Chapter 3
LAINE
"Long shift," Joyce says, threading her arm through mine as the automatic doors slide shut behind us.
My shoulders drop for the first time in twelve hours. "They're all long shifts lately."
The January air bites through my jacket. Joyce steers us toward the parking lot, her pace unhurried despite the long shift. I've got to admit, some mornings, it's all I can do to keep from running out of here. Some days, life just comes at you harder, you know?
We walk in comfortable silence until we reach her car. She leans against the driver's door, studying me with that too knowing, too patient look.
"You seem calmer lately," she says finally.
She's right. I am. "I'm not jumping every time the ambulance bay doors open anymore. Not scanning every paramedic crew like..." I trail off, then force myself to finish. "Like I'm afraid."
"And are you? Afraid?"
A month ago, I would have deflected. Changed the subject. Now I actually think about it.
"No. Not anymore." For a minute there, Reid got... intense. But I don't think that's who he really is. The whiplash of it—going from this incredible, dependable guy to someone who wouldn't take no for an answer—that was scary. But I don't think I was ever truly afraid of him.
Okay, maybe for a minute or two. Enough to file that report.
Which I still regret.
But at the time, it felt like the only way to make him hear me.
Joyce's expression softens. "Reid's a good man. I've worked with him for years, and he's never been anything but professional and kind." She pauses. "But that doesn't mean you have to want him back. Good men can still be wrong for us. He was wrong to push the way he did."
"He is a good man," I say. And then I say the thing that's been growing in my chest for weeks. The thing I almost don't want to admit out loud. "I miss him. God, that sounds so stupid after everything."
Joyce doesn't look surprised. "What do you miss?"
The question catches me off guard. I've been so focused on why we ended that I haven't let myself think about what we had.
"The way he looked at me when I was teaching him to cook.
Like I was doing magic instead of just chopping onions.
" I lean against her car next to her. "How he'd text me pictures of random things during his shift—a funny bumper sticker, a dog wearing a hat.
Nothing important, just... thinking of me. "
"Those sound like good things to miss."
"There was so much good, Joyce. The volunteering together, the way he made me laugh, how safe I felt with him. Even the quiet mornings reading the newspaper." I wrap my arms around myself against the cold. "I keep wondering if it's time to talk to him."
She's quiet for a long moment. "Is it talking you want, or something more?"
"I don't know. Maybe both?" I shake my head. "I've been thinking about what you said before, about not making myself smaller. I did that with Blake, but with Reid..." I search for the right words. "Reid never asked me to be smaller. He celebrated who I was."
"Until he didn't protect you from someone who was trying to tear you down."
Ouch. But she's right. "He didn't know. I never really explained how bad it was getting."
"Honey." Her voice is gentle but firm. "A man who loves you should notice when you're hurting. Even if you don't say the words."
I want to argue. To defend him. But by the end, I was barely sleeping, dreading going to his house, walking on eggshells around Blake. How could Reid not see?
He screwed up. But is it unforgivable?
And even if I forgave him, there's still the big hairy elephant in the room.
Blake.
I haven't let myself think about his confession that night. Not really. It was easier to believe he was lying—either to me or to himself. But when I think about those moments we had together, the tense, charged air in the kitchen and his workshop...
Maybe he was telling the truth. Maybe there was something there. Something real. Something I didn't want to look at too closely.
Because there was no good way through it. Someone was always going to end up shattered.
Congratulations, everyone. We all managed to shatter.
But still. I can't stop wanting to talk to Reid. I miss him too much.
"So you think talking to Reid is a bad idea?"
Joyce shakes her head. "I think you need to be honest about what you want from that conversation. Closure? An apology? Or are you hoping to fix something that might not be fixable?"
I don't have an answer. And that probably tells us both everything we need to know.
"I don't think I can close that door. Not until we finally talk." I stare at the pavement. "I don't know what will come out of it, but I think it's something I have to do. Maybe not today. Maybe I'll think on it a bit longer."
"That's smart," Joyce says, pushing off from her car. "Time has a way of clarifying things we can't see when we're too close."
She pulls me into a quick hug—antiseptic and lavender lotion. "Get some sleep, honey. And don't overthink yourself into circles."
My apartment feels too quiet after the chaos of the ER.
I flip on the TV for background noise and wander to the kitchen, opening cabinets without purpose.
The leftover pizza in my fridge doesn't appeal, so I make toast instead, eating it standing at the counter while two morning anchors smile with their whole faces except their foreheads.
Seriously. Their foreheads don't move at all. It's unsettling.
The shower washes away the hospital smell but doesn't quiet my brain. I towel off, pull on my softest pajamas—the ones with tiny clouds, worn thin from too many washes—and climb into bed.
I stare at the ceiling.
Seattle General has an opening. I saw the posting last week. Good pay, day shift, fresh start. No more driving past Reid's street. No more memories ambushing me in the grocery store cereal aisle.
But leaving feels like running. And I promised myself I was done with that.
Besides. I love the life I'm building here. If it weren't for Reid, I'd be thinking forever about this place.
But how do I stay, knowing he's out there hurting? Knowing Blake is... wherever Blake is?
I roll onto my side and pull the pillow over my head.
Three months. Blake's been gone three months. He said Afghanistan, but I don't even know if that's still true. I don't know anything. He could be dead in a ditch somewhere and none of us would—
Stop. He's not dead.
He can't be dead.
For all his cruelty, Blake was Reid's family. Reid must be drowning without him. You don't just turn your back on decades of brotherhood. Those two were so close, so tangled together, losing Blake must feel like missing a limb.
And whose fault is that?
Not mine. I didn't cause this.
But I should have checked on Reid. I should have talked to him weeks ago instead of hiding behind my hurt feelings. I shouldn't have assumed they'd fix it themselves.
Stubborn, stubborn jerks. Both of them.
I close my eyes and try to sleep. It doesn't work.
Too many hours later, I'm staring at the ceiling, gritty-eyed.
Every time I close my eyes, I see Reid's face from that night at his house. The confusion. The desperation when I told him it was over.
Mixed with Blake's face. Split lip. Hollow eyes. Telling me he was leaving like it was a death sentence.
So much pain. In both of them.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I'm pulling on jeans and a sweater, grabbing my keys.
This is dumb. I don't even know if he's working today.
But I'm in luck. The fire station parking lot is nearly full.
Shift change. Reid's truck sits near the back and I park two spaces away, hands locked on the steering wheel.
What am I doing here?
This is exactly the behavior I criticized him for. Showing up unannounced. Waiting in parking lots. I spent two months being furious about it, and now here I am, being a hypocrite in a Honda Civic.
But it's been a month since he stopped. A whole month of silence. No flowers, no texts, no glimpses of his truck outside my apartment. I got exactly what I asked for.
Merry Christmas to me.
I spent the holiday eating takeout and watching bad Hallmark movies, telling myself it was peaceful. It wasn't peaceful. It was lonely. And the whole time, I kept wondering if Reid was alone too. If Blake was alive. If anyone was okay.
Because I'm not.
Twenty minutes pass before the station doors open. I spot Reid immediately—tall, broad shoulders, that walk I'd know—
Except it's not his walk. He's moving wrong. Slower. Shoulders curved in like he's bracing against wind that isn't there.
Maybe he just had a bad shift. Maybe—
I get out of the car.
"Reid."
He freezes. Turns.
Oh God.
I press my fingers against my mouth before the sound can escape. He looks wasted. That's the only word. His face is all angles now, cheekbones sharp where they used to be soft. Purple circles under his eyes. His uniform hangs on him like he shrank in the wash instead of the shirt.
This isn't one bad shift. This is bad everything.
"Laine." His voice is careful. Flat. He doesn't step closer—deliberately keeping distance. Respecting the boundaries I set.
Why does that make me want to cry?
"What are you... are you okay?" he asks.
I almost laugh. I am so not okay, but compared to him? "I should be asking you that. You look..."
"Like hell?" A ghost of a smile. "Yeah. I've been told."
We stand there. Six feet apart, feeling like miles. His hands are shoved deep in his pockets and he won't meet my eyes for more than a second.
I want him to reach for me. I want something that looks like the Reid I knew. Not this hollowed-out version, this shadow.
"I'm sorry," he says quietly. "For all of it. The flowers, following you, making you feel unsafe." He shakes his head at the pavement. "I thought I could fix things. Instead I just... made everything worse."
He sounds like he's already given up. Like he rehearsed this apology a hundred times, waiting for a chance to deliver it, and now he's just... done.
"Reid—"