Chapter Twenty-One
Morgan had one foot through the door and the other, waiting outside of Monterey Coast General’s surgical ward.
Twice she had thrown her weight forward, ignoring the curious glances of an old man reading a paper in the waiting room, only to come across a thick, impenetrable, and very much figurative wall blocking her way.
She had spent her entire adult life working in a hospital, yet she felt as though she was standing at the gates of the Underworld, burning flames, gnashing of teeth, waiting for her when she knew quite certainly that she didn’t belong there.
Morgan had already done the hard part—that was walking into the hospital in the first place. Even so, she just couldn’t seem to get her foot to move forward.
The sounds of the beeping machines, the faint scent of antiseptic, and the low murmur of nurses chatting behind the desk all made her want to turn around, and march right back out to the automatic sliding doors leading to a moderately sized parking lot dotted with Monterey pines.
But she kept firm.
Or more so, her body rooted itself to the linoleum floors like a stubborn oak in a windy park.
“For fuck’s sake, Morgan,” she muttered under her breath, keeping her eyes on her feet in case she caught the old man’s eye again.
She was a neurosurgeon. One of the best in her field.
Other doctors had gone out of their way to get her advice on a case.
She could walk through that door to the nurse’s station and ask about the progress of the cyclist. She could take the news, whatever it was, like a damn champ.
She could put on that stoic mask covering every crack, hiding the jagged edges of her own fear and doubts, and walk with her head held high.
With a deep breath in, Morgan did just that, albeit with a nervous shuffle to the nurse’s station. Her fists were tight, nails biting into her palms.
“Um… Good morning,” Morgan said, her voice coming out far softer than she had intended. She cleared her throat and tried again. “I’m here to see someone.”
“Who are you looking for, hun?” the nurse asked, not bothering to look up from whatever she was writing in the patient file.
“The female cyclist who got hit by the car two days ago,” Morgan said, her chest tightening like it was caught in a vise grip.
What if the woman hadn’t made it? What if she had succumbed to her injuries en route to the hospital, even when it had seemed unlikely at the time?
“Are you family?”
“Um… Friend,” Morgan lied, clearing the lump in her throat.
Normally, she wouldn’t lie to a nurse, but she didn’t know what else to say.
I’m the doctor who froze. Who couldn’t help because I was too busy wrestling the many panicked thoughts in my head instead of living up to my Hippocratic oath? It wasn’t exactly a shining moment.
The nurse gave Morgan a quick once-over. Her brown eyes narrowed before she plastered on a smile. “She’s in room thirty-four, the third room on the left. Visiting hours end in ten minutes.”
“Thank you.” Morgan was just about to float away—she couldn’t feel her feet anymore—when she stopped and turned back to the desk. “How is she doing?”
The nurse’s face twisted for a beat like she’d misplaced a thought, and then suddenly, her expression brightened like a lightbulb flicking on above her head.
“Oh yes, of course. Marianne Voortman. Let me just get her file.” The nurse fetched it from a pile of other files and began flipping through the chart, glancing up briefly at Morgan before she said, “She had a GCS of ten when she was brought in. Confused speech, withdrawing from pain. All typical signs of a moderate head injury.”
Morgan already knew all of that. She hadn’t just been on the scene; she’d watched that poor girl get tossed like a rag doll. But she wasn’t going to admit that she, a neurosurgeon, had stood back, while someone else had taken charge. Be it an EMT who knew exactly what they were doing, but still.
“She’s been awake on and off,” the nurse went on. “No signs of major brain trauma on the CT.”
Morgan nodded, and her jaw tightened as she absorbed the information like a sponge.
That was one thing about herself she both loved and despised; her ability to remember all the details of every patient she had ever treated.
She could remember their tumors, their stats, their wishes, and their dreams. “Any fractures?”
“Fractured right ankle. She went into surgery yesterday to stabilize it. We’ve been keeping a close eye on her vitals and she’s responding well. Though it’ll be a few days before we know the full extent of the cognitive impact.”
“Thank you,” Morgan said softly, turning away to let the nurse get back to her work. With another deep breath, hoping it would unclench her chest, she made her way down the hallway, glancing at the room numbers until she found the right one.
The blinds were tilted open just enough for Morgan to glance through the window without stepping inside.
Marianne was asleep, her ankle propped up on a pillow, her blonde hair in a messy halo around her head.
Despite the faint pallor in her cheeks, she looked like she was just catching up on some sleep.
Her face was as calm and serene as if she were simply lost in a dream.
Even the dead sometimes looked as though they were just sleeping.
“I thought you might show up here at some point,” said a voice right behind her.
Morgan snapped her head back only to come face to face with Sydney.
Sweet, lovely Sydney with those light blue eyes, with that full perfect mouth, top and bottom lip equally as thick, and those faint freckles on her tanned skin that made Morgan think of the stars dotting the sky at Pfeiffer Campground.
For a second there, Morgan was hit with a feeling so intense she couldn’t tell if it was dragging her down or lifting her up.
Definitely lifting her up.
It was the kind of rush that tingled through her veins and spread through her chest like wildfire. That unmistakable, breath-stealing feeling of seeing someone you’ve missed for far too long––in her case; two days––to cause every nerve in her body to hum and sing.
Morgan opened her mouth to speak. She wanted to relay this newfound feeling to Sydney, but her words died in her throat.
What did you say to a woman you had spent the last few days completely ignoring? How did you apologize to a woman who had shown up at your doorstep only for you to play dead behind the curtains?
Morgan didn’t deserve her.
Sydney deserved so much more than a middle-aged woman stuck in a mid-life crisis, second-guessing every decision she’d ever made, unraveling her life thread by thread.
“I just spoke to the doctor,” Sydney said, glancing over Morgan’s shoulder to where Marianne still lay sleeping. “No signs of intracranial bleeding or swelling. Just a moderate concussion. Her family just left a minute ago. Probably why she’s so exhausted.”
Morgan let out a slow breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
Marianne was going to be just fine. She’d be back on her bike in no time.
Hopefully steering clear of sleek silver sedans.
Morgan had given little thought to the man who had accidentally hit the cyclist, but she had a feeling that one of those many cards by the windowsill, and perhaps even one of those pots of flowers on the table, was from him.
“How are you doing?” Sydney asked, cutting through Morgan’s swirling thoughts.
Or her plans for an escape. Or anything that would help her slip away from the woman she undoubtedly cared about, might even love.
The thought made her sick, but in a good way.
It was like standing on a balcony of a skyscraper, watching the world below.
She was convinced that sticking around would only hurt Sydney.
The woman deserved better. She deserved someone who didn’t come with a fleet-sized baggage of issues accompanying her everywhere.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.” Sydney shot like a bullet, her expression unwavering, those lovely eyes piercing through Morgan’s as if trying to sift through her thoughts like they were files.
“Why ask me then if you already know the answer?” Morgan shot back, feeling unexpectedly defensive, even though all she truly wanted was to tuck that stray strand of hair behind Sydney’s ear and let her fingers brush against the woman’s soft, silky skin.
She couldn’t possibly live without feeling the warmth of Sydney’s cheek against her palm again, hearing her bubbling laugh, or watching her paint the world with colors far brighter than reality.
Sydney seemed unbothered by Morgan’s sharp tone and instead sighed heavily. “Why didn’t you tell me about Emily? About the reason you moved out here?”
“You didn’t ask.”
It was only half true. Sydney had poked in her past but not with enough persistence to make Morgan feel like she had to reveal a deeper part of herself. The poking had been merely surface-level, barely scratching the surface, exactly as Morgan had wanted it… or not.
Another sigh, this one even heavier. “You’re right, Morgan. I didn’t ask you about your past, or your sessions with Dr. Henry, or why you pull back whenever you feel like you’ve given too much of yourself… because I was scared. I’ve been too scared to get to know—”
“Scared?” Morgan interrupted, frowning. “Why would you be too scared?”
“Because you’re like a feral cat.”
“A what?”
Sydney bit at her lip, seemingly stifling a smile, and glanced down at the floor. “A feral cat,” she repeated. “You’re skittish, Morgan. I can offer you all the food in the world, and you’ll eat it, but the moment I get too close, you run away.”
Morgan scratched at her forehead. “A feral cat,” she said resignedly. “That’s really the best comparison you can come up with?”
“It was off the top of my head,” Sydney said with a lazy flourish of her hand. “I’m sure there’s a more fitting comparison out there somewhere, but you get what I’m saying, don’t you?”
Morgan stepped forward, leaving just two feet in between them.
If she had any common sense, she’d create some distance and put a meaningful gap between them.
But common sense had slipped out the door when she’d gone on that camping trip, when she’d led Sydney into the forest and kissed her until the world had stopped.
It was a chain reaction that had led her to a road trip along Highway 1, where she had been both nervous and tremendously excited to spend the night with Sydney.
An entire night. Just the two of them. Away from everything and anything.
But like everything else lately, Morgan seemed to fuck it all up.
“I want to know you,” Sydney said, fingers fluttering as if she wanted to reach forward and wrap her hand around Morgan’s. But she didn’t, and Morgan was glad for it. One touch and she would melt.
“The real you,” Sydney went on. “The you behind that mask you wear, behind that fortress you’ve built up.
I want to know the kind of person who buys an Emma Woodhouse scented candle, who chooses bubble tea over an iced coffee, who paints the sunset—which is orange and pink by the way—with blues and grays, who eats three camping hot dogs like a starving child.
You’re a complicated novel I can’t put down, Morgan. And over the last few weeks—”
“Visiting hours are over,” a nurse in blue scrubs declared, jerking her thumb toward the door.
“Next time is this evening. Come back then.” She turned on her heel, completely oblivious to the fact that, if she hadn’t interrupted—hadn’t popped the balloon that was Morgan and Sydney with a giant needle—Morgan might have succumbed to the feeling bursting in her chest. She might have pulled Sydney close and kissed her so deeply that her entire past blurred, and the idea of starting over, a new fresh beginning, felt more possible than ever before.
But the nurse had interrupted. The balloon had popped.
A sign, perhaps.
“I have to go.” Morgan backed up. “I’m sorry… but I just…”
“It’s Vince’s birthday party this weekend,” Sydney said, stepping forward as if she was trying to close the gap when Morgan was doing all she could to widen it. “You’re on the guest list.”
“I’m not going to make it,” Morgan stammered, turning sharply away from Sydney.
Without another word or a backward glance, she rushed through the hospital halls, her pace somewhere between jogging and walking.
She was desperate to get out of there. When the sliding doors finally hissed open and the sunlight hit her face, tears came, spilling down her cheeks like a dam wall finally breaking.