11. Chapter Eleven
Chapter Eleven
Colter
I slam down the door handle to the resident’s lounge, shoving so hard it cracks against the wall when it flies open. My movements cause the overhead lights to flicker on, and there I see her.
Lying sideways on the shitty little sofa with her feet slung over the side so they barely rest on the floor, fast asleep. Her pager vibrates obnoxiously on the small table beside her. She’s out cold and oblivious to its call.
I throw my hands on my hips, not knowing where to start. If anyone, especially her father, took a second look at our relationship they’d see I’ve become completely smitten with her. It’s so fucking hard to hide how I feel when I see her with her hair down, wild curls radiating that infamous coconut scent.
It’s harder and harder to hold back my laughter, because dammit, she cracks me up. She’s fresh, snarky, and smart; each day I’m surrounded by her I need to remind myself who her father is, so having any personal thoughts about her is absolutely forbidden.
I take another look at her, she’s lying so peacefully it barely looks like she’s breathing. I’m fucking livid I gave her an inch of freedom, the opportunity of a lifetime to scrub in on a double transplant. I put my reputation on the line, and rotated the schedule to bump the other resident to a different case because I thought I saw something in her. Worst of all, I wanted her there. I wanted her to learn and soak in that experience. I wanted to go back to my office and see that fire lit up inside of her while we debriefed afterwards.
I wanted to make her fucking happy.
But what does she do? She no-shows. Stands the whole team up and ignores my calls just to hide away and take a nap, apparently.
Fuck.
I rake my hands through the sides of my hair, pulling at the ends as I let out a heavy exhale. That surgery was brutal. My back aches from standing, my head throbs from straining, and my fucking jaw is tense from biting back any nasty comment I had for geriatric ole Dr. Anderson. I’m so bitterly angry with myself for looking around the room, searching for Annaliese as we got started. With each body that filtered in and out of the OR, my gaze flicked up expecting her to be rushing in, her entire frame covered with surgical attire except for her gorgeous eyes.
I waited for that breath of air that came with having her near me, but when Dr. Anderson mentioned she rushed off to take a break, the look on his face told me everything I should have known sooner.
She duped me.
“Let’s go Keeton,” I bark as I cross my arms over my chest and plant my feet firmly in the doorway.
She doesn’t so much as flinch in her sleep at the sound of my voice. I pause for a moment, willing my anger to diffuse just a touch before taking two steps into the room. The door falls shut behind me with a slam, which again, garners no movement from her. My hands fall to hang at my sides, and I release a heavy exhale as I move to stand directly over her. “Keeton.” I kick the leg of the couch, the sound echoing off the small walls.
Yet, she still doesn’t budge.
A faint beeping fills my ears, and I turn my head to one side, and then the other, searching around the room for its source. My gaze falls back to Annaliese and notice her hands tucked firmly under her head. I reach an arm out, not sure how or where to touch her, and when my palm meets her skin, I step back in shock.
She’s ice cold, so cold it nearly burns, and my stomach plummets.
I fall to my knees, saying her name again, the venom now replaced with worry as I usher her on her back. When her hands are uncovered, that incessant beeping is a little louder, and I then notice it’s coming from her watch.
I tap the face of her watch twice, and the screen lights up. I squint, needing to twist her wrist to get a good reading at the message flashing in red.
Glucose: 32 mg/dL
My blood freezes in my veins at the warning.
For fuck’s sake. Annaliese is a diabetic?
I school the anger that comes along with having no fucking idea she had an autoimmune disease, let alone one that is incredibly fragile. I silently curse both her name and Richard’s as I rifle through the backpack at her feet. Dumping her belongings out over the floor, I search for something, anything, that will help. I bypass the packets of fruit leather and peanut butter, debating slathering the inside of her mouth with the latter, when I finally come across a glucagon kit.
Pulling out the pen, I bite the cap off with my teeth and spit it to the side before drawing up a dose. I haven’t had to think about glucagon dosing since the days of med school, so any memory I have is fuzzy. I know I can’t waste time reading directions when her life is in danger, and I have no idea how long she’s been out. I pull up the hem of her shirt, and run my palm along her stomach to her side, finding a pad of soft skin.
“This might sting for a second,” I whisper to her, unsure if she can still hear me.
I jam the pen into her skin and administer the glucagon. My ears ring with adrenaline as I lean back and wait for it to take effect.
My eyes are glued to the watch on her wrist as I firmly hold my hand over her faint pulse. As the minutes pass, I see the little arrows start to move up, showing the rise in her glucose, but it’s not enough.
I watch her chest take in each slow breath, and I swear my own heart has stopped beating. I know I need to wait a certain amount of time before giving another dose, but fuck, I’m so out of my wheelhouse that panic starts to take over. I’ve never felt this feeling before. This anxiety. Not as an insecure student in med school, not as a fresh-faced resident about to cut open a living person for the first time. I’m a respected surgeon, but right now, fear has trapped my mind to the point where I can barely stay calm enough to think of the next steps. All I know at this moment is that I need her awake, and I need her to talk to me. So I draw up another dose and find a spot near the one I just used.
I administer another dose, praying it won’t do any damage and I let my hand linger on her hip afterwards. When I glance up a few minutes later and see the color start to return to her face with beads of sweat gathering along her hairline, my stomach slowly begins to settle.
When she groans and her beautiful face grimaces as she rubs against the arm that had been acting as her pillow, I finally let out my first choked breath.
“Annaliese,” I whisper, not wanting to scare her since she’s likely going to wake confused. “Can you open your eyes?”Her lids flutter, and I internally beg her to keep trying. My hand that was resting on her hip runs up the length of her back until I reach her face, and I smooth away the matted hair against her forehead, coaxing her awake.
She tries to say something, her speech a drunken slur but I think I make out something that sounds an awful lot like Anderson.
“Don’t worry about the surgery. Don’t even think about work right now. We need to make sure you’re okay first.”
My voice must register something in her because she grimaces again, her face pinching together before she finally opens her eyes, looking directly at me.
I hadn’t realized how close I had moved to her, but with my arm draped over her side and my voice near her ear, the position puts us so close I notice flecks of yellow swirling in her brown irises.
She looks up at me with heavy lids trying to focus, and when she realizes it’s me, her whole body tenses.
Guilt washes over me in a thousand waves, one crashing over the other as I internally kick myself for being so blind. But I don’t have time to mutter any sort of an apology because Annaliese’s face immediately pales and she purses her lips together, bringing a hand to slap over her mouth.
She leans over, pointing furiously with her other hand to the garbage can next to my side, and I reach for it just in time as she starts retching.
Nothing comes out, but it isn’t because her body isn’t trying.
Her petite frame curls in on itself while awful, nearly animalistic sounds come from her as her body tries to fight through the drastic change in glucose. An extreme low to what is now likely a high in a matter of minutes.
When her body gives up, sagging with either exhaustion or relief, she rolls back onto the couch, and I see the streams of tears that have made their way down her face. She pulls out her phone from underneath her, swiping at the screen and finally the maddening ringing stops. She throws an arm over her head, and I can tell by the way her mouth twitches she’s trying to hold it together. I’m sure she doesn’t want to break down in front of me, and if it was possible to hate myself any more than I already do at this moment, that thought would do me in.
God knows I’ve created such a barrier between us that she doesn’t want to show weakness. I’ve led her to believe that I can barely tolerate her, when in reality it’s the opposite. But it’s what I thought I had to do; it’s what Richard’s asking of me. And it’s about time I sit myself down and ask why the fuck I let it happen.
Wanting to give her a moment of privacy, I take that opportunity to stand and look around the small space for a washcloth or towel, something I can use to help her wipe her face. There isn’t much in this room besides the worn couch she’s on and a chipped countertop with a sink and a mini fridge.
I snag a few of the cheap, single-ply paper towels and run them under the cold tap before squeezing out the excess water.
I return to her side, and she still hasn’t moved, using her arm to shield her face as she silently sobs.
Lowering my voice, I keep it as soothing as possible, approaching her like she’s a wild animal with her leg in a trap. “It’s okay, Annaliese, let me help.”
I reach my free hand up to gently usher her arm away from her face, but she tightens her muscles. “Sweetheart, look at me.”
She doesn’t let her arm fall, but when I wait a moment and try again, it finally gives way. I lower it gently to her side, and with my palm against her cheek I coax her to turn to me. I use the wet towels to wick the sweat away from her forehead and neck, hushing her when she tries to speak.
We continue this act, me crouched at her side gently drying her tears and sweat as she lays there; as the minutes pass, her body becomes red and flushed, trembling intensely.
“Can you sit up?” I ask, knowing that she likely wants to lie here for days, but she needs to get out of this hospital. If I were her, the last place I’d want to deal with these side effects would be here at work, lying on a stiff, two-seater couch that's been in the break room for as long as I can remember.
She nods, and I lean back a little, moving my hands to rest on her hips as she sits up.
She sways a bit with the motion, so I tighten my grip, freeing one hand to hold onto her bicep. Only then do I feel the small telltale circle of a sensor on the back of her arm. How I never noticed that before irritates the hell out of me.
I tap her watch, seeing her sugar is now at a safe level, but that it’s also going to climb into possibly dangerous territory given my panic and the extra dose of glucagon.
“We should get you to the ER, get you checked—”
“No,” she grunts out forcefully, before wincing and grabbing at her head. “No,” she says again. “I’ll be fine. I just need to get home.”
“Okay, but we should at least tell your dad.”
She chuckles, but it isn’t her regular snicker, it’s darker, more ominous. “He’s the last person I’d ever tell.”
Her words are cold, and the meaning behind them isn’t lost on me.
“You aren’t safe to drive home right now.”
She attempts to stand but loses her balance, falling again to sit at the edge of the cushions. I kneel at her feet, my hands moving to her knees and squeezing gently.
“I don’t own a car,” she whispers. “I’ll take the train.”
Fuck. No.
I also refuse to let her go back to her apartment alone. I don’t know if she has a roommate or what, but I don’t trust anyone besides myself to take care of her in this state.
“You’re coming to stay with me,” I tell her as I stand, and the raised-brow look she gives me nearly breaks the tension of the situation. “I mean it,” I say back. “I’m not letting you out of my sight until you’re back to your normal, irritating self.”
“Won’t that be awkward?”
I shrug. “Not as awkward as me sleeping outside your apartment door, checking on you hourly to make sure you’re alive.”
She runs a finger under her lower lash, swiping at the wetness brimming her lids. “I think I’d prefer that option.”
“Maybe next time Sparky … do you think you can stand?”
She nods, and I lean back on the balls of my feet, reaching my arms up to grasp onto her shoulders. Her frame is weak and her body wants to sway with the move, but her resilience pushes her and eventually she’s standing at the edge of the sofa with her feet firmly planted on the floor.
“Good,” I mutter, ensuring she’s holding herself up before I reach down to pack her items back into her bag.
“I … I’m sorry,” she begins, but I cut her off with a wave of my hand.
“Don’t start that. Don’t apologize for something so out of your control. Don’t feel an ounce of guilt over this, please.”
She nods, pulling her hands close to her as she nervously starts rubbing her pointer finger against her thumb. “What do I do about on-call this weekend? I … I don’t think I can work tomorrow. Not the way I’ll be feeling.”
I shove her items back into her backpack before standing, slinging it over my shoulder. Reaching for her hand, she places her dainty, trembling palm in mine. “You don’t worry about anything; I’ll take care of it all. I promise. All you need to do for the next few days is rest, okay? Let me handle everything else.”
She stares up at me, her hand still resting in mine but she makes no effort to move. I give her time, adjusting my stance so I’m ready to hold her weight if standing is too much. “Do you need me to carry you?”
I don’t know how that’d look, me carrying her out of the hospital cradled in my arms like a bride being carried across the threshold, but I’d do it if she needed.
“Yeah, a piggyback would be great.”
My head whips toward her. I hadn’t expected her to actually need to be carried, but I guess it makes sense given the situation.
“Uh, okay.” I awkwardly fumble her backpack around so the sack is over my chest, and as I turn around and start to squat, she starts laughing.
Her laugh is gurgly, softer than usual, but it’s what I needed to hear. The last half hour has taken years off of my life, so when I turn to see her snickering at me, clearly happy with herself that she cracked a joke, I let my own excitement show on my face.
I reach for her hand again, this time she grips my palm and takes her first weak step. “Could you imagine if I hopped on and you carried me out like a child? I’m never going to let you live that one down.”
I roll my eyes as I move to stand next to her with my arms holding her steady while we walk out of the room. “Yeah, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep that between us, Sparky.”
***
“Where the hell is your bed?”
I pause in the doorway, looking around the ridiculously tiny space that Annaliese calls her apartment. She’s still swaying a bit as she walks around the small studio, grabbing a duffel from the corner, and moving to a series of suitcases that line the wall.
She looks over her shoulder at the beige, worn sofa and gestures with her head. “You’re looking at it. Honestly, Colt, it’s a little bold of you to suggest we get freaky right now.”
I scoff, and even though she doesn’t turn around, I can see her shoulders shake with hidden laughter.
At least that means she’s feeling a bit better.
“Don’t tell me you sleep on this piece of crap.” I kick the corner of it, half expecting the side to fall off.
She pulls clothes from various suitcases and boxes before moving to the bathroom, flicking on soft light as she rummages through her medicine cabinet. “Don’t hate on it. You’d be surprised how comfortable it is. Plus, my time here is only temporary, and I’m broke as shit. I’m not going to waste what money I do have on unnecessary furniture.”
She turns off the bathroom light, zips up her bag, and comes to stand next to me. She looks at the couch and runs a palm over the back of it. “Would you believe this was free?”
I choke on a gasp, coughing so hard she reaches a hand up to slap my back.
“What?” she asks innocently. “It’s not like it has bugs or anything. Trust me, I cleaned that bad boy. Besides…” she says, pausing to grab her jacket from the hook on the wall.
I help her slide her arms in and pull the bag from her grasp to toss the strap over my shoulder. “‘Besides,’ what?”
She looks up at me, her beautiful brown eyes bloodshot and heavy. Gray bags line her lower lids, and it takes everything I have in me not to pull her into my arms to hold her.
“Besides,” she starts again, keeping her gaze firmly on mine. “I’m barely here. You know my schedule as well as I do. I haven’t even unpacked or bought myself a basic shelf.” She gestures to her bags in the corner of the room. “I literally live out of my suitcases and boxes because the hospital has been my home. In the last few months, I’ve been on call nearly every night of the week. I survive on snacks that I can carry around and greasy cafeteria food. Why buy a brand new bed that will just stay here and collect dust?”
My stomach churns, and fuck, if I didn’t already hate myself for tonight, that comment would have done me in.