Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Mia
I had been frantic. It was the last thing Gabe needed to happen, the thing that he dreaded most. To have a woman, me, distract him from his focus on football.
It felt odd now to realize he had come over to break it off with me and I’d lost my shit so bad that he stayed.
He stayed with me all damn night while I was sleeping.
Every time I thought about it my insides tumbled, my world spun.
Work this week had been hell. It should have been the distraction I needed, but no matter how professional I was, no matter how much I cared about the fragile lives of the people who ended up in our emergency room, cared about preventing their deaths, fixing the torn flesh, replacing the blood and guts and making people whole again, my heart ached.
By Wednesday, it got bad enough that I thought maybe I should get an electrocardiogram.
It didn’t help that I’d been living on coffee and pastry as if I were French, sans the cigarettes.
The only thing that soothed me, allowed me to perform—aside from my training and my indomitable sense of responsibility—was remembering that he’d stayed. That he cared.
His spending the night at my bedside was the most convincing display of caring, of love that I’d felt in a long time, light years past anything Paul ever did for me or showed me.
More than Dad ever did until he knew he was dying, until he moved heaven and earth to get me this job because he knew I wanted it.
But that wasn’t fair. I stared at the computer screen where I sat, behind the emergency room reception station, trying to concentrate on the shift schedule.
One of the less glamorous parts of the job.
The kind I couldn’t find important enough to concentrate on no matter how much I stared.
There was a game tomorrow night, the Militia’s first and only Thursday night game and Tate had given me a ticket.
Even though he was still injured, he would be on the sidelines, so I’d be sitting alone.
Just as well. That way I could stare at Gabe from afar in peace without worrying about being judged.
I should have been upset or sad or something, but I’d been used to admiring Gabe from afar and so it just felt normal.
Except for the ache of missing him, his late-night calls even though we talked about Denise, his charm—damn it.
I still wanted him. And for some unknown reason I had this crazy notion that I might still have a shot with him. That he might put me ahead of football.
In spite of Denise, in spite of football, in spite of the fact that he told me we were over.
In spite of every ounce of logic, common sense, and self-preservation, I was hopeful.
Because he had stayed with me all night and watched over me.
And I made him leave so he wouldn’t miss football practice, more worried about it than he was.
And somehow it all seemed perfectly natural, like it was a preview of things to come, like it was a scene that would be repeated again and again in our future and would seem normal and . . . like heaven.
So I smiled at the computer screen and checked on the emergency room and ICU admittance data.
Boom. I saw the name. Maria Wyatt. ICU. No. Gabe. I needed to talk to him, to see him.
My phone buzzed in my hip pocket. I slipped it out and put it to my ear without looking because that was SOP for the emergency room staff. “Mia Lane,” I said in my official voice.
“Mia.” It was him, as if he’d been listening to my thoughts, ready to grant my wishes.
“Gabe. How are you? Is everything—”
“I need to see you, to talk to you. Are you at work?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll come to you.” He disconnected. I stood, stunned, until the shriek of an ambulance split the air and people jumped to action, including me.
I went to the communications station to check on the status on board and breathed in relief.
Nothing life threatening. I met the EMTs rolling the patient on a gurney and directed them to a room.
It had been a relatively slow day, so there was plenty of capacity.
Following the EMTs out of the room, I closed the door behind me and paged Dr. Gratzki. When I looked up, Gabe stood there.
“Hello, Mia.”
He looked tragic and I melted into him the instant he opened his arms.
“Is your mother—?” My words were muffled into his chest.
“She’s holding her own. I was on my way in to see her, but I wanted to talk to you first if you have a minute.”
“For you, anything. I’ll let them know at ER reception.”
After I checked out, because I could since I was in charge, I led him down a wide corridor toward a small cafeteria.
We sat at the table in the farthest corner of the room, away from everyone.
His eyes were steady, he was clean shaven, wearing a turquoise polo shirt with jeans, not skinny jeans because his legs were too muscular.
I recognized Denise’s wardrobe interference and wondered randomly what he’d have in his closet if he’d shopped for himself.
He took a sip of the coffee he’d brought in with him and when he put it down, without asking, I slid my hand over and stole a long gulp. It was regular cream only. Nothing flavored, nothing fancy. I decided his polo shirt would have been blue or white, the team colors.
He didn’t react, not even a smile. My damn heart skittered and I resisted putting a hand to my chest, swearing I’d get that test done soon.
“Let me guess,” I said. “You wanted to tell me again that we’re no good for each other.”
“I wanted to tell you I want us to be together, Mia.” He sighed, looked away. “But I need you to be patient with me.”
“Let me guess. We wait until after the season.”
“You’re not guessing. You know me. And football.”
It was almost a victory. I held onto my poise. It was easy not to react since I didn’t know whether to throw myself over the table and kiss him or pick up his coffee and throw it in his face. Didn’t know whether to laugh or bawl my eyes out. I was leaning toward the crying.
It was what I’d expected. But it wasn’t what I’d wanted.
I did not want to be his next Denise.