Not Catching Love (Accidental Love #5)

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Derek

I close the lid on my formicarium, grinning at my newest addition to the group.

A queen ant.

Finally.

I’ve had a few ant farms over the years, but they all saw the familiar pattern of demise without a queen to keep the population replenished. It was one of those things where I wasn’t sure if I wanted to completely commit or if it was a fun thing to keep my mind active.

Keeping ants started as a hobby. A way for me to have a pet when my life was too busy for one that needed constant care, and now … well, now it’s turned into a custom-built, six-foot by six-foot formicarium in what I call my “bug room.”

Look, I’m a normal guy—I have a job as a nurse, I volunteer for dance classes at the nursing home up the street, and I have friends I catch up with a few times a week .

But I also really like bugs. They’re fascinating and underrated—ants most of all.

And while I’ll defend my love of bugs to the death, I’m also incredibly grateful this was a post-high school passion. I got to be the cool football player there, and the best part is that my teammates who never moved out of town? Yeah, they’re stuck with me. Bugs and all.

Speaking of. My phone lights up with an incoming call from the guy who’s been my best friend since middle school. “Derek, tell me you got her,” Manny says.

“I did. Now I have to make sure she stays alive.”

“Fucking A. And ehh, I’m not worried about that part. You have a way with those creepy things.”

I tilt my head as I watch a line of ants follow each other along the dirt. “Creepy? I think they’re cute.”

“Yeah, well, you would. You don’t exist in the same world as the rest of us.”

He can give me shit about this all he wants, but I know for a fact that on Saturday, he and his daughter have tea party dates, and he tries a different tea flavor each week.

If he likes tea, I can like—my gaze casts around the room at all the little bug cages I have in here— all this .

“How was the hot cross bun flavor?” I ask.

“Nowhere near as nice as I thought it would be.” He audibly shudders. “So … given any thought to moving yet?”

Not this again. I grew up north of the city where there’s lots of land and wildflowers and freedom. The plan was to stay there for the rest of my life, basically, but then I got this job at the immediate care office of the pharmacy, and it made sense to move closer to work. For … reasons. Recently, Manny’s been talking about subdividing the land he inherited from his parents to boost his daughter’s college fund, and I was offered first dibs .

It’s tempting. I could make my dream of keeping bees a reality.

When I say I’m a bug guy, I mean it. I don’t know that I want to go full-blown apiarist, especially with all the travel I want to do as a nurse, but bees are so vital and important that managing a hive feels like the ultimate privilege.

Leaving this tiny two-bedroom isn’t an option yet, though, because I need to be here. It’s why I moved in the first place. Sure, having to commute wouldn’t have been ideal, but it’s not uncommon in Seattle, and I would have dealt with that if circumstances were different. Most of my colleagues do.

None of them have to get here at a moment’s notice though.

The blue-haired, anxious ball of snark and sweet passes through my mind, but I push him right out again. I might stay to make sure I’m available for him, but I make it my mission to not think about him unless he’s right in front of me.

It’s why I keep so busy.

“I’ve told you,” I say to Manny, voice bordering on patience and frustration, “I have a lot going on here.”

“But imagine being neighbors,” he pushes. “We could turn the land between our houses into a football field. Teach the kids how to play.”

“The kids. All those kids that I currently have. Those kids.”

He snorts. “You know I’m talking in the future.”

We’ll see. I’m thirty-five this weekend, and it’s starting to feel like a lot of things that were “future” goals should be now goals, and I’ve barely scratched the surface. I thought at this age I’d be traveling, maybe doing some kind of Nurses International thing, but those plans have been put on hold the last few years because of one person.

I’m at a loss for what to do about it because cutting him off when he needs me feels cruel, but continuing the way I have been is wearing on me .

I lean in to inspect my ant colony, hoping the queen will take and not go on a homicidal spree with all her worker friends. These little rays of happiness I give myself are what I need to focus on.

“You talk about future plans like you’re not mid-thirties,” I point out to him.

“Whoa now. That isn’t ageism I hear in your tone, is it?”

“No, it’s reality.”

“Fuck, reality. My thirties have been the best years of my life.”

Well, that makes me feel like shit for mine being on hold. The good part about doing nothing big with your life and having no dependents to rely on you is that you end up saving a good chunk of money. When I finally pull my head out of my ass and accept Manny’s offer, I’ll be doing it with financial confidence. I only wish I could accept it now.

“Still meeting Saturday?” I ask.

“You really think any of us will miss a birthday game? No way, man.”

There’s eight of us left from our high school days, and we meet up on each person’s birthday to play a friendly game of four-on-four football.

So, that’s something at least.

And for right now, it has to be enough.

I’m about to clock off from my shift when Constantine rounds the corner into the break room. He pins me with his “guess what” look.

“Xander?”

“On his way.”

Right, well, I guess I’m staying a bit longer, then. I clock out and head for the front room, where I normally see people who stop in with health questions or give vaccinations. It’s also where I see Xander for his health anxiety.

He’s such a tricky one to deal with because where I thought I was doing the right thing by stepping in to help when he had a panic attack in the pharmacy, it slowly evolved into … more. Every attack, every spiral, every episode where he’s sure he’s dying and can’t pull himself back, he ends up here. At first, it was months apart. Then weeks. Now, well, this is the second time I’ve seen him since last Monday.

I ignore the unprofessional nerves that hit and head out the front to wait for him.

It doesn’t take long for Xander’s friend Seven to walk in, carrying Xander in his arms.

They’re a real pair, and Seven is the main reason they caught my attention in the first place. He’s well over six feet, tattooed just about everywhere, and is speaking so softly to the tiny, blue-haired man he’s currently carrying.

The man I’ve become way too invested in.

Xander is shivering all over, struggling to breathe, and he hasn’t grasped where he is yet.

Seven lays him on the bed, and I approach.

What I do for Xander is mostly triage because there’s nothing physically wrong with him; it’s all his anxiety preying on his senses. He needs a psychologist but flat out refuses to see one, and for some reason, that same anxiety has decided that I’m someone who can be trusted. He refuses to calm down until I’ve seen him.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, letting my professional demeanor slip into place.

Seven crosses his broad arms, face tense like it always is when I see him. “Appendix.”

This is the tricky part. That fine line between making sure I don’t completely blow off Xander’s claims on the off chance something is wrong while not giving them more weight than I should, which would play into his anxiety more.

I’m so not the person cut out for this.

Not least of all because it’s starting to really fucking hurt to see him in this state.

“I need you to lie back,” I tell him, and once he does, I reach for his hand. “I have to lift your shirt and inspect the area. Squeeze my hand twice if you’re okay with that.”

His small, clammy hand tightens firmly around mine twice, giving consent for me to inspect him. Xander’s a small guy, more noticeably with his shirt up, and I commit to focusing solely on feeling the site of the pain.

“Does this hurt?” I ask, pressing gently.

He shakes his head.

“This?”

He shakes again. I go over his front, then get him to sit up so I can check the back. I’m not a doctor, so I can’t give a definitive diagnosis, but I do know that step one is getting him to calm down, and then if he’s still in pain, we can take step two.

So far, thankfully, we’ve never needed step two.

Once his back is cleared, I shift until I’m standing in front of him and lean forward so he’s forced to meet my eyes.

“There’s no pain to indicate a burst appendix,” I tell him. “The first thing I need from you is to take your breathing and heart rate down so I can check your vitals. Does that sound okay?”

Tear tracks streak through the makeup on both his cheeks, and I have to swallow to clear out the lump building in my throat. I don’t know how his friends can stand seeing him this way. I’ve had training for handling distraught patients, but this gets to me more every time I see him.

“This panic attack isn’t you,” I remind him. “It will pass. I’m here to help. I’m going to count my breaths, and I want you to copy me.”

We go through the usual breathing exercises, and it takes a few minutes, but eventually, Xander’s panic evens out. He’s still shaking, still crying, and seeing him like this? It’s a real effort to keep up my professional front when all I want is to pull Xander into my arms.

Lines blurred for me a few months ago, and while I’ve always cared and wanted to help him, I can feel those protective urges building into something more.

Something I can’t let take over.

“D-Derek …” he whispers between inconsistent breaths.

“Hey, I’m here.” I pull up a chair to sit next to him. The need to reassure him and make sure he’s okay is consuming.

“S-sorry.”

“Don’t be. Just take your time.”

He nods, blue hair falling over his forehead as he looks down at his lap. With the way his head is angled, I can’t make out his freckles or those unusual-colored eyes, but that’s for the best. I’m already too familiar with everything about Xander Moore.

It takes longer than usual until I can’t hear his breathing anymore, and his slim shoulders fill with tension.

“Thanks,” he grits out.

And now that he’s not panicking anymore, this is where I come in with the tough love. Judging by the way he tensed up, he’s ready for it. “How’s therapy going?”

He scowls, eyes immediately meeting mine. “I’m fine .”

“No, you’re not.”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to tell people how they feel.”

“But isn’t that why you come to me?”

He scrubs at the tears on his cheeks. “I never ask to come here.”

“You don’t need to ask. You know I’m here if you need me.” I lower my voice to give myself the impression that Seven can’t hear our conversation in the tiny room. “This is the second time this week.”

“Sorry I haven’t miraculously learned how to fix myself.”

“Your snark doesn’t work on me. Your mental health isn’t your fault, but that doesn’t mean you can’t do something about it.”

His lips turn down.

“Have you at least looked up some of the resources I gave you yet? I can’t help you if you don’t make the effort.”

Xander glances over at Seven. “I’m bored. Can we go now?”

Seven’s gaze pings between us before dropping to the floor. “Sure, Z. Whatever you want.”

They both leave before I can get another word out—or shake them; I’m pretty fucking ready to do that too—and I lean back in the chair and cover my face with my hands.

A long groan slips between them.

“Good visit?”

I startle at Constantine’s voice. “Don’t ask.”

“You look like you could use a drink.”

“Or twelve.” But we both know I won’t do that. There’s every possibility Xander could be back here again tonight. “Are we still on for dinner tomorrow?”

“Of course. It’s your birthday.”

At least someone cares about that. “I should never have mentioned it. And Constantine, no cake. Seriously.”

“I heard you the first ten times.”

We’ll see about that.