Chapter 9
The Storm
Robyn
“So how was playing hooky with Nate?” Julian asks.
He’s slouched across the resident couch in his scrubs, the collar wrinkled and the fabric clinging to his biceps. He pulled a twenty-four-hour shift, so he’s done for the day.
I’m on for morning rounds—twelve hours, then off until tomorrow night.
The fluorescent lights overhead hum, and the coffee machine clicks in the background.
He’s taking up the entire couch, manspreading like there’s no tomorrow, one leg thrown over the armrest, the other planted on the floor.
His gray-blue gaze fixes on me. He’s all concern, without any of his playfulness. I hate it.
“It was tense. Not bad, just—not normal.” I roll my shoulders, trying to loosen them, the fatigue settling from the inside out, and my shift hasn’t even started.
“Wanna talk about it?” He puts his hands behind his head.
“Not really. He’s acting like he knows he did something wrong. And he did. But it doesn’t match. He got defensive at first, and now he’s going out of his way—dropping me off, picking me up. It’s … like he’s making up for something, and a few lunches isn’t it.”
“That man’s absolutely in love with you, Robyn.” He tilts his head, smirking. “I know men. We don’t freak out until we do. Probably wants to keep you happy because he’s too afraid you’ll run into the sunset with me.”
“Very funny.” I toss an old balled-up schedule at his chest.
“I’m a catch.” He throws it back at me without looking.
“A catcher of STDs, for sure.”
“I’m a doctor,” he says, mock offense dripping. “I wrap it and lick nothing.”
I arch a brow. “Sucks to be with you then.”
He grins, lazy and unbothered. “I have other ways to make it worth their time.”
I go to the couch. “Sit up.” When he does, I drop next to him, cushions hissing under me. “I feel like everything was fine, and now—I don’t even know. Something just isn’t right.”
He lays his arm around my shoulder and squeezes. “Come on, Robyn. You and Nate are relationship goals. But everyone’s got ups and downs. It’s not even been two days.” He lets go of me to pull out his phone and taps around in a video app.
“What are you doing, Kells? I’m not starting a profile to vet your dates.”
“Nah.” He scrolls around. “Look.” He tilts the screen toward me. “There’s this trend going around.”
He scrolls until the bright swirl of a video fills the screen.
There’s a couple—a man and a woman—sitting in front of each other on a table at a café.
A guitar riff plays over their conversation, but there’s so much chemistry between them they’re even laughing with their eyes.
A shimmering beat crackles through Julian’s speaker.
The girl keeps glancing at where the recording’s coming from, increasingly nervous, and the young man’s oblivious until she leans over the table and gives him a peck.
The man pushes himself back in his chair and mouths What was that?
Then the girl shrugs, and he leans back in and returns the kiss.
All the while, the song’s bass drops and the lyrics speak of being struck by electric love.
I look at Julian. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
He grins. “Instant dopamine hit. Friends kissing each other by surprise.” He lifts one shoulder, his gaze on mine. “I’m just saying, if you ever wanna keep Nate on his toes …” He raises his brows, teasing, and I snort despite myself.
He lets another video play. Same music. Same idea.
This one filmed during a sunset at the beach.
A guy grabs a woman’s chin and holds her in place while he dips to kiss her, tongue shortly following all the way.
The music swells, then she smacks his head and pulls back laughing.
They don’t kiss again. No electric love there, I suppose.
Another one, two girls are in a car, one’s face lights up when the other kisses her, and it deepens.
Laughter filters through the music. In the next one, a woman tries to kiss her friend, but he dodges her twice then leaves the room.
Julian narrates in that mock-serious tone of his, rating each one and inevitably making me laugh.
For a few seconds, it does take my mind off everything, and we joke about how ridiculous social media is.
Then the next clip loads. It’s a car I’m familiar with.
And I’d know that shade of auburn-brown hair anywhere.
It’s Nate. My Nate. And Tessa. In his car.
Her hair’s loose, and the same song’s layered over them, but it doesn’t drown out what I’m seeing.
Nate’s smiling, fiddling with something, and she’s grinning, a malicious edge on her lips.
She leans over her seat, over his armrest, until her hand reaches the back of his neck.
It’s only one more second, but the breath struggling to find my lungs makes it seem like slow motion.
She pulls him to her, their lips a hairsbreadth apart.
They stare into each other’s eyes, and I wait.
Nate’ll push her away. Please, Nate, push her away.
He doesn’t. His hand rests on her arm. Unmoving.
Then her lips descend on his. His mouth moves over hers, and her tongue slides in. I grip my knees. Please, Nate.
He still doesn’t. His hand moves to her waist, and I swear he brings her closer. For two whole verses—a full nine seconds—their mouths move against each other. My chest caves and my stomach twists. I can’t breathe. I can’t … I can’t watch.
Only then does he draw back, his forehead resting against hers. She’s smiling, and he’s not … angry. When she moves away, his pupils are wide, cheeks flushed, eyes unfocused. He looks … almost pleased. Her smile widens, and the video cuts to black.
The pit in my stomach drops lower, and I heave. Once, twice. Julian’s hands brush my shoulders, but I barely feel them. Lurching toward the sink in the lounge, I don’t throw up, but I gag. Spit. My tears fall onto the steel, hot and endless.
The door opens, but I couldn’t care less. Julian’s voice booms, though, loud, protective. “Get the fuck out of here. Use an on-call room for the next ten minutes.” His arms bracket around me so nobody but him witnesses my meltdown. “I don’t care,” he adds. “Not now.”
Something wet lands on the back of my neck. “Your rounds are about to start.” Julian’s voice finally breaks through the fog. “Let me find the attendant. I’m going to make a plan so you can go home. I’ll be back.”
Julian talked to the attendant on call, who covered my rounds for about an hour while he helped me get my shit together and into an Uber.
I despise being reduced to this version of myself where I’m this heartbroken, betrayed woman who needs to rely on others like this. I tried to tell Julian I’d do my job.
“I won’t gamble, Robyn,” he said while ensuring I had everything in my purse. “It could be the day we lose someone. I won’t risk your head not being in the game. I trust you, but if something went poorly, you’d beat yourself up over it.”
He wasn’t wrong. It’d become confirmation bias of this feeling I already have that I’m not cut out for this.
Hugging me under the crook of his shoulder, he kept my crying face out of prying eyes.
Right before he closed the door to the Uber, he said, “We’re going to switch shifts, you and I.
I’m going to take yours now, and you’ll take my night one.
I would take both, but I’d be over the eighty-hour mandate.
So you’re going to go home, break plates or eat mounds of ice cream, and you’re going to come back in thirteen hours and kick some neurology ass. Deal?”
I nodded, and he smiled, then closed the door to the car.
Instead of going home, I got off at Dearborn and Ontario and walked the two blocks to Nate’s office. Any minute now, Nate will walk in for his 8:00 a.m. start time.
Except when he does, he isn’t alone. Tessa’s next to him, holding a Reality Bites paper bag—Nate’s favorite cupcake shop, not around the corner from here—and a cupholder with two coffees.
His hand is on her shoulder, not quite holding her, but not letting go either.
It’s the kind of touch I wouldn’t have cared about before.
Now all I can think about is that he doesn’t take his hand off her.
They walk up to the elevator, and he holds the door open for her and gazes at her legs.
There’s the faintest shake of his head—reflexive, regretful.
The elevator doors close with both of them inside.
I guess it’s not just lunch they’re having together.
Well, I would have given him a chance to explain. I guess now I get to save myself from that heartache.
Nate should arrive soon. And I’m ready. Or as ready as I’ll ever be. I actually like that I have to leave in about an hour—better yet, forty minutes—to take over Julian’s night shift.
I have the video locked and loaded. I created a profile because Julian refused to forward it at first, but when I told him it was for Nate’s enjoyment, not my misery, he sent it right away.
The key jangles in the lock the earliest he could’ve commuted to my apartment. As if my text—Come to my apartment after work. It’ll be brief—set him off and he rushed here on edge. Good. I open the door, taking the key off the lock in one swift motion.
Nate stands there, left hand shoved into his jacket pocket, hair damp from the drizzle. He gives me the half smile that used to undo me. Now it hurts.
“Hey,” he says.
The gentleness in his voice pains me. Everything about this hurts.
“Come in,” I say, stepping aside. My voice is professional. I’m going to use my doctor’s voice on this autopsy of a relationship.
I return his keys, but I’ve already separated my building and my apartment ones from his keyring—my back to him while I did it. Thanks to medical training for fast hands.
He steps toward the couch, and I tip my head to the crammed kitchen area. “I have to be at work soon, so this won’t take long.”