Chapter 18
Chapter eighteen
Chloe
Four hours to go.
I’ve almost made it through my first shift.
If this is what I can handle running on no sleep and a flare, imagine what I’ll be able to do at full capacity.
I helped patients today. And that’s what matters. It’s rewarding and satisfying on a soul-deep level.
Don’t get me wrong, I could sleep for a week. My muscles hate me. My feet might stage a rebellion. All I want is a scalding bath with Epsom salts, something warm and pureed to eat, and to sleep like the dead.
I’m back in at seven tomorrow morning. But I did it. And I’m proud of myself. So proud I could cry.
I know I told Zac we’d talk later, but I can’t face him right now. I’m drained—physically, mentally, emotionally. I don’t have the strength to hear the word married and protect my heart from fracturing.
I’ll text him instead. Ask if we can talk tomorrow before the next shift. I know I’m avoiding the inevitable. Postponing it. But tomorrow is a new day. With food and hopefully sleep, I’ll be better able to face the fallout.
The staff lounge smells like microwaved tuna, and I resist the urge to gag. We’re crowded around the small table, elbow-to-elbow, everyone half-slouched.
Jax is shoveling down a suspiciously beige pasta. Hannah’s nursing a sad-looking salad. Sienna, of course, has perfectly sliced avocado on sourdough toast. And me? I’m sipping electrolytes and pretending it’s a choice.
“That all you're having?” Sienna asks, eyebrows raised as she clocks my bottle of water and nothing else.
I cap it slowly. “Not very hungry.”
“How can you not be hungry?” she observes, too close for comfort. “You’ve only been sipping water all day.”
“Had a dodgy slice of pizza last night.” I shrug. It’s only half a lie. “Still not feeling quite right.”
Jax looks up from his pasta. Our eyes meet for half a second. He’s the only one who knows about my Crohn’s. He doesn’t say anything—just quirks a brow and goes back to his meal.
“Well, sucks for you,” Sienna comments, licking some avocado off her thumb. “The vending machine is down, and all they’ve got left in the café is egg sandwiches.”
“So, business as usual,” Hannah mutters.
We sit in silence for a few moments. Then, as if on cue, the postmortem begins.
“All right,” Jax begins, his mouth half full. “Craziest case so far?”
Sienna grins. “The woman with the parrot. It bit the nurse trying to triage her. Still cackling about that.”
“She was my patient!” Hannah exclaims. “And her blood pressure was sky-high because of that damn bird screaming ‘HELP ME’ on repeat.”
“Okay, fair.” Jax nods. “But Chloe wins. No contest.”
“Me?”
“I heard you pulled a Bluetooth speaker out of some dude’s ass.”
God, that feels like forever ago.
I blink innocently. “Technically, I extracted a foreign object from the lower gastrointestinal tract.”
“I heard it was playing Pitbull when you pulled it out.” Sienna laughs.
“That wasn’t even the worst part of today,” I moan. “Cockroach Spider Lady takes the crown.”
“Oh my God,” Hannah whispers. “Was that real?”
“Very.” A shiver runs down my spine. “They were nesting in her ear.”
Jax pushes his pasta away. “Thanks. Now I’m done.”
“You’re welcome.”
There’s a lull in conversation until Hannah glances over at Sienna. “So… what did Zac say to you?”
Sienna groans, dropping her fork. “He eviscerated me.”
“You performed a central line, unsupervised, on a crashing patient. What did you expect, a gold star?” Hannah deadpans.
“I saved his life.”
“You got lucky,” I add quietly. “And Zac’s not wrong—we’re still learning. That line could’ve gone south. Fast.”
“I had it under control,” Sienna insists. “It was fine.”
“This time,” I say.
She goes quiet, tapping her nails against the side of her plate.
I take another long sip from my bottle, buying myself a moment. I know Jax is watching me. He waits until the others are distracted, then leans in, voice low. “You okay?”
I nod.
“You sure? Because… I know. About you and Zac.”
My head snaps toward him.
“Relax,” he rushes out. “I’m not going to tell anyone. But… maybe keep the hallway eye-fucking to a minimum.”
I open my mouth, equal parts horrified and defensive, but the door swings open before I can speak.
“Dr. Monroe—Mr. Andreev’s ECG came back all clear,” a nurse announces, stepping into the lounge with a folder.
Grateful for the interruption, I rise. “Thanks, Kara.”
I don’t look back as I leave.
There wasn’t any eye-fucking going on, was there? I thought we were showing restraint.
Clearly, I was wrong. Who else saw?
I force my thoughts aside and tug back the curtain, pasting on a smile.
“Borris. Good news, you’re all clear. You can go home.”
He’s slumped in the bed. Eyes closed, skin pale.
“Hey, Borris. Wakey wakey.”
No movement.
I step closer and shake his shoulder. Still nothing.
“Hey, Borris, wake up for me,” I call out louder this time. I press my knuckles hard into his sternum. He doesn’t flinch,
Panic slices clean through me. I press two fingers to his neck.
No pulse.
“Shit. Shit. SHIT.”
I slam my fist on the emergency button and lower the head of the bed, flattening him out. “I need help in here!” I shout, launching into compressions.
Dr. Kensington bursts in, gloving up. “When did you last check on him?”
“I don’t—I don’t know. Maybe an hour ago?” My voice is too high. Too fast. I can’t think. My hands are moving at lightning speed, and my mind is working double that pace.
Zac rushes in. “What happened?”
“Gallstones. His ECG was clear. I don’t know how long he’s been down,” I stammer.
“Crash cart!” Zac yells.
I keep pumping. “Come on, Borris. Stay with me.”
The cart arrives. A nurse fits the mask over his mouth while Zac preps the paddles and hands them to Kensington.
“Hold compressions,” Zac orders.
I yank down Borris’s gown and step back. Kensington applies the paddles.
A long, steady beep.
Kensington frowns. “Asystole. Resume compressions.”
I get back on his chest. Arms burning. Forehead slick with sweat.
Don’t fucking do this, Borris. Your family needs you.
“Amp of epi,” Zac instructs, passing the syringe to Kensington.
“Pupils fixed and dilated,” calls the nurse on the oxygen bag.
Zac lowers his voice. “He’s been down a while.”
No. I keep going. Harder. Faster.
Another nurse connects the heart monitor. Still flat.
“Switch out,” Kensington offers, stepping closer, ready to take over.
“I’ve got it.” My arms shake.
“Hold compressions.”
I freeze.
The long, droning beep swallows the bay. Flatline.
“Still in asystole,” Zac states.
I dive back in. “Come on. Please. Come on.”
Kensington looks at Zac. “Time to call it?”
“No, wait—” My voice cracks. “Please. Let’s try another amp. Just one more.” I glance up at Zac, begging.
He stands at the foot of the bed, arms crossed tight. His eyes meet mine for a few seconds before he nods.
“One more. Then we call it.”
Kensington gives the second dose. I keep compressing. My arms are lead, and I’m drenched in cold sweat.
“Hold compressions,” Zac says softly.
I step back.
The flatline tone drones out again.
Zac looks at me, gentler than I can handle. “You ready to call it?”
His expression is full of compassion, and I hate it. I hate how soft his voice is. I hate that he’s treating me like I’m fragile. I want to scream at him.
I drop my gaze.
No, I’m not ready.
But I nod.
“Time of death, 3.26 p.m.,” I call out, voice hollow.
I shake my head. Swallow the sob crawling up my throat. This can’t be real. I turn and walk out without sparing a glance at poor Borris, Zac, or anyone else in the room. Kensington squeezes my shoulder as I pass, but I can’t feel anything except the weight of failure.
I can’t fucking do this.
I walk fast, nearly breaking into a run, and lock myself in the women’s staff bathroom. I sit on the closed toilet lid and fold myself in half as the sobs come crashing out. They’re loud. Ugly. Painful.
I cleared him.
I told him he could go home.
And now he’s gone.
Because of me.
I’m so sorry, Borris. I’m so fucking sorry.
This is all my fault. I don’t know what I missed, but I fucking missed something.
The bathroom door creaks open.
“Chloe?” Zac says gently. “Let me in.”
I cover my mouth to smother the sound and shake my head, even though he can’t see me. I don’t want him to hear me or, worse, see me like this. Weak.
“I’m not leaving until you open the door.”
A shudder rips through me, but I unlock the stall.
He steps in. And the second I see his face—those warm brown eyes, heavy with sympathy—I fall apart all over again.
He pulls me into his chest. Holds me like he means it. One hand on the back of my head, the other across my spine. I cry into him. Ugly, ragged sobs that shake my whole body. Silently, he rocks me.
Eventually, the storm inside me begins to quiet. Each breath comes a little easier. My sobs soften into hiccups, my body no longer trembling. I stay wrapped in him for a moment longer, letting the safety of his arms anchor me.
Then, slowly, I lean back. He tips my chin up.
“How are you feeling?”
I shake my head. “I was just talking to him. He told me about his family. His wife. His kids…” My voice breaks. “And now he’s gone.”
“It’s the hardest kind of loss,” he assures me quietly. “When it’s personal.”
“Especially when it’s your fault.”
“It wasn’t.”
“I missed something. I must have.”
“You didn’t. I spoke to Kensington—you followed every protocol.
Nothing in his chart or test results indicated this.
He must’ve had a silent condition, something nobody caught.
You did everything right. I know it hurts.
But today was his time. Sometimes, no matter what we do, we can’t change the outcome.
Every day, around a hundred and fifty thousand people leave this world—and today, he was one of them.
It’s unfair, and it feels personal. But you’ll learn to live with it, and you’ll eventually learn to accept it. ”
“I’m not cut out for this,” I whisper. “I thought I was. I really did. But I’m not.” Angry tears sting my eyes again. This time they’re not grief-fueled, they’re full of shame.
“You’re doing better than you think,” Zac tells me. “Emergency medicine’s not for everyone. But choosing another field doesn’t stop you having to deal with death. Patients will die on your watch, and you must accept that. Trust me, I’m speaking from experience.”
I swallow hard.
“How do you deal with it?” I ask. “How do you live with it?”
His smile is rueful. “I’m the worst person to answer that.”
“Why?”
“I’ll tell you another time.” He glances around. “Preferably not in the women’s bathroom.”
I snort.
“Last place I want to be caught with an intern.” He lifts his eyebrows.
Fair point.
“You okay?” he asks. “Want to go home?”
“No. I need to finish the shift.” It’s the right thing to do, the only thing that makes sense.
He nods. “I’ll see you out there. Come find me when you’re ready—we’ll finish this conversation.”
He wipes the tears from my cheeks with his thumbs. Kisses my forehead. And slips out.
I take a deep breath and exit the stall, washing my tear-streaked face. My reflection is a disaster. Splotchy, red, and haunted.
Somewhere out there, they’re clearing Borris’s bed. Making space for the next patient.
One moment you’re promising someone they’re okay.
The next, you’re signing off on their death.
And I have to walk back out there like none of this ever happened.