12. Cameron
Cameron
Stepping into the resident’s lounge, I can feel the exhaustion hitting hard from how long my night shift has been.
As soon as I step into the room, I spot Wes leaning up against the wall, flirting with another one of the female residents in our group.
I walk past him, clapping him on the shoulder. “Should we start a GoFundMe for all the emotional damage you’re doing in this hospital already, Wes?”
Wes barely even blinks, shooting me a smug grin before turning back to the girl. “Don’t mind him, Dr. Calloway. Cameron here suffers from a rare condition called ‘chronic cock blocking syndrome.’ Tragic, really. No known cure.”
I scoff, grabbing a coffee from the counter. “I’m just looking out for hospital morale. Can’t have half the residents heartbroken before noon because of you.”
Wes sighs dramatically, shaking his head. “It’s a burden being this irresistible, but someone has to bear it.”
Dr. Calloway crosses her arms, unimpressed. “Right. And tell me, Dr. Reed, how many times has this ‘irresistibility’ resulted in an HR meeting?”
Wes grins. “Define ‘meeting.’ Because I’d argue strongly worded emails don’t count.”
I nearly choke on my coffee. “Geez, Wes.”
He claps me on the shoulder, unfazed. “Jealousy’s an ugly color on you, Hayes. Maybe if you didn’t radiate ‘overworked and emotionally unavailable’ energy, women wouldn’t look at you like a walking cautionary tale.”
Dr. Calloway snorts, shaking her head. “On that note, I’m gonna leave before I lose any more brain cells around you two.”
She walks off, and Wes watches her go before turning back to me. “See? Not a rejection. She’s just playing the long game, gotta let the idea of me marinate a little.” He winks.
I shake my head, sipping my coffee. “You need help.”
Wes smirks. “What I need is for you to stop ruining my game.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out to see a text from—
My Future Wife: So, how much should I bet on you getting tackled within the first five minutes?
She texted me? That’s gotta count for something, right? Maybe she’s not so put off by me as I thought.
Smiling, I respond.
Cam: No chance of that happening. I fully intend on winning just to impress you.
“Alright, what the hell was that?” Wes asks, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed.
I school my expression back to neutral. “What? Nothing. Just checking my schedule.”
Wes narrows his eyes. “Bull. Nobody blushes over a schedule.”
Before I can react, he lunges—faster than any man surviving on four hours of sleep and an ungodly amount of caffeine should be able to, and snatches my phone straight out of my hand.
“Wes—”
It’s too late. He’s already dancing backward, eyes flicking to the screen.
Then he freezes.
“HOLY. HELL.”
Every single person in the residents’ lounge turns to look at us.
I swear under my breath. “Wes, don’t—”
But he’s already holding the phone up, his voice carrying way too loudly across the room.
“My Future Wife?” he announces to the entire hospital population. “Oh, this I gotta see.”
I lunge, but Wes dodges me effortlessly, flipping through my texts like the nosy bastard he is.
“Oh, dangggg,” he whistles. “She’s got jokes.”
He clears his throat dramatically, then reads out loud:
“My Future Wife. So, how much should I bet on you getting tackled within the first five minutes?”
Laughter ripples through the lounge.
I groan, rubbing my temples. “Wes, I swear—”
“Oh, wait, there’s more,” Wes cuts me off, eyes widening as another text rolls in. “Oh, this is good—” He barely holds in a wheeze as he reads:
“My Future Wife. So, if you get tackled and end up concussed, should I bring flowers or just tell the nurses to put you in a medically induced coma to save you from embarrassment?”
The lounge erupts.
Dr. Patel leans back in his chair, grinning. “I like her.”
Wes is dying, wiping away an actual tear. “This is gold. I’ve never seen this side of you.”
I finally snatched my phone back. “You’re obnoxious.”
Wes just smirks, entirely unbothered. “Look, all I’m saying is, you’re walking around with her saved in your phone as My Future Wife, and she’s out here making fun of your athletic abilities. This is true love.”
I glare at him, but I can’t exactly argue.
Instead, I ignore the idiot I somehow made my best friend, and type my reply.
Cam: I’d rather you just come play nurse if I get injured. Make it worth my while.
My Future Wife: I’ll consider it.
I shove my phone back into my pocket before Wes can get his grubby hands on it again.
Wes watches me, his smirk widening. “Yeah. Just a friend, huh?”
I roll my eyes, taking a long sip of my coffee.
The laughter in the lounge is still going when the sharp ding of a pager cuts through the noise.
I glance down at my waist, but it’s not mine.
I look up and see that it’s Wes’s.
His easygoing expression vanishes instantly. He straightens, already moving as he pulls his pager free and scans the screen. His jaw tightens. “Peds Onc. Code blue.”
The words knock the air out of my chest.
Everything around me blurs, and then the same message appears on my pager, too.
We don’t say anything. We just move.
We sprint down the hall, past nurses, patients, and families in the waiting area who don’t yet know that someone’s worst nightmare is happening just around the corner from them.
By the time we reach the Peds Oncology Unit, the room is already packed—nurses moving quickly, an attending physician barking orders, the heart monitor beeping erratically, faltering.
Dr. Reynolds is at the head of the bed, her face grim. “He coded five minutes ago. We got him back for a second, but he’s crashing again.”
I recognize the little boy in the bed instantly.
No. No, no, no.
It’s Jacob.
Seven years old. Diagnosed six months ago with leukemia. He was responding to treatment. He was supposed to be getting better.
I swallow back the wave of nausea rising in my chest. I’ve gotten really close to Jacob over the last couple of weeks being here.
I don’t think. I just act.
I take over chest compressions while Wes takes the lead, calling for another round of epinephrine.
We do everything we can. Everything. But eventually, the inevitable comes.
Dr. Reynolds exhales, looking at the clock. Then, softly, she says the two words I hate more than anything. “Call it.”
Wes hesitates, his throat bobbing, but then he checks his watch. His voice is hollow when he says, “Time of death…9:52.”
Silence. No one moves. No one breathes.
The only sound in the room is the heart monitor’s flat line, steady and final.
I step back from the bed, my hands clenched into fists. My pulse is pounding in my ears.
Jacob’s mom isn’t here yet. She has no idea that she’s going to come back, and her son is going to be gone. Just like that. With no warning.
And we’re going to have to tell her. That’s always the worst part. How do we tell her that her son, who we thought was getting better, is now gone, and she wasn’t even here to be by his side or say goodbye?
I don’t remember leaving the room. But suddenly, I’m in the hallway, my back against the cold wall, my hands still trembling.
Wes is beside me, scrubbing a hand down his face. “I hate this job sometimes.”
I don’t answer. I just stare at my hands.
We’ve lost kids before. We knew going into this field that not every battle would be won. But it never gets easier.
It never, ever gets easier.
Watching a child lose this battle breaks your heart each time like it’s the first.
I don’t even realize how long I’ve been sitting there until my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, barely focusing until I see the name on the screen.
My Future Wife: Don’t tell me you’re already backing out. I was looking forward to watching you embarrass yourself out there.
I blink, rereading the message twice.
Normally, I’d have something cocky ready. Some stupid flirtation to throw back at her. But right now? Right now, I’m too tired.
I stare at the screen for a long time before finally typing a response.
Cam: I’m not. Just a long day. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?
I hesitate, then type again.
Cam: It was really nice hearing from you today Gab.
I hit send, exhaling slowly, then lean my head back against the wall, closing my eyes.
I’m just ready to go home and wash today off of me. This part never gets easier to handle, but the thought of seeing Gabrielle tomorrow seems to make the weight in my chest feel a little lighter. It gives me something good to look forward to.
I push off the wall, running a hand down my face, trying to shake off the lingering grief clinging to me like a second skin. Wes watches me, his own exhaustion clear in the tight lines of his face.
“You good?” he asks, quieter now. No teasing, no jokes, just a friend who knows exactly what this job does to you.
I nod, even though I’m not. “Yeah. Just need to get out of here.”
He exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Yeah. Me too.”
Neither of us moves right away, the space around us feeling too heavy.
I glance down at my phone again, rereading Gabrielle’s last message before I finally push off the wall.
My Future Wife: See you tomorrow Cam.
Wes gives me a nod, but his eyes linger on me a little longer, like he’s debating whether or not to say something. Eventually, he just lets out a breath and waves me off. “Go get some sleep, man. And try not to embarrass yourself in front of your future wife tomorrow.”
I flip him off without looking back.