Chapter 12 Steven
Chapter twelve
Steven
I’m late.
Only by ten, maybe twelve minutes, but the ER doesn’t care. The day has already started without me, running full throttle like a freight train I’m now expected to board at high-speed. A nurse shoves a chart into my hands before I even reach the desk. No time for hellos.
“Room four’s waiting,” she says, already halfway down the hall.
I nod, blink, try to reset.
But my mind is still on Emma. It’s always on her lately. I don’t know where I went wrong. We didn’t fight last night like I expected. But we didn’t talk either.
I walk into room four and completely forget to check the chart.
“Remind me what brings you in?” I ask the patient, who’s clearly wearing a brace on his wrist. The nurse, Sheila, gives me a look, but I pretend not to see it, pretend this is all a part of the process.
He tells me what happened, rates his pain.
We go through the motions quickly. It’s a simple fix, yet I still find myself distracted.
I forget his discharge paperwork and have to circle back with a stammering apology like it’s my first day.
And it doesn’t stop there. In room seven, I examine the wrong leg.
I realize it halfway through and have a clumsy recovery. I try to joke that all of this is normal. The patient doesn’t say anything, but Sheila doesn’t hide her concern this time.
“You good, Dr. Jones?” she asks.
I lie. “Yeah. Just a slow start.”
Except, it’s not. It’s not slow. It’s just loud—in my head, where everything feels crammed and knotted and spiraling out of rhythm. I’m distracted. Rattled. Like I’m operating in someone else’s body.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it through one more exam then check between patients.
Emma: Nanny’s sick. I’m grabbing the baby and taking her to Lola’s before my meeting.
Short. Informational. No room for reply.
And I don’t need to ask why she didn’t even check with me—she already knows I wouldn’t be able to leave.
Wouldn’t think to leave. That’s the problem, isn’t it?
She’s been managing things without me for so long that I’ve somehow convinced myself that it’s fine.
That showing up at my job is showing up enough.
But lately, it’s like we’re speaking two different languages, and neither of us is bothering to translate. She says I don’t ask what she needs and she’s right. I act like doing the right things should count for something, but I haven’t stopped to ask if they’re the right things for her.
We’ll talk tonight, and I’ll ask her to tell me everything she needs. I’ll listen, I’ll learn, I’ll be a safe space for her again.
My phone buzzes, this time it’s the group chat with my sisters.
Someone’s dropped a link to the usual karaoke spot with the words BE THERE OR BE SQUARE under them. I don’t even look to see who said it before shoving my phone back into my pocket.
Vacation. With family. In a week.
I haven’t gone to see them in almost three years. I don’t know what I’ll be going home to. And with everything happening with Emma, I have no idea the kind of us her and I will be then.
I want to be the us we were in the beginning.
Fifteen years ago. Our first date, she sang “Unwritten” by Natasha Bedingfield at the karaoke bar and absolutely butchered it, then she dared me to do something more embarrassing.
I took her dancing the next weekend at some dusty hole-in-the-wall where we two-stepped until our legs gave out.
She was fearless and bright and warm in a way that made me feel like I’d walked into the sun and found it smiling back.
That woman still exists. She’s just tired. She’s been carrying more than she should have to, and I’ve been too busy, too tired, too single-minded to notice I’ve stopped showing up like I used to.
I need to fix this. I will fix it.
“Help!”
The scream cuts through the hallway like a blade. I spin toward it, already running.
Room Nine. Ava’s voice. Urgent.
When I reach the doorway, it’s vicious chaos.
A man—unkempt and wild-eyed—is flailing on the bed, thrashing violently while three nurses attempt to restrain him. One is nearly elbowed in the face. Another is trying to anchor him to the bed by restraining an ankle with both hands.
“Someone get security!” I yell, launching in to help.
I land across the patient’s chest, using my weight to pin him.
He bucks hard, nearly throwing me off. My elbow jams into the mattress, ribs pressing against his shoulder.
He’s strong—stronger than I expected. I use my full weight to hold him down as best as I can, but he writhes under me.
He tries everything, biting, kicking, spitting.
No signs of calming down in sight. “Call security!” I yell again.
He bucks hard. One leg kicks out, hits something—or someone—with a crack. I hear the slam of a body hitting the wall. I can’t look. I just press harder, digging my forearm against his collarbone, trying to keep him down.
He’s fighting like he doesn’t know who or where he is.
He hisses words that make no sense, spit splattering against my face. I tighten my grip. “Hold him,” I tell the nurse trying jumping in to help.
The door behind me bursts open, and two guards rush in. Finally. Relief stutters through me, and I look up.
It’s just for a second, but it’s a second too long.
The patient surges, causing my grip to slip.
His arm breaks free and he slams into my shoulder, throwing me back into the wall.
My head snaps backward and a blinding pain rips down the center of it, then something wet trickles down the back of my neck.
Suddenly, everything goes white and fuzzy.
I hear yelling, boots squeaking, metal clanging. It’s loud at first then fades fast.
The world tilts. The room is sideways. Something hard and cold hits my cheek then…nothing.