10. Nathan Sr
NATHAN SR
The drive home is painfully long.
I keep both hands on the wheel and let the city roll past without really registering it, then I park in my driveway and sit in the dark with the engine off, staring at the house like it’s going to give me instructions.
My shirt still smells faintly of her, and it makes my skin feel tight in places I can’t explain.
Dinner didn’t go the way it should have.
That’s the mild version.
I treated Athena like she’d walked into my life with a plan in her purse, and I watched her face change when I said what I said, then I let her sit in that silence while I played the role of a man too disciplined to admit he’d just cut someone open with words.
I unlock the front door and step inside, setting my keys down with more force than necessary. The house suddenly feels like a place built for one man to avoid his own thoughts.
My jacket goes over the chair.
My phone goes face down on the counter.
I walk to the kitchen sink, turn the faucet on, and wash my hands like I just came out of Trauma Bay Two. It’s a useless habit in my own home, but it gives my fingers something to do while my mind rewinds the moment I lost control at that table.
Kids get used as weapons.
Tools. Agendas.
I said those words like they were clinical facts, and I watched Athena look like she’d been slapped.
The worst part is I meant them, at least the part that has Cindy’s fingerprints all over it. I’ve lived the version where a woman smiles, sets a trap, then tells the world you’re the monster if you don’t accept the role she wrote for you.
But Athena isn’t Cindy.
Athena moves through life looking for people who need steadiness, and she gives it like it costs her nothing, then she keeps going even when she’s exhausted.
She asked me about being a father, and I made it about being hunted.
I brace my hands on the counter and stare at the tile while the water runs.
Cindy has been too present lately.
The phone call. The pictures. The threats dressed up as concern for my career. It slid under my skin faster than I expected, and when Athena asked a question that should’ve been personal, my brain answered with history.
I shut off the faucet and dry my hands slowly, then I pick up my phone and open the messages with Athena. The last thread is earlier today. A few lines. A few pictures. A few words that still land hot in my body.
I scroll anyway, for proof she was real, for proof I didn’t imagine how open she looked when she trusted me. I type a message then delete it.
Nothing I can write at midnight will undo what I did at dinner, and nothing I can write will be clean enough to say what I actually mean.
I want you in my life, and I’m afraid of what that costs.
I don’t send anything.
Instead I set the phone down again and pace the length of the kitchen, then the living room, then back. My mind keeps building the same picture of the evening and trying to fix it in hindsight.
Her hands around her water glass.
The way her eyes watered, then she looked down like she was trying to hold herself together.
The way she said she was tired when I asked if she wanted to tell me something.
That was the moment I should’ve stayed.
I should’ve taken her hand. I should’ve told her I’d listen, and I should’ve made it impossible for her to think she had to carry anything alone.
I didn’t.
I drove her home and told myself it was respect.
It was fear.
I change into sweats and a t-shirt then sit at the edge of my bed with my elbows on my knees and stare at the floor. My house is quiet enough that I can hear the refrigerator click on and off, and it makes the silence feel staged.
Athena asked about family.
She didn’t ask casually.
She asked like it mattered.
I run a hand through my hair and let my thoughts go where they want to go, even though I don’t enjoy it. If she’s thinking about family, if she’s thinking about children, then something brought that question to her mouth tonight.
It could’ve been Nate.
It could’ve been fear.
It could’ve been a moment where she suddenly realized life moves fast and people lie. Or it could’ve been something else entirely, and I sat there and bullied her into saying nothing.
Tomorrow I’ll fix it. I’ll meet her after her shift, and I’ll talk to her like a man instead of a cautionary tale. I’ll ask what she meant, I’ll listen to the answer, and I’ll be honest about my own boundaries without turning them into a weapon.
I want her, and I want the way she looks when she laughs like she forgets she’s been hurt. I’m not na?ve enough to pretend that means instant commitment, and I’m not arrogant enough to pretend I can keep her without giving something back.
But I can give her honesty. I set an alarm for early.
Sleep comes in pieces, not a clean stretch.
When the morning arrives, I’m already awake.
I move through the house with routine speed, dress in a suit but pack scrubs, knot my tie, check my phone, then hesitate with it in my hand like it’s heavier than it should be.
There’s no message from Athena. No good morning.
No sharp little line that tells me she’s recovered from last night’s conversation.
I tell myself she’s asleep as I get in the car anyway and drive to get some errands done. My shift at Hawthorne doesn’t begin until later, so when I walk in, it’s already busy. Security waves me through. The elevators are full of nurses with clipboards and residents pretending they’re not tired.
I step onto the trauma floor and the day starts moving at full speed. A consult request comes in. A resident wants approval for imaging. A nurse asks for a call back to pediatrics about a transfer.
In the next hour, I’ve already been in one bay and reviewed three charts, signed a stack of paperwork that shouldn’t exist, and I’ve spoken to administration about staffing like they aren’t asking for miracles with half a budget.
Soon after, I catch myself glancing at the corridor that leads toward pediatrics.
It’s automatic.
Athena should’ve been there earlier, moving fast with a tablet tucked against her chest, hair pinned back, eyes alert. She’s always on time. She arrives like she made a promise to herself and refuses to break it.
I check my phone once then set it back down.
No message.
No missed call.
At noon I get pulled into an emergency consult, and for an hour my hands are doing what they were trained to do, my brain locked into action and sequence and control. When it’s finished, I wash up, change gloves, sign the post-op note, and step back into the hallway.
The first thing I do is look toward pediatrics again.
Nothing.
I catch a nurse I trust near the station and keep my voice casual. “Have you seen Athena today?”
The nurse’s expression shifts slightly. “No. I assumed she was out sick. She left early yesterday too.”
Athena doesn’t do sick days unless she’s forced.
I nod once and walk away, dialing the pediatric unit number from memory. The charge nurse answers. I ask for Athena. There’s a brief pause on the line, then the nurse says she hasn’t clocked in.
Frowning, I end the call and keep moving, but my attention is no longer fully on trauma charts. I keep working, keep responding, keep signing off on orders, but my mind is split now, and the part of me that’s watching the clock is louder.
By two, the absence has teeth.
I step into my office, close the door, then call her number. Straight to voicemail.
I hang up and try again. Voicemail.
Now out of options, I text her.
Talk to me, Athena.
No response.
I pace once across the office then stop myself. Pacing won’t solve anything. I grab my badge and leave my office, heading down the corridor toward administration. Human Resources sits two floors down in a corner that smells like printer toner and polite power.
The receptionist looks up when I enter. Her smile is the picture of professionalism. “Dr. Clarke.”
“I need to ask about an employee,” I say, keeping my voice even. “Athena.”
Her eyes flick down toward her screen. “Do you have an appointment?”
“No.”
I keep my stare steady. “It’s urgent.”
She swallows and nods, making a call behind the desk. A moment later she stands and gestures toward a conference room. “Someone will be with you shortly.”
I step inside the room and wait standing, hands behind my back, like I’m waiting for an update in a trauma bay. The walls are bare. The table is too clean. The chairs look designed for discomfort.
A woman walks in carrying a folder.
She’s calm. Mid-forties. The kind of person who can deliver bad news with a neutral face and sleep fine afterward.
“Dr. Clarke,” she says. “I’m Meredith from HR.”
“I’m looking for Athena,” I reply. “She hasn’t reported to pediatrics today.”
Meredith sits and opens the folder. “Athena submitted a resignation this morning.”
The words hit hard enough that my body goes still. “She did what.”
Meredith glances up. “She resigned. Effective immediately.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” I say, and my voice comes out rougher than I intend. “She can’t resign without notice.”
Meredith’s expression doesn’t change. “There was an emergency. She requested separation without notice and cited immediate safety concerns. Under policy, we can accept that without the usual processing period.”
Safety concerns.
My skin goes cold. “What safety concerns?”
Meredith’s gaze stays neutral. “I can’t disclose the details. She contacted us early this morning, she spoke with Employee Relations, and we processed the resignation. Security was notified as a precaution.”
I lean forward slightly, hands flat on the table now. “Was there a threat?”
Meredith pauses. “There was enough information provided that we took it seriously.”
My mind jumps to Cindy, then to Nate, then to the photos that proved someone was watching.
“Did she name someone?” I ask.
Meredith’s eyes hold mine. “No.”
I stand slowly. “Where did she go?”
Meredith closes the folder. “I don’t have that information.”
I stare at her for a beat. “You do.”
Her expression stays calm. “I’m sorry. Even if I did, I wouldn’t be allowed to give it to you.”