9. Spaces Between
CHAPTER 9
Spaces Between
S unlight painted abstract art across my ceiling, the shadows doing some weird dance that made my head hurt. My hand lay in the empty space beside me, and it took several seconds to realize why that felt wrong. For the first time in six years, I hadn't automatically reached for Michael's side of the bed.
The realization hit like a sucker punch to the gut. My throat closed up as I stared at my traitorous hand. Was this what moving on felt like? The thought sent panic racing through my chest, my heart monitor app cheerfully logging the spike in BPM. That morning reach had become part of my identity – like if I just kept doing it, maybe some echo of our life together would stay real.
The shadows shifted again, turning into something that made my brain itch – patterns that felt familiar in a way that scared the shit out of me. I squeezed my eyes shut, but that only made it worse. Ever since Alex had walked into my ER, these almost-memories kept bleeding through the edges of reality like watercolors running wild.
Running. Fuck yes . Running was safe. Quantifiable. Heart rate, distance, pace – pure data with no room for whatever the hell was happening to my brain. I changed with military precision, navigating the minefield of our bedroom – his Nike's still perfectly aligned by the door, that ratty Columbia hoodie he'd refused to throw out, the marathon photo that felt like it was taken in another lifetime.
Central Park exploded with autumn colors that made my fingers twitch for paintbrushes I'd never owned. My usual route stretched ahead – the one Michael and I had worn into muscle memory, the one I'd kept running solo like some kind of mobile shrine to what we'd lost.
A couple shot past me, matching stride for stride, sharing those private runner jokes that only made sense at mile four. The familiar knife twist in my chest surprised me with its dullness. We'd been them once – so fucking sure we had it all figured out, that we were somehow immune to life's curveballs.
The Met loomed ahead, all imposing columns and stone authority. Something pulled at me to climb those steps, to lose myself in the classical galleries where the air felt heavy with... something . Instead, I pushed harder, letting my lungs burn and my quads scream until the only reality was the rhythm of feet hitting pavement.
My phone buzzed for the third time – Rachel's contact photo grinning up at me like a guilt trip in pixels. I let it go to voicemail, already knowing she'd try again. My sister had turned checking up on me into an art form since Michael died, masking her worry behind casual calls and “just in the neighborhood” visits that somehow always coincided with the rough days.
Eight miles instead of six, because apparently I was trying to outrun my own head. By the time I made it home, my shirt was a sweat-soaked disaster and my legs felt like overcooked pasta.
The apartment was a museum of us – his architectural drawings on every wall, matching coffee mugs we'd bought as a joke, the stupid “his and his” towels from Rachel that I couldn't bring myself to replace. But now new details kept catching my eye, making me dizzy with déjà vu. My hands moved wrong, reaching for things that shouldn't be there, trying to perform actions I'd never learned .
The shower's steam wrapped around me like a hot fog, but it couldn't wash away the weird double-vision that had become my new normal. Everything felt slightly off, like someone had shifted all my furniture two inches to the left in the middle of the night.
“Get it together,” I muttered to the tiles, my voice barely cutting through the water's drum. “You're Dr. Eli Monroe. Chief of Emergency Medicine. This is real. This is now. This is?—“
My reflection in the fogged mirror looked wrong somehow, like someone else was staring back through my eyes. Someone who knew things I couldn't possibly know, who remembered things that couldn't possibly have happened.
Rachel's fourth call hit just as I was toweling off. Her voice cut through the morning haze like a life preserver thrown to a drowning man.
“Finally!” Relief and exasperation played tag in her tone. “I was about to send David over to check on you.”
“I was running. Lost track of time.”
“Mm-hmm.” Pure big sister skepticism. “So you're still good for today? The nursery won't paint itself, and I'm pretty sure my child won't wait forever to make their appearance.”
My chest tightened as autumn light streamed through the windows. Michael had always geeked out about fall painting – some architectural bullshit about the angle of the sun making colors pop that had made me fall in love with him all over again.
Rachel's voice went soft around the edges, that special tone she'd perfected since becoming a therapist. The one that made me want to simultaneously spill my guts and hang up the phone.
“Eli?”
“No,” I cut her off before she could deploy her full arsenal of concerned sister tactics. “No, today is fine. I promised, didn't I?”
“You did.” The pause stretched like taffy, and I could practically see her sitting in her home office, one hand curved protectively over her growing belly as she chose her next words. “Sofia called me. She's worried about you.”
Fucking hell . Of course Sofia had called her. My best friend and my sister had formed their own little surveillance squad since Michael died, tracking my mental state like amateur CIA agents. Lately though, Sofia's watchful eyes carried something else – like she was seeing through me to something I couldn't quite grasp.
“I'm fine,” The words came out automatic as breathing, empty as my apartment. “Just busy with the department. The development project?—“
“The one with Alexander Rothschild?” Her tone sharpened like a scalpel. “Sofia mentioned him too.”
The cool bathroom tile pressed against my forehead as I leaned there, trying to find solid ground. How the fuck could I explain what was happening when I didn't understand it myself? The way Alex's presence made reality feel tissue-paper thin, like I could punch through to something else if I just pushed hard enough.
“It's complicated,” I managed, the words almost making me laugh with their inadequacy.
“Isn't it always?” Six years of shared grief weighted her voice, along with something else – worry maybe, or warning.
“Nothing's going on,” The lie burned like cheap whiskey. “Look, I should go. I'll see you in a little while.”
I stood in the middle of my bedroom after hanging up, feeling like an archaeologist in my own life. Every surface held evidence of what Michael and I had built – that pretentious antique dresser we'd hauled home from Brooklyn, vacation photos grinning at me from silver frames, his unread Architectural Digest subscription still arriving like clockwork every month.
The morning light caught dust motes dancing through the air, turning them into tiny stars that seemed to pulse with possibilities I wasn't ready to face.
The door flew open before my knuckles could hit it twice, Rachel's pregnant form filling the doorway like an accusation .
“You're late. By exactly twelve minutes, which is somehow worse than being really late.”
“Good day to you too,” I replied, accepting the coffee. “And I'm not late. I'm operating on doctor time.”
“Is that like teacher time?” She arched an eyebrow. “Where 'just five more minutes' means the bell rang twenty minutes ago?”
“More like firefighter time,” David called from inside. “Where 'be there in five' means I'm still in bed!”
“I heard that!” Rachel shouted back, but she was grinning. “Get in here, Doctor Punctuality. These walls aren't going to paint themselves.”
The house radiated weekend warmth – coffee brewing, something sweet in the oven, and the particular chaos of a home improvement project in progress. Rachel had turned nesting into an Olympic sport since getting pregnant, and apparently I was her designated training dummy.
“Please tell me those are the good cinnamon rolls,” I said, following my nose to the kitchen. “The ones from that place on 82nd?”
“Nope.” Rachel popped the 'p' with satisfaction. “Better. David made them.”
The kitchen looked like a Pinterest board had exploded, with my brother-in-law standing in the middle of the blast zone. David's 'Hot Stuff Coming Through' apron clashed magnificently with his FDNY shirt, flour dusting his dark hair like premature gray.
“You're just showing off now,” I told him, snagging a roll still warm enough to burn.
“Someone in this family had to learn to cook after you chose scalpels over spatulas.” David grinned, flour dusting his dark hair. “Though I guess you technically still cut things for a living.”
“Different kind of knife skills,” I agreed through a mouthful of cinnamon heaven. “Holy shit, these are good. When did you get so domestic?”
“Probably around the time Rachel started crying at commercials about baby products.” He dodged the dish towel my sister threw at his head. “What? You cried at the diaper ad yesterday!”
“It was a very moving diaper ad,” Rachel insisted, settling onto a kitchen stool with the particular care of someone carrying precious cargo. “The baby looked just like you!”
“All babies look the same,” I pointed out, reaching for another roll. “Wrinkly potatoes with attitudes.”
“Just for that, you get to tape all the baseboards.” Rachel pointed imperiously toward the stairs. “Every single one of them. With your fancy surgeon hands.”
“Abuse of medical training,” I protested, but I was already heading up, coffee in one hand and cinnamon roll in the other.
The nursery waited like a blank canvas, morning light streaming through windows that desperately needed Windex. David had arranged the painting supplies with the same precision he probably used for his fire gear – everything lined up and ready for action like some kind of home improvement tactical unit.
“Your Type A is showing,” I told him as he appeared with more supplies.
“Says the man who color-codes his surgical instruments.”
“That's different. That's professional.”
“Uh-huh.” David surveyed the room with tactical assessment. “Okay, game plan. I'll handle the rolling since I've got the reach. Eli, you've got edges and corners with those steady hands. Rach?—“
“Supervisory position,” Rachel interrupted, lowering herself onto the rocking chair we'd assembled last weekend. “The baby book says to avoid paint fumes.”
“Convenient,” I muttered, but I was smiling as I started measuring and taping.
“So,” Rachel said after a while, her tone way too casual. “Sofia tells me the hospital's getting exciting.”
I focused on my taping like it required neurosurgical precision. “If by exciting you mean the usual chaos, then yes.”
“Mm-hmm. Nothing to do with tall, dark, and developer? ”
The tape tore unevenly under my suddenly tense fingers. “Alexander Rothschild is a client.”
“A very attractive client,” Rachel sing-songed. “With, and I quote Sofia here, 'eyes that could melt steel beams.'”
“Please stop,” I groaned while David snickered. “Both of you. It's not like that.”
“No?” Rachel's voice softened slightly. “It could be, you know. It's been six years, Eli. Michael would want?—“
“Paint fumes!” I interrupted loudly. “Aren't you supposed to be avoiding those? Maybe from the other room? Different floor entirely?”
“Real mature,” she shot back, but her eyes were kind. “Fine, subject dropped. For now. David, honey, tell Eli about the call you had yesterday.”
Time dissolved into a rhythm of tape measures and paint rollers, David's country playlist losing the music war to Rachel's pop hits. The pale yellow transformed the walls like sunrise, warming the sterile builder's white into something that felt like hope.
“You missed a spot,” Rachel called helpfully as I stretched to reach a high corner.
“You know,” I grunted, balancing precariously on the stepladder, “most people would help instead of criticizing.”
“Most people aren't growing an entire human being.” She rubbed her belly smugly. “I'm multitasking enough as it is.”
“The baby's doing all the work,” David pointed out, earning himself another thrown dish towel. “What? It's true!”
“Just for that, you're making more cinnamon rolls tomorrow.” Rachel's attempt at a stern expression was ruined by her barely suppressed smile. “And Eli's getting them all.”
“Harsh but fair,” I agreed, climbing down to survey our work. The color caught at something in my memory, warm and familiar. “Hey Rach? Didn't Mom paint your room this color when you were little?”
“You remember that?” She sounded pleased. “I was thinking the same thing. Though Mom's edges weren't nearly as neat as yours.”
“Surgeon,” David and I said in unison, then laughed at Rachel's exaggerated eye roll.
“Yes, yes, you're very skilled.” She leveraged herself out of the rocking chair with the determination of the heavily pregnant. “Skills that would be better appreciated if they came with lunch. I'm eating for two, remember?”
“You've been eating for two for eight months,” I pointed out, but I was already reaching for my phone. “Same pizza place as last time?”
“Ooh, with the garlic knots?” Rachel's eyes lit up. “And maybe that pasta thing? And the salad?”
“The eating for two excuse only works for one extra meal,” I told her, but I was already dialing.
Later, we sprawled across Rachel's living room like survivors of a home improvement war. Empty pizza boxes created a cardboard landscape on the coffee table, garlic knot crumbs marking our surrender to carb-loaded bliss. David snored softly in his recliner, paint streaks on his shirt like badges of honor.
“Thank you,” Rachel said softly, careful not to wake her husband. “For today. For everything.”
I wrapped an arm around her shoulders, breathing in the familiar scent of her shampoo. “Pretty sure I should be thanking you. Those cinnamon rolls alone...”
She poked my ribs. “I'm being serious for once. Let me have my moment.”
“Fine,” I sighed dramatically. “Continue with the emotional vulnerability. But make it quick – I have a reputation to maintain.”
“Jerk.” She settled closer, her head on my shoulder. “I just... I know things have been weird lately. At the hospital, with everything. But you know David and I are here, right? No matter what?”
The late afternoon sun turned everything golden, casting the kind of light that made even pizza boxes look artistic. For a moment, the world narrowed to just this – my sister's warmth, David's gentle snores, and the particular peace of a job well done. No hospital politics. No mysterious developers with eyes that saw too much. No memories that couldn't possibly be mine pressing against the edges of reality. Just family, paint fumes, and the promise of new beginnings wrapped in yellow walls.