Chapter 6

Lately, it feels like I'm racing toward my death, sprinting full force yet staying stagnant simultaneously. Another shift, another day down.

That's all I care about lately, for my days to fly by. I don't know why; there's nothing in particular that I want to do.

No matter how hard I try, I can't seem to move forward. My biggest wish is to get back to myself—the person I used to be, the one before him. But the further time slips from my grasp, the further I feel from accomplishing that. Shouldn't time heal all wounds? In a way, mine have, but the scars are there, still red and puckered. Literally. But I no longer miss him or cry over him as I fall asleep.

I'm no longer mourning the good times, the ones in between the mess and chaos, the ones that stood out more than the pain he inflicted. I see him as he is now, the act he was putting on just for me to fall for him. And God, did I fall hard as fuck.

I fell so hard I shattered pieces of myself on the way down.

Now, I'm trying to get used to a life without him, which doesn't make sense despite how much I don't miss him. In a way what I miss is the feeling of being loved, even if it was not real. There's something terribly wrong with me though, a brokenness that I know will never let me trust another man. I gave and gave and gave until there was nothing left. The idea of never having anything left ever again to give to someone else terrifies me.

So, I live the only life I think I deserve. One in solitude, where I can't be broken again, hurt beyond repair. Because I bet if someone hurt me even in the slightest one more time, I wouldn't be able to put myself back together.

And that's why I work six days a week, keep myself as busy as possible, and only go out with Cheyenne occasionally. She doesn't pressure me; thankfully, she knows after six months, I'm still not ready for much. We go out to dinner or breakfast sometimes, or I go to the rink to watch her teach toddlers how to skate, and maybe, just maybe, I jump in and fall on my ass. Even so, it makes me feel alive for five minutes, and I forget about my problems. It makes me forget about the shit hole I live in that has black mold in the A/C. The water damage on the ceiling. The lack of furniture. I can forget I started over, and now I have nothing.

No boyfriend.

No love.

No home.

So I bury myself in my work, hoping to feel a sense of fulfillment. Only it never comes. Ever. And that's harder than not trying, because I'm trying so hard. I feel so isolated, it's painful. Yet I'm not willing to put myself out there to be taken advantage of yet again. I don't know what kind of man would be persistent enough—powerful enough—to get me out of my mind prison, but sometimes I wish for him. During my weakest moments, I wish for him with all my being.

I won't deny that I have needs, that it gets a little harder every day to not go and find someone to keep me warm for one night. Toys are friends, but nothing feels better than a body above yours, someone who can touch you. And man, I need to be touched desperately. But what if I'm dropped again, and more pieces shatter until there's nothing left?

I shake those thoughts out of my head and try to focus on my work. The computer screen becomes blurry as my eyes focus, and I shake my head, setting my mind to my charting. After I've recorded everyone's assessments in their medical records, I get up from my chair and make my way to the medication room with my computer, parking it right outside.

It's time to get Theo his pain medication, and we've downgraded him to Hydrocodone instead of Morphine. He seems to be adjusting well to the change but is still experiencing headaches. It might be a while before the headaches disappear, especially with his skull fracture, even if it's barely there.

Other than that, he had a CT scan earlier today, and it seems that his bleed is dissolving. It has gotten smaller. The doctors are saying he will probably be in the hospital for a few more days at the maximum. Which is great news, really.

Grabbing the medication, I make my way to his room. No matter how much I've tried to avoid it tonight, I haven't been able to. He and I had some sort of understanding yesterday, but now he thinks we're friends, so he keeps calling me. I don't want to say it's annoying—he's not. However, now he is getting in the way of me doing my job in the way I want—the way I promised myself I would.

Not to mention, he has so many friends here at night that it makes me feel suffocated. There's not enough room for five hockey players, and I feel a little cramped in there when I enter. But it's the way they look at me that makes me a little uncomfortable, as if they know something about me. Something they're not supposed to.

Or maybe I'm just paranoid.

I knock on the door but quickly open it before Theo can start with a new knock-knock joke. He seems to never run out of them.

"Who's there?" Theo sing-songs.

"Nope." I give him a small smile. "Not falling for it."

He smirks, "Maybe you'll fall for me instead."

"Okaayyyy," his friend says with a laugh. Jeremy, I think? There's so many of them. "That was corny, even for you."

I roll my eyes at them as I wheel my computer next to the bed, scanning the medication and putting it into a cup. After he tells me his name and date of birth, he glances at the small medicine cup and grimaces. He looks guilty for whatever reason, and I frown.

"What's wrong?" I ask him, and he shakes his head. But I know there is something, so instead I gently ask, "What's your pain level?"

"Six…" It's still a six on the pain scale every time. He's only been here for about five days, so I'm not surprised.

"Well, this will help you feel better," I assure him, bringing the medicine to his bedside. My legs touch the edge, and his fingers accidentally skim my thigh. I tense immediately, and he notices, pulling away. "Take it, Theo."

He smirks, loving that I've said his name instead of calling him Mr. Anderson, then pouts. "I'm tired of taking it. I feel so fucking useless just being here."

"Be a big boy and take the medicine, Theodore."

"Oh, he's a big boy—" Someone laughs from behind me.

"Out," I growl at them, maybe a little too aggressively. But I don't have time for this shit. After the last set of footsteps have faded and the door shuts quietly behind them, I look at him again. His eyebrows are drawn in, blue eyes staring at his lap, fingers fidgeting, floppy brown hair falling over his forehead.

I get even closer and lightly push the strands of hair back with my fingertips, and he freezes. It's a gentle touch, intimate, though I tell myself I'm only checking on his stitches as I move his hair away from his forehead and look at the laceration. What has gotten into me? Nothing has dissolved yet, but I didn't expect it to. It'll be at least two weeks before that happens. No redness, swelling, or warmth to the area.

His skin is so soft as I pull my fingers away and let his hair fall over his forehead again, and he grabs onto my wrist. "What are you doing, Bailey?"

"Looking at your wound, Mr. Anderson." I smirk, letting him hang on to my wrist for whatever stupid reason. I don't like male patients, but after yesterday, I feel…safe with him. How naive is that? "Now, tell me, who peed in your cereal?"

"Excuse me?" His brows furrow. "What do you mean?"

"Really?" I laugh, slowly pulling away from his grasp. His fingers trail up my arm, their warmth sending electricity all the way down to my toes. "It means what has your panties in a twist? Why are you upset now?"

"Upset now?" His eyes meet mine, narrowed. "As in, I'm always upset? Bailey, I am never as upset as you are."

"Then happily take your medication."

My thighs are still against the mattress, and my hand reaches for my stethoscope, waiting for his reply. He seems to contemplate it. "I will if you'll sit with me later," he replies.

"For what?"

"To talk to me." He rolls his eyes in a duh way that has me rolling mine back.

"About what?" I ask him, curious what else he wants to tell me.

"Everything," he says simply.

That feels very loaded, yet he looks at me with deep blue eyes that reach into my soul and I find myself nodding. "And if I don't?"

"Then I guess I'll be in pain, sweet Bailey."

I chuckle, "We can't have that now, can we?"

"Say you'll stay, then." He moves his hand toward mine, and I slide it away at the last moment. But his fingers still graze my own, making everything tingle. "Stay."

"I have other patients I need to tend to." I do have to go check on them soon too. "But I'll come back."

"Promise?"

I smile. "Pinky promise."

That makes him smile back, although I'd have to return to him regardless. He's my patient, and I have to take care of him. It's my job. I can't have him believing he's special now. Because he can't be. Ever. I don't want anyone else to be special to me.

Theo lies back on the pillow and stares at me, then opens his mouth, tongue out. I raise an eyebrow, and he waves his hand in a motion that tells me to get on with it. So I put the medicine on his tongue and hand him the water on his bedside table.

"Thanks," he tells me. "So nice."

"I'm not?—"

"You can be."

Out of nowhere, a voice over the intercom snaps me out of the daze. "Rapid Response, Room ten-twenty-four, Rapid Response."

I feel the color drain from my face, and Theo's eyes roam it. "I—I have to go. Now."

I all but run out of the room, going down the hall to find the nursing assistant taking my patient's vital signs. My patient is barely moving; her eyes are open but not responding either, and her breathing is slightly shallow. She looks scared.

"Erin," I tell her softly, except her eyes are still frozen forward. "Can you tell me where you are?" She says something unintelligible, her speech heavily slurred. I can't understand a word coming out of her mouth, even though she's still trying. "Smile for me, please." She tries, but one side droops. I lift her arms and one drops too.

Face, Arms, Speech, Time.

Time is brain.

Doctors begin to step into the room, as well as other nurses, and just as I'm explaining to them that she is having a stroke, I hear the heart monitor start to beep in a way that makes my stomach drop. I glance back to see her heart rate go from seventy to twenty to zero.

No.

Everything is a mess in the next moment. Nurses are opening the crash cart. I jump in and start compressions while others get ready for their own roles in the code. But it's no use. After forty-five minutes of trying to bring her back, nothing happens. So we call it. Time of death.

The doctor leaves the room to call the family and let them know what happened, as I go to the nurses' station and search for my computer. But it's no use; I left it in Theo's room. Because, of course, I did. It's like the universe wants me to go back in there every five minutes, and it's starting to get on my nerves. But it's not my fault I left it. I was in a hurry. I just hope he doesn't want to cash in now. I don't think I have time to talk to him yet.

I'm not usually emotional, but it's been a while since I had a patient pass away unexpectedly. She was here for her blood sugar, which we finally had under control, and now she's gone. Her family is going to be absolutely devastated. How do you tell someone that their mom was joking around thirty minutes ago, and now she's…gone?

With a lump in my throat, I go down the hall and enter Theo's room. I don't knock, and he doesn't try to joke. One look at my face has him furrowing his brows, and my breaths begin to come in a little faster. I hurry toward my computer, stumbling on the way and almost falling on all fours.

He's out of his bed in a heartbeat, dragging his IV pole toward me and reaching me with a steadying hand on my arm. "What is it?" He asks me, his concern lacing his voice. It's not the fake kind either, and that makes me nervous. "What's wrong?"

"I—" I take a deep breath, trying to keep the tears at bay, but when I blink they just tumble down like a row of dominoes. "She—died."

I choke on a sob as he pulls me into him by the back of my head, my face buried against his chest, and I drop my hands to my sides. "Shhhh," he says softly. "It's gonna be okay, B." My shoulders relax as his hands start to rub circles on my back slowly. "You're strong. You're resilient. You're a good person."

"How do you know?" I ask him, "I've treated you like shit."

"Shit?" He chuckles, "Nah."

"Stop…" A soft laugh escapes me. "I've been mean."

"Just a little," he replies softly, his hand roaming up to the back of my head and tugging on the hair at the nape of my neck. I tilt my head up so I can look at him. "But I can take it. Give me more, Bailey."

"Theo." I breathe.

"Break a little, B." No one has called me B since before my parents died. A gasp slips from between my lips, and he hugs me toward him, not soothing like before but demanding. "Break for me."

My hands shake as I consider his words, even as the answer is already on my tongue. I've been holding it all in since I stepped foot in this room, and I'm tired of being strong. I've been strong for six months. I haven't cried in three. I've told myself that if I'm strong enough, resilient enough, good enough, I will get over all of it. And in a way, I have, but there's something that lingers that I can't let go of. A nagging little pest in the back of my mind that tells me I'll never be whole again no matter what I do. And this feels like it's breaking me a little more.

What if I just let go for five minutes? What if I break and then put myself back together? I can do that, right?

The lump in my throat gets tighter, and it feels like I can't breathe. Warm tears flow down my cheeks quickly, and I bury my face into Theo's shirt. He smells like pine trees. Like freedom. Like all my camping dreams as a little girl. Images of me running through the woods scroll across my mind, my feet in the dirt, marshmallows on a stick. Suddenly, I'm on my daddy's shoulders, being walked around because I was scared of bugs and didn't want to get bitten by ants.

Theo feels safe.

So I turn my face until my cheek is against his chest and I let my tears fall faster. The problem with me crying is that I no longer know what I'm breaking for anymore. Was it the lady who passed away, or was she simply my breaking point? Is it Robert and all the pain he inflicted? No, that can't be. I'm over him, right? Or is it my new life? The one that I hate?

I'm not entirely sure what I hate so much about it. Sure, it's different from what I'm used to. I live in a shit hole and breathe for the sole purpose of clocking into work, but at least I'm safe now. At least I don't get beat up anymore. Stabbed. Humiliated. Hurt.

Theo pushes me away slightly, cupping my cheeks and rubbing his thumbs under my eyes, cleaning me up. Surprising me, he tugs at my ponytail, lets my hair loose, and then runs his hands through it slowly.

"What are you doing?" I stammer.

"I"m Putting you back together," he replies, and my heart somersaults. I try to take a step back, but he doesn't budge. He holds on to the back of my head and softly runs his fingers through my strands. "Let me, Bailey."

"No one can put me back together," I whisper, although I don't know if I'm trying to convince him or myself. "You might as well not even try."

He lets go of me and steps back, extending his arm to me and tapping at his IV. "What do you want?" I ask him, slightly confused.

"Take it off."

"I can't." I shake my head. "You're supposed to have it on."

"I need to use the bathroom," he smiles. You can put it back when I'm done."

I roll my eyes and step toward the machine, turning off the settings and then disconnecting him. He sighs in relief, except rather than going to the bathroom, he steps up to me, his front to my back, and surrounds me with his warmth.

And man, does he feel warm.