Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Beckett
I’m still not sure how I feel about being back home.
At my core, I’m a simple guy. Traveling to new places, helping others, and riding my motorcycle keep me content.
That’s why I typically find myself at small hospitals in tiny towns full of unique residents.
Near the end of my last travel assignment, my mom not so subtly mentioned that it had been a while since I visited her.
I figured I’d kill two birds with one stone and take an assignment at Pacific Care Hospital in my hometown.
On paper, Hemlock, Oregon, seems like the perfect place. In reality, I come home from my shifts in the emergency room questioning my sanity more often than not, wondering if rather than working as a travel nurse, I should switch careers and move to one of those research stations in Antarctica.
I’ve never had this kind of experience in any of the places I’ve worked. Maybe it’s in the water here, because this hospital is overflowing with eccentric people.
For the next thirteen weeks, I’ll spend all my working hours in the middle of a raging inferno of ridiculous scenarios.
Adults sticking things in inappropriate places.
You didn’t just “fall” on it. Do I look that dumb to you?
College kids complaining about headaches.
You’re dehydrated from Thirsty Thursday. Chug some water.
People with “mysterious” stomach pains that only happen when they eat.
You have irritable bowel syndrome. Stop eating cheese.
Leaning back, I twirl my pen and remind myself of the reasons I became a nurse. Because this hospital is testing my limits and I haven’t even been back in town for a full week.
I close my eyes, inhale, and silently chant the mantra I created for times when my sanity is being pushed to the edge.
I became a nurse because I love helping people and wanted to follow in my mom’s footsteps.
To help ease the pain of others, even if temporarily.
To be their support when they’re frightened and all alone.
To be an advocate for those who feel voiceless and to fight for the care they rightfully deserve.
As I exhale, I open my eyes. Good. I feel calmer already.
Sort of.
The emergency department is relatively quiet tonight.
Not that I’d ever utter those words out loud.
Doing so would be an easy way to tempt fate and get a massive influx of patients, and the hospital is already understaffed.
Yesterday, the custodian mentioned how empty the ED was, and within an hour, an entire high school soccer team came in with a horrific case of food poisoning.
It got so bad that a couple of us had to step outside for fresh air before we ended up sharing a room with one of the scrawny kids.
The mom in charge of the snacks that day better be banned from ever doing it again. Yikes.
When I say it’s quiet in here, I mean the only sounds are the incessant beeping of monitors, the squeaking of orthotic shoes on tile floors, and rolling of hospital beds to new destinations.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and let out a deep sigh, willing away the headache that’s threatening to arrive. I have a long night ahead of me. Raking my fingers through my blond hair, I turn back to charting my last patient.
A twenty-four-year-old man who dislocated his shoulder while putting his jacket on.
Before that, I saw an older woman who cut herself with a plastic spork.
Before her, a child with three Legos stuck up his nose.
I was less annoyed with that one because that kid must have been very determined to get those things wedged into such a tiny nose.
Eyes gritty from staring at this screen for so long, I blink and dig my eyedrops out of my pocket. I slept in my contacts last night because I was too exhausted to bother removing them, and I’m paying for it now.
“Turn that frown upside down. You’re too pretty to look so melancholy,” Tabitha, who’s suddenly appeared behind me, says. “We aren’t that bad here. Or maybe we are and I’ve become immune to it,” she mutters.
Tabitha is the charge nurse in the ED. She can’t be more than five feet tall with salt-and-pepper hair and a sharp tongue.
She has the kind of brazen personality that a person wants to hate but can’t because she naturally garners so much respect.
Plus, the strength she displays despite her short stature is downright admirable.
Just yesterday, she took down a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound man who had three too many shots of tequila from a bachelor party gone awry.
I spin in the squeaky chair at the nurses’ station and zero in on her.
She does the same to me, surveying my heavily tattooed forearms. Both arms are covered in full sleeves with intricate botanical designs that weave all the way up past my shoulders. A single eyebrow of hers arches up, and a subtle nod of approval sparkles in her green eyes.
I pushed up the sleeves of the black shirt under my scrubs earlier because I was getting warm, but now, stomach sinking, I tug them down. Suddenly feeling too aware of my own skin.
But Tabitha interrupts my motion by touching my shoulder. “Don’t roll those down on my account. I enjoy having nice things to look at while I work,” she quips. “Keeps the employee morale up, you know?”
I groan. “You’re a walking, talking HR violation, you know that?”
She gives me a dismissive wave. “Eh. Whatever. You’re only here for a few months, and I’m too close to retirement to care. Now, roll those up again. I want to see how far those beauties go.” With a joking wink, she wags a finger.
Head dropped back, I let out a sigh loud enough to stop a few nearby nurses in their tracks.
“Don’t worry about him,” Tabitha teases. “I’m breaking him in.” The cackle she lets out echoes through the ER. “You know how much I love a challenge.”
Dear god. I should’ve chosen a different hospital.
She pulls out the chair next to me and sits. “Have you found housing yet?” she asks. “Or are you staying with your mom?”
My hackles rise at the idea. I love my mom. I would die for her. But at thirty-four, I cannot move back in with her. Even if it’s temporary.
“I found a short-term rental on the edge of town. I move in next week.”
Tabitha hums in approval. I’ve known this woman for less than a week, but damn she’s annoyingly easy to talk to.
And she knows it. Before she can respond, though, her phone goes off.
With a roll of her eyes, she looks down at it.
“Ugh. Hold on, honey. I need to take care of someone’s mess.
Again. I swear, this kind of incompetence will put me into an early grave.
” She hauls herself up and speed walks to room four as fast as her tiny legs can carry her.
A chuckle escapes me. I do not envy the person about to suffer her wrath.
With another spin, I face the computer again and click on another chart, though without my permission, my mind drifts to my temporary housing situation. My mom does live in town, but I don’t think I could handle sleeping on the couch in her one-bedroom condo for three straight months.
I’ve been there a matter of days, and already, my back is making interesting cracking noises.
On top of that, I’ve already replaced her car battery, fixed her leaky kitchen sink, patched a handful of holes, listened to ungodly amounts of small-town gossip, and watched countless old-school rom-coms with her.
Though in return, I’ve consumed enough of her homemade baked goods to keep me satiated for days.
Since my dad left when I was a baby, it’s been the two of us.
Even now, my mom remains my relentless constant.
She’s been my role model for as long as I can remember.
Growing up, I’d get picked on because, while all the other boys wanted to be just like their dads, I admired my mom deeply and wanted to be just like her.
But I still need my own space. While I’m in town, I’m expected at her house every Friday night for dinner, a movie, and a batch of cookies.
Independence as well as free food? It’s the best of both worlds.
In college, my goal was to become a travel nurse. With healthcare shortages across the country, I figured it would be a perfect opportunity to expand my knowledge, help people, and satisfy my wanderlust.
But I wasn’t prepared for how lonely it could be. I’m fine being alone, but I don’t enjoy feeling lonely. Often, people don’t understand the difference. While I enjoy my solitude, I still long for emotional connection.
To connect with a person who understands me on a deeper level.
Who isn’t afraid to melt my icy exterior.
Who can be patient with me.
The lasting connections I’ve formed since college have been few and far between. I’ve always been a tad aloof. Many see me as standoffish and don’t take the time to get to know me, assuming I think I’m better than them. In reality, I’m just a shy, socially anxious guy.
A six-foot-four, socially anxious guy with broad shoulders and tattoos crawling up his arms and down his legs.
Then there’s the jet-black motorcycle I restored a few years ago.
I can be intimidating. I get that.
But I’m nowhere near the rough-around-the-edges kind of guy I’m often viewed as.
Unless my cat is threatened. . .then a whole other side of me surfaces.
Like the saying goes—appearances aren’t everything. There’s always an unexpected depth that lurks beneath the surface, waiting to be discovered.
I’m an avid bread baker—and yes, I’ve named my sourdough starter—with a rescued orange tabby cat named Barbara. Yet from the outside, no one would believe it. Nor would they believe I pour my emotions into a journal every night because it helps me process my thoughts.
What can I say? I’m a dichotomy of quirks and passions. I can’t change the perception of others, and I refuse to waste energy trying.
Maybe it’s the endless stream of old-school romance movies I’ve been watching with my mom, or maybe it’s the sluggish pace of the emergency department at this time of night, but I find myself consumed with thoughts of how nice it would be to share my life with someone.
To find a person to enjoy the quiet moments with.
To explore new places with. To create everlasting memories with.
I doubt that’s in the cards for me, but a guy can dream, right?
Throughout my travels, I’ve had fleeting relationships here and there.
Like my job, they’ve all had an expiration date.
Would I be willing try long distance? Yeah.
But I’ve yet to find a woman who thought I was worth the trouble.
Instead, they’re quick to lay out excuses for why they’re okay walking away.
You work too much.
I’m passionate about my career.
You’re too quiet.
I process my thoughts and feelings more effectively in silence.
You’re boring.
I find comfort in living a simple life.
After each failed relationship, I’ve closed myself off a little more, uneasy being vulnerable around people who don’t really try to understand me, who can’t look below the surface. Why give a person my heart, knowing they’ll break it and then hand the shattered pieces back to me?
Even so, I can’t help but hold out the smallest ounce of hope in my heart that, one day, I’ll find the right person. That flicker of optimism persists, quietly lingering in the depths of my soul, hidden deep beneath the layers of old wounds and new wishes, waiting to be rediscovered.
I rub my eyes and wince at the sandpaper sensation, then blow out a long breath. If I keep thinking so deeply, I’ll exhaust myself before my shift is over.
Later I’ll scribble these thoughts onto the pages of my journal.
Right now I need to shut the door to my emotions and concentrate on the patient chart before me—or else Tabitha may strangle me with her stethoscope.