Chapter 16 - Damian
DAMIAN
The ED does not care that I am in a good mood. It attempts to correct that immediately.
By seven p.m., we’re already short a nurse, radiology is backed up, and triage has flagged three possible admissions that all insist they were fine an hour ago. The board glows in hostile yellow across the nurses’ station, a steady reminder that we’re behind.
Meron appears at my elbow before I even open my first chart. “You signed off on room four without consulting cardio.”
“I paged them. They declined.”
“You should document that more clearly.”
“I documented it just fine.”
He flips through the digital chart with unnecessary intensity.
“It’s under notes,” I add calmly.
He scrolls. Finds it. Says nothing.
Normally, this is where I would feel the familiar tightening in my jaw. The low simmer that comes from being audited by someone who knows exactly how to push.
Tonight, the irritation doesn’t quite take hold. In fact, I’m smiling. It’s fun to see him prove himself wrong, and Perry’s kitchen lingers in my head instead. Morning light across her counter. The way she leaned against the stove like she wasn’t trying to be anything other than tired and honest.
Coffee first, always.
The memory blunts the edge of Meron’s tone. “You’re distracted.”
“I’m not distracted. You’re wrong about that too. Wanna try for three accusations and see if that one lands?”
He scowls, lines forming that odd railroad pattern on his forehead. “You are distracted, and you should chart better.”
“I’m efficient. We both know it.” I don’t offer more, not even when his glare intensifies.
But a nurse hollers for him, and the stand-off is over.
We move through the next wave of patients with the usual choreography. I suture a laceration. Clear a concussion. Calm a man convinced his heartburn is a heart attack—might be our most common complaint in Snow Valley.
Meron shadows, comments, and adjusts as he sees fit. “You’re moving fast,” he says again when I discharge room six.
“I would slow down to your speed, but these are emergency cases we’re dealing with, and I’d hate to lose a patient just so I can cater to your lack of caffeine.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know what you meant.”
He follows me down the hall as we head toward trauma. “You’re being insubordinate.”
I glance sideways at him. “That’s a criticism? Or a compliment?”
“What’s gotten into you?”
I know this game with Meron. He anticipates tension and prepares to exploit it.
I sign off on a chart and look at him fully for the first time all night.
“You’ve been a pain in the ass all night, but you’re not getting under my skin anymore, and that bothers you.
The problem for you is that your little petty antics don’t bug me anymore, Meron.
You’re not getting under my skin. Be childish. It really doesn’t matter to me.”
The fluorescent lights catch the faint crease between his brows as he looks me up and down. His voice turns flat. “You got laid.”
I simply remove my gloves, toss them in the bin, and offer him a mild shrug. “Time for my break.”
“It is not—”
“Check the time.” I smile and pat his shoulder.
He does, then grimaces. “Fine. Go on break.”
“I wasn’t asking your permission, Meron. I was telling you. Try to keep up.” I smile again and stroll away. For years, his needling has sat under my skin like a splinter. Tonight, it slides off because for the first time in a long while, something else occupies that space.
Something far better.
The night air behind the hospital is sharp enough to feel medicinal.
Refreshing. The alley is quiet except for the faint hum of the AC units and the distant echo of traffic on the main road.
Snow Valley looks tame from this angle—brick buildings, dumpsters, old brickwork that hasn’t been updated in decades.
Scout is already there.
He materializes from behind the recycling bins the moment I step outside, tail wagging cautiously at first and then with more commitment once he recognizes me.
“Evening, Scout,” I say, crouching.
He approaches slowly, as if maintaining the illusion that this is still his territory and I am the visitor.
That’s fine by me. I unwrap my sandwich and tear off a corner of bread before taking a bite. He sits, ever patient. I toss him that bite, which he gobbles happily. “You don’t have to pretend you’re aloof.”
He blinks, waiting for another bite or a round of ball. So, I toss the ball once. He chases it with the same determined energy he’s had since last winter. I watch him run, feel the tension of the hospital peel off in layers.
Meron’s tone. The administrative oversight. The deliberate hovering.
It doesn’t cling the way it usually does, because I’m still replaying her laugh in my head. The way she teased me. How she looked at me when she said it was the best date she’d had in years. The hesitation in her tone this morning before speaking, like something sits heavy behind her eyes.
I wish I knew what it was, and whether it’s the same thing sitting heavy in me.
I lean back against the brick wall and take another bite of my sandwich. “You ever think you’re too old for this?” I ask the dog.
He ignores me and drops the ball at my feet.
So, I throw it again. I’m aware of the risk. My department head is my former best friend. His fiancée is my ex-wife. My son is Perry’s former boyfriend. Snow Valley thrives on perception and narrative, and I am actively creating one that will invite scrutiny. Blah, blah, blah.
None of it matters, because the thought of stepping away feels wrong.
All those other concerns feel like self-sabotage disguised as prudence.
Like if I tell myself those factors are reasons to call it quits and I call it quits, then I’m being protective of myself and her.
After all, what kind of woman dates her ex’s father? People will talk.
But I find I care less and less about such things. Perry knows the score around here. She is well aware that people in Snow Valley will give us shit for all of that. And she’s choosing me anyway, just like I’m choosing her.
So, it would not be prudence to end this now. It would be self-sabotage, plain and simple. Because Perry Lawson is the best thing that’s happened to me in years. I’m not giving her up just to make some gossipy old people happy.
Scout returns again, panting lightly. I crouch and scratch behind his ears. “You’re still not coming home with me, are you?”
He licks my hand.
It still bugs me that he prefers living here rather than my apartment, but that might be my own selfishness talking.
My place is too big for me, so it was nice to have another person—or well, dog—for company.
But when he stopped eating, I knew I had to do something about it.
The vet said that forcing change can be more harmful than leaving them where they feel grounded, and I brought him back here.
I wonder if Perry feels grounded. Or am I disrupting something delicate? She’s been single for a long time. At least, that seems to be the case.
Scout nudges the ball against my shoe. I throw it one last time, then finish my sandwich and brush crumbs from my hands before giving Scout a chance to sniff his goodbyes.
He sniffs my hand, as is his custom when he sees I have no more food.
I’d pet him, but he’s still weird about that, so I don’t push my luck. “Stay warm, Scout.”
Inside, the hospital continues its relentless churn. And I find myself thinking not about career fallout, not about Meron’s smirk, not about Amber’s eventual reaction.
I think about calling Perry again. Not texting. Calling. Because hearing her voice is better than navigating uncertainty alone.
The shift drags when I want to be somewhere else. Meron keeps his distance for the remainder of the night. Not because he’s satisfied, but because he’s recalibrating. He doesn’t like not getting a reaction. He prefers friction. It allows him to posture as supervisory rather than insecure.
Tonight, I give him nothing.
He rechecks an order in trauma. He questions a discharge timeline in pediatrics. He suggests I consult cardiology on a borderline case I’ve already cleared twice.
I nod. Adjust. Move forward. I don’t take the bait.
It unnerves him, which satisfies my sense of pettiness. I see it in the way he lingers longer than necessary at the nurses’ station. “You’re different tonight,” he says around two a.m.
“I’m rested,” I reply.
“You’re not.”
“No,” I admit.
He waits for elaboration. I don’t give him any.
By four a.m., the ED quiets to a manageable hum. The fluorescent lights feel harsher when the chaos thins. The lull between crises is always when reflection sneaks in.
By seven a.m., I finish my final chart and remove my stethoscope, letting it rest around my neck. The thought that keeps circling back is not Meron. It’s Perry’s hesitation this morning. There was a weight in her posture. A tightening in her jaw. A decision gathering. And then she redirected.
She almost said something. I’m certain of it.
I don’t enjoy unresolved variables.
As I drive home at dawn, the sky just beginning to lighten over Snow Valley, I replay the details. She looked conflicted about something. The twins? The father?
Jason’s timeline checks out medically. But medically is not always emotionally.
I grip the steering wheel tighter than necessary. Is it too soon to ask her directly? Possibly. Is it worse to let uncertainty fester? Almost certainly.
The town will speculate. It always does. Snow Valley does not tolerate mysteries well. It resolves them through rumor. That kind of thing could wreck the fragile relationship we’re building.
If everyone says her sons are Jason’s, that’s all anyone will ever talk about, and those are the kinds of rumors that follow kids into kindergarten or threaten to destabilize a person’s life in this silly town.
I turn into my driveway and shut off the engine. I sit there for a moment longer than necessary. Then I reach for my phone. If I’m going to step further into this, I will do it deliberately.
I press her name. The call rings twice before she answers. “Hey,” she says, voice softer than usual. Not sleepy. Not flirty. Just…careful.
“Morning,” I reply. “Did I wake you?”
“No. Everything okay?”
“I was thinking,” I begin, choosing my words deliberately, “that I would like to see you again. Properly.”
There’s a pause long enough that I register it. “You mean the other night wasn’t proper?”
“You know what I mean.”
A faint laugh. But it doesn’t carry the same ease. “I’d like that.”
There’s something under the agreement. A shift in tone I can’t quite decode. “You don’t sound certain.”
“I am.”
“But?”
She exhales softly. “It’s just…complicated.”
“Because of Jason?”
“No.” The quickness of that response is telling. “Why would you ask about him?”
“Your history with him. That’s all. In case our connection makes this weird for you.”
“And what about your ex-wife?” she asks instead. “I know you’re concerned about her finding out about us.”
“That’s manageable.” I decide to press, gently. “Is the father of the twins still in the picture, Perry?”
Silence stretches. When she speaks again, her voice is steadier than before. “Not really.”
Not really. “That’s not the same as no.”
“I don’t want to talk about that,” she says quietly.
The boundary is clear. I respect it. I have to, don’t I? “Understood.” But her answer gnaws at me. Not really suggests unfinished business.
Snow Valley thrives on unfinished business.
“I don’t want us to be public,” she adds quickly. “At least not yet. This is pretty new, and—”
“You’re a private person. I’m fine with that. So am I.”
“There’s a place a town over,” she continues. “Fabulous Mexican food. No one cares who you are.”
“Is it in Blackbriar?” I assume as much because Amber loved Mexican food, and she took me to every Mexican restaurant in a fifty-mile radius when we were together, but she hates Blackbriar.
It’s not as posh as Snow Valley and her neighbors—that spot is a working-class lumber town. Amber would never be caught dead there.
“Downtown Blackbriar, actually.”
“Send me the address.”
“I will.”
We sit in the quiet for a moment longer.
“Damian,” she says, almost like she’s testing something.
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For not pushing.”
There’s something in that that makes my chest tighten. “I don’t push. If you’re interested in me, great. If not, tell me. But I’ll never push my way into your life, Perry.”
“It’s one of the things I like best about you.”
Strange thing to glom onto, but if she’s happy with it, so am I. A yawn creeps out of me. “Shit. Guess I need actual sleep.”
“Okay. I’ll send you that address and check in with Liv to see when she can sit for me.”
“Sounds good. Talk later.”
“Yeah. Bye, Damian. Sweet dreams.”
We hang up, and I stare at the phone for several seconds.
I have to respect her boundary. But it’s eating at me. Because whatever is unresolved between her and the twins’ father will eventually intersect with me. Snow Valley will ensure it.
Whatever the situation, I’m not afraid of a little gossip.
In fact, I’d be happy to give them something to talk about.