Chapter 14
The Arrhythmia
Robyn
Chicago’s weather finally settled into spring.
Once the crabapple blossoms fully sprouted, their colorful petals and new pale-green leaves drifting loose across the sidewalk, there are no surprise puffer-coat days.
It’s been six weeks since I left Nate on the hospital garden benches.
I refused to look back, and yes, every step away from him bruised my heart even more.
Sometimes, you have to hurt yourself so someone else won’t.
My shift today’s wrapping up early enough for happy hour.
I got held up by an ER consult that came through just as I was signing out, so everyone’s already there or on their way.
The lounge is empty except for the hum of the vending machine and the faint smell of antiseptic that never really goes away.
And Julian. He’s assigned himself to Robyn-sitting duty, as if I may break down and cry any minute.
I don’t want to tell him he doesn’t have to worry about that, but there’s this insidious fear burrowing inside me that if I missed a crack this big in the foundation of our relationship, I’m not safe anywhere or with anyone.
He peels off his scrub top and tosses it into his locker. Tattoos climb over his ribs and shoulder—triangles and curved lines in red and black ink. I take off my top and stand in a sports bra. Julian doesn’t even look my way. We’re too tired for modesty, too familiar for tension.
“It’s stale in here,” I mutter, swapping my scrubs for jeans and a blue blouse. Outside, someone’s blasting music from a parked car. The bass is heavy and the lyrics are obscene. Someone never left their frat house.
Julian glances at me as he buttons his shirt. “You sure you’re up for the bar tonight?”
“Of course. I’ve only been up for twenty-eight hours,” I say, and he grins. He knows I’m rounding down.
A beat of silence lingers, speaking the words I don’t need to say. I don’t have someone waiting for me any longer, so I have time for the bar.
He sits on the bench, lacing his boots. “Robyn, two and a half years is a long time. You’re allowed to miss him, you know? Wonder what he’s up to.”
The sound of his voice settles into the quiet. It’s slow and unhurried, giving me time to process how I want to answer. I stare at the locker door in front of me, a hairline crack running through the paint. “I don’t really wonder. It’s not my business now.”
“Robyn?” He’s closer, leaning on the locker next to mine and looking down at me over the open door.
“Not like before.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I zip my bag. “He’s probably figuring things out. Like I am, it’ll just look different for him.” A flash of his kiss with Tessa assaults my mind, and I have to remind myself to inhale. “He’s not the villain, Julian. He just … wasn’t ready.”
Julian nods slowly. “And you were.”
I press my lips together in a tense smile. It’s hard to face it but the question lingers even if I don’t speak it. Would we be here if I were?
Twinkle lights spill from the rafters like golden vines, catching in the glossy beer glasses and half-empty plates.
The place is packed, a few residents are already at a long, communal table near the bar, laughing too loudly at the two guys from trauma halfway into a round of beer pong.
Yeast and cheap IPA foam mix into the unmistakable smell of summer trying to break through spring’s chill.
A couple of nurses scooch farther down so Julian and I can sit next to each other. He meets my eyes, a question in his blue gaze, until I give a subtle nod. Then turns his charm on the peds RN that gave him shit this morning.
“Okay.” Jordan, the tallest trauma resident, turns around and claps his hands together. “For the next”—he checks his phone—“hour, no one’s allowed to talk about rounds or patient load.”
His friend, I don’t know him as well, so I can’t remember his first name, slides a pitcher of beer onto the table. Foam sloshes over the rim and onto his wrist, then he brings his wrist to his mouth and licks it. Staring at me. Is that supposed to be sexy?
“I’ll do you one better,” Marisol says, the peds nurse next to Julian, raising her plastic cup. “Whoever breaks the rule, buys a round.”
“Bold move,” Julian responds, smirking and tracing circles on her glass. “How about we turn it up a notch? Shots?”
“Worth it.” Marisol grins, leaning back as a song thunders from the speakers.
At the other end of the table, someone throws a balled-up napkin at the dartboard.
“I’m telling you,” Daniel says, a general medicine fellow—broad-shouldered, ashy-blond hair curling around his eyes, “Robyn’s got the best aim here.
” His smile is flashy yet charming. “I’ve seen her toss a glove into a biohazard bin from, what, five feet away? ”
Julian snorts. “Please. That’s just muscle memory from throwing candy wrappers at me during med school. I kept passing out during pathology.”
“Guess I’ll have to test that,” Daniel says, his eyes glinting and wrinkly at the corners. “Winner gets lunch?”
As he points at the dartboard, his gaze drags down my face, then lingers on my chest. The air between us tightens before I break it with a half smile.
“Maybe on lunch,” I say. “But I’ll definitely play.”
I stand next to him in front of the dartboard, behind the line on the floor, the music from the patio muffled by bodies and laughter. Holding the dart, I raise my right hand and squint, then throw and hit the triple twelve. I turn around and smirk at the fellow.
He brushes against my arm as he lines up his shot, tongue pressed to the corner of his mouth—concentrating way too hard.
“Watch and learn,” he says. The dart hits a single eight, nowhere near the bullseye.
I snort. “That’s adorable. You aiming for the wall or the board?”
He grins, unbothered. “Just warming up. You should come axe throwing with me, Robyn.”
I snort. “No, thank you. I spend enough time in the ER as is.” I toss my dart, hit a double ring. I have no idea what I’m doing, but he doesn’t know that.
For his next throw, he steps closer. “You know,” he says, voice dropping, “I think I figured out my problem. My stance is all wrong. Maybe you could … help adjust it?”
Julian rolls his eyes from across the table. “Jeez, we should have invited someone from HR.”
Daniel grins wider. “Come on, Keller. Or are you jealous?” He darts his green eyes to mine. “You’re not complaining, are you?”
I shake my head, biting back a laugh. “Not yet.”
By the third throw, I’m feeling loose enough to meet his energy head-on. He brushes my arm as he reaches for the darts, and I tilt my chin toward him. “You sure you’re not just using me to distract you from your aim?”
“Depends. You like that?”
I smile, slow and unhurried. “Maybe a little.”
Glancing around, the group laughs. Someone shouts for a beer pong rematch.
I’ve been doing this more and more, going out with the other residents, and it’s made me realize there’s something to being around people who get it.
The schedule, the stress, your adrenaline spiking when the monitor flatlines.
To them, it’s not an investment. Our day-to-day is the return.
My career’s never been an investment, never something to put up short term for a more satisfying long-term lifestyle. It’s always been what I love to do.
“You were cool today,” I say to Daniel, almost reflexively. “You kept it together with that aggressive patient.”
There’s a pause before the table breaks into cheers. Marisol leans across, nearly spilling her drink. “That’s it, you’re buying the next round, girl!”
I groan, laughing. “Fine, fine.” I head toward the bar, weaving through bodies and the heat of too many people packed together. At the counter, the smell of liquor mixes with freshly baked pizza and hot oil. The music pounds enough to shake the glasses hanging overhead.
Julian catches up halfway to the bar, sleeves rolled up, grin lopsided. “You lasted, what, twenty minutes before you had to talk shop?”
I arch a brow. “I guess.”
“Uh-huh.” He props an elbow on the counter beside me, the other hand dragging through his hair. The movement pulls his shirt tight across his chest, and a flash of ink peeks through the low neckline of his shirt. He still carries that faint hint of hospital grade soap, maybe I smell that way too.
“Still, it’s good to see you out and about,” he says.
The bartender lines up a row of shot glasses—rims glittering under the string lights above our heads.
“I’ve got it. Don’t miss your shot with Marisol,” I say, teasing.
The server pours silver tequila over the shot glasses. The liquid looks deceptively like water, but the smell gives it away. Julian picks up two shots and slides one toward me.
“Marisol will be there when I come back. Or she won’t. No sweat off my back either way.” He lifts one of the glasses, a soft, wordless toast that feels more like acknowledgment than celebration. “I’m enforcing the rules.”
We tilt our heads back at the same time, and the liquid burns down my throat.
I give Julian a dramatic tilt of my head. “Because you’re such a rule follower.”
He grins. “Hydration’s important.”
I shake my head, smiling. Behind us, someone cheers over a beer pong win, the sound spilling into the bar—bass thumping, glasses clinking. It’s perfectly right, being here, having fun, and yet the whole night pulses slightly offbeat under my skin. A messy heartbeat. Arrhythmic.
Julian bumps his shoulder into mine, casual, friendly but familiar enough that I lean into him. “So,” he says, “are there sparks with Danny-boy?”
The air leaving my lungs rattles with annoyance, but he doesn’t need words to know he’s close to hitting a nerve.
“I’m doing okay,” I say, instead of giving him the outburst he wants. “I’m not regretting breaking up with Nate.”
He watches me, eyes soft but sharp. “But?”
I sigh, rolling the shot glass between my palms. “But … it’s been a long time since I’ve slept alone beyond a night or two.”