Chapter 18
chapter
eighteen
I was in love. Or falling in love. Or had fallen so hard I was still bouncing. The specifics didn't matter — what mattered was that Izzy Delgado existed in the world, and for some miraculous reason, she wanted to exist in it with me.
"Well, well," Brenda said as I walked into the break room for report. "Someone's looking chipper tonight."
"It's a beautiful evening," I said, still grinning as I hung my stethoscope around my neck.
"It's a busy night in the ER," Chloe pointed out, but she was smiling, too. "What's got you so happy?"
Before I could answer, my phone buzzed with a text. Izzy.
Izzy
Just got to the station. Thompson's already asking about "that nurse" again.
I couldn't help the laugh that escaped me as I typed back:
Tell him I said hi. And that I still remember where he lives.
"Oh my God," Brenda said, reading over my shoulder without shame. "You're texting someone. During report."
"I am not — "
"You absolutely are." She grinned. "And you're blushing. This is amazing."
Before I could defend myself, Kellen appeared at my elbow.
Our night shift charge nurse looked like he'd been run over by the same truck that had apparently delivered me to paradise.
Late forties, with disheveled silver-blonde hair and wrinkled scrubs, he had the thousand-yard stare of someone who'd been working nights for a couple decades too long.
"Alright, folks, welcome to another night in paradise," he said drolly, addressing the room. "Looks like it'll be a busy one. Inpatient beds are hard to come by, and we've been holding patients since this morning. Just have to keep everyone alive until seven-oh-five. Any questions?"
"Boy," I said aloud, cheerfully, "this job sure would be a lot easier if it weren't for all the sick people."
Kellen's voice could have flash-frozen coffee. "Mr. Dalton, are you having some kind of neurological event? Should I call Dr. Peterson?"
"Nope, I'm okay! Just in a good mood."
"Well, contain it," Kellen said, walking away. "It's disturbing."
Brenda was trying not to laugh. "Did you just make a joke to the man who considers smiling a sign of weakness?"
"It seemed funny at the time."
"It was funny. He's just dead inside." She patted my shoulder. "Don't let him kill your buzz. Whatever's making you this happy, hold onto it."
The first few hours of my shift passed in a haze of cheerful efficiency. Every patient seemed like an opportunity to spread a little joy, every interaction a chance to make someone's night a little better.
My first patient was Harold, a frequent flyer who came in monthly with various complaints that usually turned out to be anxiety manifesting as physical symptoms. Tonight he was convinced he was having a heart attack because he'd felt his pulse skip while watching television.
"Jimmy!" Harold called out as I entered his room. "Thank God it's you. These other nurses don't understand my condition."
"What condition is that, Harold?" I asked, pulling up a chair. Harold was lonely more than sick, and sometimes what people needed most was someone to listen.
"I've got a very sensitive cardiovascular system. It responds to stress."
"Ah, the stress. What were you watching that got your heart racing? Let me guess — Netflix true crime?"
Harold looked sheepish. "The Bachelor."
I managed to keep a straight face. "Reality TV. That'll do it. Very high-stress situation. All that drama, people making bad decisions, rose ceremonies. It's basically psychological warfare."
"Exactly!" Harold said, looking vindicated. "You get it."
Twenty minutes later, after a normal EKG and some gentle reassurance, Harold was ready to go home with instructions to maybe stick to cooking shows for a while.
My next patient was Marjorie Dicesare, an elderly woman who'd come in with her husband for what appeared to be a minor cut on her hand from a kitchen knife.
"I'm so sorry to bother you," she said as I examined the small bandage. "It's really nothing, but Frank insisted we come in."
"Mrs. Dicesare, you never need to apologize for seeking medical care," I said, carefully unwrapping the bandage. "And Frank's a smart man. Kitchen accidents can be tricky." I looked over at Frank, gave him a knowing wink, and said, "Sir, I have to say, your daughter here is charming."
Mrs. Dicesare giggled like a teenager. "Oh, you flatterer!" Frank smiled, despite being in on the joke.
"You're just looking for a tip, aren't you?" he asked, chuckling.
The cut was indeed minor — clean, shallow, already mostly stopped bleeding. As I cleaned it and prepared a proper dressing, I asked Mrs. Dicesare "How long have you two been married?"
"Forty-three years next month," Frank said proudly.
"Forty-three years? That's incredible! You'll have to tell me your secrets.”
"Never go to bed angry," Mrs. Dicesare said immediately.
Frank nodded. "And always say 'I love you' before you leave the house. You never know what might happen."
"Also," Mrs. Dicesare added with a mischievous smile, "learn to cook. Nothing says 'I love you' like a good meal."
Mrs. Dicesare was beaming, and when I finished her bandage, she patted my hand. "You're a good boy. Your mother raised you right."
As they left, I heard Mrs. Dicesare telling her husband, "Such a nice young man. Very handsome, too. I wonder if he's single?"
I was grinning as I updated her chart, my phone buzzing with another text from Izzy.
Izzy
Martinez just asked if you're single. I told him you were taken. He seems disappointed.
I typed back:
Tell him I'm very flattered, but my heart belongs to his lieutenant.
Izzy
Smooth talker. How's your shift?
Perfect. Everything's perfect.
My third patient was walking so slowly down the hallway that I thought she might be having a stroke. Agnes Murphy was eighty-seven and apologizing with every step.
"Are you sure you don't want a wheelchair, ma'am?" I asked her, as we made our way to the exam room at the speed of continental drift. Mrs. Murphy waved me off.
"Absolutely not. I'm not going to be around walking much longer, and I'm going to do it until I can't anymore. But," she said, sheepishly, "I am sorry. I know you're busy, and here I am holding everyone up."
"Mrs. Murphy," I said cheerfully, "don't you worry about it. They pay me by the hour. You walk whatever speed you want."
She stopped walking entirely and looked at me, then burst into delighted laughter. "Oh, you're terrible! By the hour! George used to say things like that."
"George sounds like a smart man."
"He was. Fifty-five years married, and he never stopped making me laugh." She paused, looking a little sad. "I miss that."
"Well," I said, offering her my arm, "maybe I can fill in just for tonight. Did I tell you about the patient who came in last week convinced they were allergic to vitamin D?"
By the time we reached her room, Agnes was laughing again, and I was feeling that familiar warmth that came from making someone's day a little brighter.
The night continued in the same vein. A college student convinced WebMD that his runny nose was actually a rare autoimmune disorder turned out to have garden-variety allergies.
A construction worker with a splinter the size of a toothpick spun a twenty-minute tale about workplace hazards and OSHA violations that ended with me removing said splinter in about thirty seconds.
Every patient got my full attention, every interaction felt effortless, and I found myself humming while I charted — something that didn't go unnoticed.
"Okay, what's going on?" Chloe asked during a rare quiet moment around 2 a.m.. "You've been walking around here like you won the lottery."
"Just having a good night," I said, not looking up from my computer.
"Jimmy." She lowered her voice. "You're humming. You just told a patient his hangnail was 'practically a medical emergency' and made him laugh."
I looked up at her. "Did I really say that?"
"Word for word."
"Wow. I sound like a joy to work with!"
"You are, usually. But this version of you is... different." She studied my face. "Good different. You look happy."
Before I could respond, Kellen appeared again, this time carrying a cup of coffee that looked like it could dissolve paint.
"Dalton," he said, settling into a chair with the exhausted grace of a man who'd given up on life somewhere around 2003. "You brought cookies."
It wasn't a question. I had, in fact, brought cookies — chocolate chip with sea salt, a recipe I'd been perfecting for months.
"I did."
"They're good."
"Thank you."
"Too good." Kellen took another sip of his coffee. "What's in them?"
"Chocolate chips. Brown butter. Love."
Kellen stared at me. "Love."
"It's a secret ingredient."
"Right." He stood up slowly, like his joints hurt. "Dalton, I've been doing this job since you were in elementary school. In that time, I've seen nurses come and go, burn out, flame out, and occasionally spontaneously combust in the break room. But you... you're different tonight."
"Good different or bad different?"
"Aggressively cheerful different. Disturbingly optimistic different." He paused. "Are you on drugs? Too much Zyn and Celcius?"
"I'm high on life, Kellen."
"That's worse." He started to walk away, then turned back. "Whatever it is, bottle it. The rest of us could use some."
As he disappeared into the medication room, Chloe shook her head. "I think that's the most I've ever heard Kellen say at once."
"He's a man of few words."
"He's a man of no words. Usually he just grunts and points." She leaned closer. "Seriously, Jimmy. What's going on? And don't say 'nothing' because you've been grinning like an idiot for six hours."
I looked at her, this young nurse who I'd been mentoring for months, and realized I wanted to tell someone. I wanted to shout it from the rooftops.
"I met someone," I said quietly.
"Ahhhh, I knew it!" Chloe practically bounced in her chair. "Tell me everything. What's her name? What does she do? How did you meet?"
"Her name is Izzy. She's a firefighter. And it's... it's good, Chloe. Really good."
"A firefighter?" Chloe's eyes went wide. "That's so cool. Is she tough?"
I thought about Izzy holding me while I fell apart, about her showing up at my apartment because she'd known something was wrong, about the way she'd taken charge in my kitchen and my bedroom with equal confidence.
"Yeah," I said, unable to keep the dopey smile off my face. "She's tough."
"And she makes you happy."
"Ridiculously happy."
"Good." Chloe patted my arm. "You deserve it. You take care of everyone else all the time. It's nice to see someone taking care of you."
My phone buzzed again.
Izzy
Shift's quiet. Thinking about you.
Same here. Can't wait to see you tomorrow.
Izzy
Me too. Sweet dreams when you get home.
I was still staring at my phone when Kellen reappeared, refilled coffee cup in hand.
"Dalton."
"Yeah?"
"That's the face."
"What face?"
"The face that explains the humming and the love cookies and the aggressive cheerfulness." He took a long sip of coffee. "You're in love."
It wasn't a question.
"Maybe," I said.
"Definitely." Kellen sat back down, studying me like I was a particularly interesting specimen. "How long?"
"How long what?"
"How long have you been in love with her?"
"I didn't say it was a her."
Kellen gave me a look that could have curdled milk. "Dalton."
"Okay, fine. It's a her. And I don't know how long. It's new."
"New love." Kellen nodded sagely. "That explains it. You're in the honeymoon phase. Everything's perfect, the sun shines brighter, the birds sing sweeter, and you make cookies with love as an ingredient."
"You sound like you speak from experience."
"I do." He took a sip of his coffee. "Been married to her for seventeen years. Couldn't be happier."
I stared at him, trying to reconcile this information with the man who spoke in monotone, moved like he was underwater, and treated every shift like a personal affront to his existence was... happily married?
"Really?"
"Really." His expression didn't change one bit. "Best thing that ever happened to me. She thinks I'm funny."
"You're... funny?"
"Hilarious." Still completely deadpan. "She laughs at everything I say. She's obviously got great taste."
I was trying to process this when he stood up, still moving with the enthusiasm of a sloth on sedatives.
"Point is, Dalton, enjoy it. The honeymoon phase doesn't last forever, but if you're lucky, what comes after is even better."
He walked away before I could respond, leaving me sitting there with a strange mix of happiness and something that might have been worry.
But then my phone buzzed again — Izzy sending me a picture of her truck's dashboard with the radio playing our song (we didn't have a song, but apparently we did now) — and the worry disappeared. Everything was perfect. Everything was going to stay perfect.
I was sure of it.