36. The Unknown – Lauren
36
THE UNKNOWN
LAUREN
M y eyes burn from hours of studying my pharmacology textbook, and the faint aroma of stale coffee clings to my clothes. I roll my shoulders, trying to ease the tension that's built up over the past four hours of cramming.
ACE inhibitors, beta-blockers, calcium channel blockers... The words swim before my eyes, a jumble of medical jargon that could make or break my nursing school career. Tomorrow's exam looms large – three hours of grueling multiple-choice questions and case studies that will test everything we've learned about cardiovascular pharmacology this semester.
But instead of focusing on the difference between lisinopril and metoprolol, my mind keeps drifting to Dakota. I check my phone again, the screen's blue light harsh in the dimness of the library carrel. Still no message.
It's been days since our last conversation. Days of silence that I asked for.
And I hate it.
I close my eyes, and unbidden, a memory surfaces: Dakota, laughing as he tries to teach Roman how to play air guitar. The joy on both their faces, the easy comfort between them. My chest tightens at the thought of losing that, of Roman losing that.
But then another image intrudes – Miles, passed out in the apartment’s parking lot, an empty bottle in his hand. The fear, the uncertainty, the constant walking on eggshells. Can I risk putting Roman through that again?
"You okay?" Sonya's voice breaks through my reverie. She's standing at the end of my carrel, concern etched on her face. "You look like you're a million miles away."
I force a smile. "Just stressed about the exam. You know, the usual pre-test jitters."
Sonya nods sympathetically. "Tell me about it. I'm still not sure I understand the differences in beta-blocker selectivity. Want to do a quick review?"
For a moment, I'm tempted to say yes, to lose myself in the familiar rhythm of study. But the weight of everything – Dakota, Miles, Chloe, the exam – suddenly feels overwhelming.
"Thanks, but I think I need some air," I say, gathering my things. "Good luck with your studying."
Outside, the cool night air is a shock to my system after hours in the stuffy library. I breathe deeply, trying to clear my head. The campus is quiet at this late hour, just a few students hurrying between buildings, their faces illuminated by the glow of their phones.
I pull out my own phone, thumb hovering over Dakota's name. Should I call him? What would I even say?
'Hey, I know you're struggling with sobriety, and I dropped a bomb about your dead wife potentially cheating on you, and I said I needed space, but I wanted to hear your voice?’
I let out a bitter laugh, startling a nearby squirrel.
The truth is, I want to call him. I want to hear his voice, to know he's okay. But I'm also terrified of what I might hear – slurred words, broken promises, the sound of his world falling apart.
And then there's the other nagging thought, the one I've been trying to push away: Miles and Chloe . The coincidence of their deaths, the possibility that they were together... it's like a puzzle with mismatched pieces, and I can't stop trying to fit them together.
But should I? Do I really want to uncover a truth that could potentially destroy everything?
I sink onto a nearby bench, suddenly exhausted. The cool metal seeps through my jeans, grounding me in the present.
I have an exam in less than ten hours. An exam that could determine the course of my future, and my ability to provide for Roman. I can't let my personal life derail everything I've worked for.
And yet...
I pull up the photo of Dakota and Roman building a pillow fort in the living room. Their smiles, so genuine and carefree, make my heart ache. This is what I'm fighting for, I realize. Not just a degree, not just a better future, but the chance at a family, at happiness.
But at what cost?
With a deep breath, I put my phone away and pull out my flashcards, squinting at them in the low light of a nearby post. Beta-blockers, ACE inhibitors, calcium channel blockers... I can do this. I have to.
As for Dakota, Miles, Chloe, and all the unanswered questions... they'll have to wait. At least for tonight.
But as I force myself to focus on pharmacology, I can't shake the feeling that everything is about to change. For better or worse, I'm not sure.
All I know is that when the dust settles, I need to be standing – for myself, for Roman, and maybe, just maybe, for Dakota, too.
The scratch of pencils on paper fills the air, punctuated by the occasional cough or shuffle of feet. The exam room smells of anxiety and cheap floor cleaner, a combination that turns my stomach. I shift in my hard plastic chair, trying to find a comfortable position as I stare down at my test booklet.
Question 17: "A 65-year-old patient with hypertension and diabetes is currently taking lisinopril. Which of the following would be contraindicated?"
I close my eyes briefly, taking a deep breath. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, matching the buzz of tension in my body. I know this. ACE inhibitors, diabetes... my mind races, flipping through mental flashcards.
A sudden vibration against my thigh makes me jump. My phone. I'd forgotten to turn it off completely. Panic floods through me as I fumble to silence it, my hands shaking. Sweat beads on my forehead as I pray the proctor hasn't noticed.
Heart pounding, I glance around the room. Other students are hunched over their papers, some frantically writing, others staring blankly ahead. The proctor paces slowly at the front of the room, her eyes scanning for any sign of cheating. I let out a shaky breath.
But now my concentration is shattered. Who was calling? Was it Dakota? Is he okay? Or worse, is he not okay?
Stop it , I tell myself firmly. Focus . This exam is everything. Your future depends on it. Roman's future depends on it.
I turn back to the question, willing my racing heart to slow. Contraindications for ACE inhibitors... The answer comes to me suddenly. Potassium-sparing diuretics. I fill in the bubble, a small surge of confidence flowing through me.
Question 18: "List three potential side effects of beta-blockers."
I start writing: Fatigue, cold extremities, bradycardia...
The clock on the wall ticks loudly, each second a reminder of the time slipping away. Two hours left. My stomach churns as I realize I'm only a quarter of the way through the exam.
Question 19: "Explain the mechanism of action for calcium channel blockers in the treatment of hypertension."
I close my eyes, visualizing my textbook.
As I write the answer, I'm acutely aware of the pressure building behind my eyes, the beginnings of a stress headache. I roll my shoulders again, trying to release some tension.
A student two rows ahead stands up abruptly, startling me. They hand in their exam and leave. I glance at the clock again. How did they finish so quickly? Doubt creeps in. Am I going too slowly? Did I miss something?
No. Focus. One question at a time.
Question 20: "A patient experiences a dry cough after starting a new hypertension medication. Which class of drugs is likely causing this side effect?"
ACE inhibitors , I think, immediately. At least, that's straightforward.
As I move through the questions, time seems to both crawl and fly. My hand cramps from writing, and my eyes burn from the strain of reading. But I push through, each answered question a small victory.
The proctor's voice cuts through the silence: "One hour remaining."
Panic flares in my chest. I'm only halfway through. I force myself to breathe deeply, fighting the urge to rush. Rushing leads to mistakes. Mistakes lead to failure. And failure... failure isn't an option.
Not when I've worked so hard. Not when Roman's counting on me. Not when this degree is my ticket to a better life for us.
And maybe, a small voice whispers, not when it might be the only stable thing in your life if things with Dakota fall apart.
I push the thought aside, focusing on the next question. One at a time. I can do this. I have to.
The clock ticks on, a steady reminder that time, like everything else in my life right now, is running out. But I'm still here, still fighting. Still answering questions.
And for now, that has to be enough.