. So, I drive out of my apartment complex as fast as I can and onto the highway.

Thankfully, the drive to work is pretty uneventful, with barely any traffic. Yet when I pull into the hospital's parking lot and don't find a spot close to the entrance, my chest begins to feel tight with that fear all over again. Not today, please. Not today.

I end up having to park four rows away, officially at least a five-minute walk to the door, and my hands begin to shake. But I still grab my work bag and look around before getting out of my car. I lock it until I hear the beep and all but sprint toward the door. Maybe if I run fast enough I will make it there in half the time. It's freezing tonight, and I don't make my life any easier by not wearing a jacket. I totally forgot it, and I have long sleeves under my scrub top, but they're just not enough when I'm outside.

I make it to the door and scan my badge. Hearing the door's electric sound, I shut it behind me to prevent anyone from entering without their badge. Everyone is wearing their stethoscopes around their necks as we make our way to the elevator, and I grimace. I have mine safely tucked in my bag, refusing to put myself in a position where I could be choked with it.

God, I sound crazy sometimes.

Once in the elevator, we're so cramped I can barely breathe, and when we finally make it to the tenth floor, I all but run to the break room. Scanning my badge, I again hear that whirring sound that means the door is opening, and I step in. It's a big space, with lockers lining one of the walls, two long tables in the middle of the room surrounded by chairs, a television, and a sink. Posters cover every single wall, all about nursing skills and announcements. There are boxes of pizza on one of the tables and paper plates right next to it.

I go to my locker, put in the combination, and take my clipboard and stethoscope out of my bag. When I'm ready, I step out of the room and go to the nurse's station to get a report. There's a crowd already in the middle of it, and as always, I'm one of the last ones to get a turn. I guess I'm getting all my patients from the same nurse though, so that's reassuring since that means I don't have to wait for anyone else.

Nurse Linda, a pretty brunette with blue eyes who is definitely younger than me, steps up to me with her own clipboard. "Ready?"

I nod, "As I'll ever be."

Linda walks me to one of the rooms, opening the door until we're both inside. "This is Mrs. Erin Jones. Seventy-five-year-old female presenting with Diabetic Ketoacidosis. Her last blood sugar was six hundred, and we've been trying to get it under control with an Insulin drip. Finger sticks every two hours…"

She goes on and on about lab work, and everything they've discussed. How Mrs. Jones has plenty of visitors per shift—great—even at night. Her husband sometimes stays the night when he feels well enough to do it and is sweet as pie.

"Hi, Mrs. Jones," I say with a fake smile, my lips almost refusing to tip up, my face tight from the strain. "My name is Bailey, and I will be taking care of you tonight. If you need anything at all, please press the call light. But I'll be in here quite a bit regardless."

"Oh, please, dear. Call me Erin."

I nod. "Erin."

I feel relief as soon as I turn around, away from her prying eyes, to write my name and phone number on the board. Then I hurry out of the room with Linda on my heels. I can finally breathe again when I make it out to the hallway, and I gasp in some much-needed air. Ever since Rob—fuck, I hate thinking about him—I've had social anxiety. It affects my work. My hands and armpits get sweaty just from having a conversation with my patients. It brings me genuine physical pain.

I guess the only person I still let in is Cheyenne.

Linda closes Mrs. Jones' door and takes me to the next patient's room, rattling on and on as she clearly does. I follow the same ritual I always do: Introduce myself, put on a fake smile, write my name on the board, and leave the room. I do my best to maintain good bedside manners, but some days are harder than others.

The next and last patient is a male, apparently, but Linda stops me before I can go in the room. My heart is already beating fast as she grabs my elbow. "So, before we go in there, I must warn you. He's a hotshot NHL player. He's very young. All the nurses are after him, so you may have a lot—and I mean a lot—of help tonight."

Perfect.

The less I have to interact with him, the better.

She opens the door and we walk into the room, a cold gust of air hitting my face. I immediately stop in my tracks when the patient comes into view, and I narrow my eyes at him. I've never thought of a man as beautiful, especially not after everything I've been through, but I guess there's a first time for everything. And this man with his floppy brown hair and gorgeous blue eyes is heart-stopping. I've never seen an NHL player up close—I haven't even watched hockey, really—but he's all muscles and thick forearms. I can tell even through the gown. He is hugging it like a second skin.

Jesus.

Snap the fuck out of it, Bailey.

He's just another man.

"Theodore Anderson," Linda smirks. "He came in?—"

"Theo, please," he groans, not even glancing my way. "You're making me feel old."

"With a skull fracture and a brain bleed." She rolls her eyes at him. "And he's apparently ‘bored as fuck'. Yeah, I put that in the chart under nursing notes."

How amusing. I don't smile.

"Anyway," she continues when she realizes I don't find it funny, her face sobering. "He needs to stay until the brain bleed dissolves, which the doctor said could be a week. It's a tiny one."

"And how did he get the brain bleed?" I ask dryly. His eyes finally settle on me.

"Hockey stick to the head."

He and I both flinch at the same time.

"Oh…" I grimace. "That must have really hurt, Mr. Anderson."

"Theo."

"Mr. Anderson is just fine," I retort, moving to the board to write my name as Linda rattles on again. I swear, the girl never shuts the fuck up.

"And your name?" he asks me.

Right. "My name is Bailey." I give him my back as I write on the board, purposely neglecting to write my work phone number on it. He can call the nurses' station if he needs something. I'm sure everyone will be oh so happy to assist him.

"And tell me, sweet Bailey." I can hear the smile even though I can't see it. My spine goes ramrod straight at the nickname. "Are you always this happy? Or only on Tuesdays?"

I turn around and give him my tightest smile. "Oh, I'm never happy," I reply before heading for the door. I can hear him mumble ‘I can tell' under his breath, and it kind of pisses me off just a bit. But I ignore him. Guys are assholes. Maybe girls would work out better for me. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have charting to do and medicine to distribute."

"Of course, of course." He smiles, a grin so bright it's freaking blinding. "Take your time. Can't wait to see you again."

Of course, you can't.

With a wink and a smile from him, I turn around and walk out of the room. I can feel my right eye twitching from that interaction, and I can tell I'm not going to like him at all.

"OMG," Linda says when she closes the door behind us. "Isn't he so cute?"

"Sure," I comment. "If you like jocks. They're mostly assholes, though."

Linda frowns, her lips tipping down. "He doesn't seem like an asshole..."

"Oh, come on, Linda." I roll my eyes as we walk to the nurses' station. Personally I'm in search of a computer before they disappear. "You honestly think he's going to be an asshole right now? All eyes are on him."

"Maybe he's having the best attitude he can under these circumstances."

"Sure," I repeat.

She walks away from me, clearly tired of my shitty attitude. But I can't help it. I was really hoping tonight wasn't the night where I had a male patient. Yet here we are.

I grab the computer on wheels as well as a chair and open charts, going through them. I make sure to note lab values and any vital information about each patient, writing it down on my clipboard.

And then I get ready for the long shift ahead of me.