Chapter 37
LAINE
"Ready to head out, hon?"
Joyce is already shrugging into her jacket, that end-of-shift exhaustion settling into the lines around her eyes. She manages a tired smile as I grab my coat from the break room hook.
Then the wail starts again.
Joyce's smile cracks. She flinches, just for a second, before the professional mask slides back into place.
It's been like this for hours. Waves of grief rolling down the hallway, impossible to ignore.
A seventeen-year-old boy in Room 4, car accident, dead before he reached us.
His family has been in there since 5:00 AM.
The hospital gives them as long as they need, but the sound of it seeps into everything.
The pain and confusion and loss soak into the walls, into my body.
We push through the ER doors together, and I pull my coat tighter against the October chill. The sun's already down, the parking lot lights casting everything in that sickly yellow glow.
"That poor family," Joyce says quietly. She's been a nurse longer than I have. She's seen everything. But even she looks worn down.
"The sisters are the ones that get me," I admit. "They keep taking turns. Like they're trying to hold each other up."
"Mmm." Joyce adjusts her bag on her shoulder. "The father's the one I'm watching. He's barely made a sound for the last hour. That kind of quiet worries me more than the screaming."
She's right. The mother has been wailing, raw and animal. The sisters collapse into each other. But the father just sits there, holding his son's hand, staring at nothing.
This isn't the hardest night I've had. There's been loss and blood too many other times. But today, everything feels harder to compartmentalize. "How do you do it?" I ask. "After all these years. How do you leave it at the door?"
Joyce laughs—a tired, knowing sound. "Oh, honey. You don't leave it. You just learn to carry it differently." She glances at me. "Some shifts break your heart. That's not a flaw in the system. That's the cost of giving a damn."
A car pulls up to the curb with an older man behind the wheel, gray at the temples, reading glasses pushed up on his forehead. He spots Joyce and his whole face softens.
"There's my honey." Joyce squeezes my arm. "You okay to get home?"
"I'm fine. Go."
She studies me for a moment—that look she gives when she's deciding whether to push. Then she nods. "Get some sleep, Laine. You've earned it."
She climbs into the passenger seat, and her husband leans over to kiss her cheek like it's the most natural thing in the world. Thirty-five years of marriage, and he still picks her up after a hard shift. Still looks at her like that.
That's the dream I never knew I had until I met Reid.
The car pulls away. I stand there for a moment, the cold biting at my cheeks, before I turn toward the parking garage. I want Reid. Hugs, kisses, a cuddle — the whole package would be about perfect right now. But he's working today, and I'm going to have to wait.
My footsteps echo off the concrete. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, half of them flickering. I dig my keys out of my pocket and try not to think about the boy in Room 4. About his mother's wails and the way his father's silence felt heavier than all the screaming combined.
Some shifts break your heart.
I find my Honda on the third level. Climb in. Turn the key.
Click. Click. Click.
Nothing.
I try again. The engine doesn't even attempt to turn over.
"No." I drop my forehead to the steering wheel. "Not today. Please not today." There's never a good day for your car to break down, but some days you're better equipped to handle it.
Today is not that day.
My phone's at eight percent because I forgot to charge it yesterday. I call Reid, but it goes straight to voicemail. He must already be on a call. I try again. Same thing.
I could get an Uber. I should get an Uber. But the battery is draining while I stare at the screen, and my charger is sitting on my kitchen counter doing absolutely nothing useful, and everything feels impossible right now.
Reid
On a call. You ok?
Car won't start. Battery maybe?
Three dots for what seems like forever.
Reid
Blake's closer. Sending him.
I read it twice, like the words might rearrange themselves into something less terrifying.
It's fine. I can get a ride-share.
Already texted him. He's on his way.
Seven percent now. The screen dims like it's trying to bow out of this conversation gracefully.
Thanks, I type, because what else can I say?
Blake's truck rumbles into the parking garage eighteen minutes later.
He pulls up next to my dead Honda and climbs out without a word. Jeans and a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, sawdust still caught in the creases of his forearms. Straight from the workshop, then. Does this man ever sleep?
"Pop the hood," he says.
No hello. No sorry about your car or rough night. Just instructions.
I pop the hood. Guess I don't need to worry about thanking him for going out of his way. He looks like he's two seconds away from biting my head off, so I keep my mouth clamped shut. Am I grateful for the help? Yeah. Do I love that Reid volunteered Blake? Nope. Not even a little bit.
He disappears under it for a few minutes, fiddling with cables and connections. I sit in the driver's seat and watch him through the crack of the hood. The set of his shoulders, the tension in his jaw. Even from here, I can see he doesn't want to be here.
That makes two of us.
Finally, he steps back. "Try it now."
I turn the key. Click. Click. Nothing.
Blake slams the hood, shaking the whole car. "It's not the battery. Probably the starter. You'll need a tow."
"Great." I climb out of the car, suddenly aware of how tired I am. How much I don't want to deal with any of this. "I'll call someone."
"With what? Reid said your phone's almost dead." He's already walking back to his truck. "I'll drive you home. You can figure it out later."
Every instinct tells me to refuse. Call the ride-share. Wait for a tow. Do anything except get into that truck with him. Physically, I'll be safe with him. I know that. But every time we're alone together, which admittedly isn't often, things go sideways.
But my phone's at four percent now, and I'm exhausted, and my apartment is only ten minutes away. Ten minutes. I can survive ten minutes.
"Fine," I say. "Thanks."
He doesn't respond. Just climbs into the driver's seat and waits.
The first two minutes pass in silence.
Blake drives the way he does everything, controlled and efficient. He doesn't look at me once. Not a glance, not a flicker. I don't know how he does that, how he makes me feel like I'm not even here. Or maybe it's wishful thinking on his part.
His hands are steady on the wheel. I can see the calluses on his knuckles, the faint stains around his fingernails that never quite wash out. Working hands. Capable hands.
I stare out the window and try not to think about how small this cab feels. How heavy the air is.
Four minutes.
"You didn't have to come," I say, because apparently I have a problem with quiet. We're so close to my place, the smart thing would have been to keep quiet. Why can't I do the smart thing around him?
His lips tighten. "Reid asked."
"I know. But you didn't have to say yes. I'm not your responsibility."
He doesn't respond. Just keeps driving, jaw ticking.
Five minutes.
I should let it go. Let the silence swallow us whole until we pull up to my apartment. Let him drop me off and drive away and go back to pretending I don't exist.
But I'm so tired. So tired of tiptoeing. So tired of measuring every word, making myself smaller and smaller and still not being small enough.
"Blake."
"What."
"Why are we like this?"
His hands tighten on the wheel.
"Laine—"
"I've been trying for months." The words come out tripping over each other, but I can't stop.
I can't let him cut me off again, can't let him shut this down before I get it out.
"I bring groceries. I ask about your work.
I give you space when you need it. I have done everything I can think of to make this work, and you still look at me like I'm something you stepped in. "
"Drop it."
"I can't." My voice cracks, and I hate it. I don't want to be the one cracking. "I can't drop it because I love him. I love Reid, and you're his family, and I'm exhausted from trying to earn a place at a table you've decided I don't belong at."
The truck stops at a red light. Blake stares straight ahead, jaw tight, that little muscle still jumping.
"You want to know what you did?" His voice is low. Rough. "You showed up."
"What?"
"You showed up with your farmer's market groceries and your questions about my work and your—" He stops. Breathes. "You just showed up. And you keep showing up. And you won't stop."
I just stare at him. "That's called being in a relationship. That's called trying."
"I know what it's called."
"Then what's the problem? Honestly. Please, explain it to me like I'm five."
The light turns green. He drives, nearly pulling at the wheel, all the muscles of his arm and shoulder bunching.
"There's no problem."
"Bullshit." The right word, but I still have to force it out. I don't swear. But seriously, if there was ever a moment, this is it. "You've hated me since the day we met. You've made me feel like an intruder in my own boyfriend's house. And I want to know why."
Silence. Another block passes.
Okay. I am so done with this. I'm done begging and tiptoeing. "Answer me!"
Is yelling at the massive ex-soldier a great idea? Maybe not. But it seems to finally crack through that wall he put up.
And let the truth leak out.
"You want to know why?" He snaps, glancing at me, eyes fiery. "Because you don't belong here. You're playing house, Laine. Playing 'paramedic's girlfriend.' But you're not built for this life. You're not built to stay."
He could have actually slapped me, and it would have hurt less. "You don't know anything about me."