Chapter 6
MAYA
I've been staring at the same job posting for twenty minutes.
Pediatric Nurse - Hartford Children's Hospital. Full-time. Competitive salary. Benefits. Everything I should want.
My finger hovers over the "Apply Now" button.
I can't do it, can't even pretend I can do it.
Emma's at some prenatal appointment with Chase, and took Ethan with them because apparently they're making it a family thing. I'm alone in the guest room with my laptop and a cup of coffee that's gone cold, trying to convince myself I'm capable of being responsible for someone else's life.
Spoiler: I'm not.
The list of job sites is still open on my browser. I've looked at seventeen postings this morning: pediatrics, emergency, and even a few administrative positions that don't require direct patient care. I haven't applied to any of them.
My hands are shaking, and I press them flat against my thighs where the fresh cuts sting under my jeans.
The pain helps, grounds me, reminds me I'm still here even when I wish I weren't.
I should apply. I need money, need a job, need to prove I'm not useless.
But every time I think about walking into a hospital, about putting on scrubs, about being responsible for a child's life, I'm back in Lily's room watching her monitor flatline, feeling her ribs crack under my hands while I did compressions.
Six years old, and I couldn't save her.
What right do I have to try again?
My laptop pings with another job alert. I close it without looking.
Max jumps onto the bed, meowing his judgment. He's been following me around for the past week like he knows I'm a mess. Emma keeps joking that he's a traitor, that he's supposed to be Chase's cat, but Max has decided I'm his person now. Honestly, I'll take whatever affection I can get.
"I know," I tell him. "I'm pathetic."
He headbutts my hand, purring.
At least someone doesn't think I'm a complete disaster.
There's a knock on the door. "Maya?"
Jackson. Shit.
"Yeah?"
The door opens a crack. He doesn't come in, just stands in the doorway looking uncomfortable. He's in jeans and a black hoodie.
"You eaten today?"
I glance at the clock. It's past noon. "I had coffee."
"That's not food." He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. "Want to get out of here for a bit? There's a coffee shop downtown that doesn't suck."
Going out sounds exhausting. Being around people sounds worse. But sitting in this room staring at job postings I'll never apply to isn't exactly productive either.
"Sure. Why not?"
His eyebrows raise, like he expects me to say no. "Give me five minutes."
He disappears, and I hear him moving around downstairs.
I pull on shoes and grab my jacket, check my reflection in the mirror, and immediately wish I hadn't.
I look like shit: dark circles under my brown eyes, my curls a mess because I haven't bothered to properly care for them in days.
The sweater I'm wearing is an old one, hanging loose on my frame.
I used to care about what I looked like, used to put effort into my appearance.
Now I'm just trying to make it through each day without falling apart.
Jackson's waiting by the front door when I come downstairs. He doesn't comment on how long it took me to get ready, doesn't mention that I look like death. Just grabs his keys and heads outside.
The coffee shop is fifteen minutes away.
We don't talk during the drive. Jackson plays some indie rock station at low volume, and I watch Hartford pass by the window.
It's a nice city, bigger than Pinewood, more alive.
Trees are turning orange and red, and leaves are scattered across sidewalks. October is in full swing.
The coffee shop is tucked between a bookstore and a vintage clothing place. It's the kind of spot that probably has overpriced lattes and baristas with nose rings. I'm not wrong. The guy behind the counter has three piercings in his left nostril, and the menu board advertises oat milk options.
"What do you want?" Jackson asks.
"Just black coffee."
"You need to eat something."
"I'm not hungry."
He orders anyway: two black coffees and two turkey sandwiches. I don't argue. I don't have the energy.
We find a table in the back corner, away from the handful of other customers. Jackson slides my coffee across the table and unwraps his sandwich without comment.
I wrap my hands around the cup, letting the heat seep into my palms. It's grounding, real, something I can focus on that isn't the screaming inside my head.
"So," Jackson says after a minute. "Is job hunting going well?"
I almost laugh. "You could say that."
"Found anything?"
"Plenty of postings. Haven't applied to any."
He takes a bite of his sandwich, chewing slowly. "Why not?"
Because I'm terrified. Because I killed a kid through my incompetence. Because I can't trust myself not to fuck up again.
"I just haven't found the right fit yet."
"Bullshit."
I look up sharply. He's watching me with those green eyes that see too much.
"Excuse me?"
"That's bullshit, and we both know it." He sets his sandwich down. "You're one of the best pediatric nurses in the province. Emma's told me about the kids you've helped, the lives you've saved. So why aren't you applying?"
My throat tightens. "Emma doesn't know what she's talking about."
"Pretty sure she does."
"Well, she's wrong." The words come out harsher than I mean them to. "I'm not good at my job. I'm not good at anything."
"That's also bullshit."
"Stop saying that."
"Then stop lying."
We glare at each other across the table.
This is familiar territory: bickering like an old married couple, pushing each other's buttons.
We used to do this all the time when I lived with his family.
He'd make some comment about my music taste being garbage, I'd fire back about his hockey obsession being cult-like, back and forth until his mom told us to take it outside.
But this feels different. Like we're dancing around something neither of us wants to name.
"Everyone knows about Lily," I say finally. My voice comes out flat. "Everyone knows I lost a patient. A six-year-old with pneumonia that turned septic. I was her nurse. I should have caught it sooner."
Jackson's expression doesn't change. "Emma said it wasn't your fault. Said the infection moved too fast."
"Emma's being nice." I pick at the sandwich wrapper. "I should have seen the signs, should have pushed for more tests, should have—"
"Should have what? Been psychic?"
"Been better." The words crack on the way out. "I'm a nurse, Jackson. It's my job to keep kids safe, to notice when something's wrong. And I didn't. She died because I wasn't good enough."
The coffee shop suddenly feels too small, too bright. The couple at the next table is laughing about something, and it grates against my skin.
"You know what the worst part is?" I'm talking before I can stop myself.
"I can't do it anymore. Can't walk into a hospital without seeing her face.
Can't look at a patient without thinking about all the ways I could fuck up and get them killed.
I've been staring at job postings all morning, and I can't even click 'apply' because the thought of being responsible for another kid's life makes me want to throw up. "
Jackson's quiet for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is steady, certain. "You didn't kill her, Maya."
"You don't know that."
"Yeah, I do." He leans forward. "Because Emma told me what happened.
Told me the whole medical team reviewed the case and found that nobody could have predicted how fast the infection spread.
Told me you did everything right, and Lily died anyway because sometimes that's what happens.
It's not fair, and it's not your fault."
Tears burn behind my eyes, and I blink them back. "Doesn't change anything. She's still dead."
"No, it doesn't change that. But it also doesn't mean you killed her."
I want to argue, want to list all the things I could have done differently, all the signs I missed, all the ways I failed. But sitting here with Jackson looking at me like I'm not a complete disaster, I can't find the words.
"I'm scared," I admit. The confession feels like stepping off a cliff. "I'm scared to go back. Scared I'll fuck up again. I'm scared I'll be responsible for another kid dying, and I won't be able to live with myself."
"That's fair."
"It is?"
"Yeah." He picks up his coffee. "Being scared doesn't make you a bad nurse. It makes you human."
The knot in my chest loosens, not much, but enough that I can breathe a little easier.
"When did you become a therapist?" I try for humor, try to rebuild the walls.
"I'm not. I'm just a guy who knows what it's like to fuck up and be terrified of doing it again." He pauses. "Last season, I made a call during the playoffs that cost us the game. Wrong play at the wrong time. We lost in overtime."
"I remember. Emma was pissed."
"Everyone was pissed. And I spent the entire off-season replaying that moment, thinking about what I should have done differently, terrified that when the new season started, I'd make the same mistake, freeze up when it mattered."
I study him across the table. "But you didn't."
"No. Because freezing up wasn't an option, the team needed me to lead, so I led." He meets my eyes. "You're going to figure this out, Maya. Maybe not today. Maybe not for a while. But you will."
"How do you know?"
"Because you're you. And you don't quit."
The certainty in his voice makes my throat tight. He believes it, actually believes I'm capable of putting myself back together. I wish I had that kind of faith in myself.
We sit in silence for a minute, and I force myself to take a bite of the sandwich. It tastes like cardboard, but Jackson's right. I need to eat something.
"Thanks," I say quietly. "For this. For listening and not telling me I'm being dramatic."