Page 2 of Trustfall

“It’s my pleasure.”

As soon as I walk out of the room, I lean against the wall and close the door as an overwhelming feeling of loneliness washes over me. It’s the type of feeling that makes it too painful to stand. I don't know what it says about me that I can witness a man's brains nearly falling out of his head without flinching, yet I can't bear to see a tender moment between a husband and wife. Every time I witness that kind of love, I'm reminded that it's something I'll never experience.

Does it mean that I’m going through the motions a little bit? Sure. I love my job. I have people who care about me. But I would be lying if I said my life isn’t missing something.

I won't take the risk, though. Being alone is one thing. Being lonely in a relationship is far worse. It's a bitter, gut-wrenching loneliness that eats away at you until there’s nothing left. I've felt it once, and I won't go through that again. Some wounds are too deep to reopen.

By some miracle,the night-shift nurse taking over for me shows up half an hour early. I quickly sign out the ongoing cases to her and rush to the locker room to change into fresh scrubs—again. When I check my phone, I see four missed calls and five text messages—all from Nate. I swear my brother needs a hobby. He supposedly works at our dad’s company now, but he still finds time to keep track of everything I do. As I walk to the parking garage, I scan through the messages. Then I call him back, and the call connects to my car's Bluetooth as I get in. He answers on the second ring.

“It's about damn time. I was going to check the emergency room, but then I remembered you work there, so you'd be there anyway,” Nate deadpans.

“I’m surprised you didn’t bust through the ‘Employee Only’ doors.”

“I’m working on giving you your space as requested,” he says, but it sounds reluctant.

“Thank you. I appreciate the sentiment, but the barrage of missed calls and texts says otherwise.”

He huffs and I change tactics before he can give me an earful. Nate takes the role of overprotective big brother seriously. He’s been that way since I can remember, but it got worse in high school. Nate’s only two years older than me, but he acts like a parent sometimes. Our grandparents raised us since I was three. My dad is a workaholic and never around, so when my mom passed, they took us in rather than let a revolving door of nannies raise us. Everything came to a screeching halt when Opa died, though. Gram fell apart and eventually developed early-onset dementia. My dad moved her into an assisted-living facility in town, and we moved into his house—if you can call it that. It’s more like a palatial estate. Nate took it hard, and it changed things between us. His overprotective tendencies and anxiety worsened. Not to mention, he was a teenage football player who knew exactly what was on every guy’s mind in locker rooms and at parties. It was easier not to fight it, so I never did.

It wasn't until the middle of tenth grade that I found out Nate had basically banned any guy at school from even talking to me. He had the whole football team pass out flyers warning guys away from me. Not that it mattered. The one person I wanted back then was completely off-limits and barely even knew I existed.

“Emory? Are you even listening?” Nate chides.

Shit, I didn’t realize he had been talking.

“Listen, I’m sorry I had to bail on lunch,” I say, snapping myself out of the past. “An entire office came in with food poisoning, and let’s just say I’m never going to eat smoked salmon ever again.”

“Gross. Yeah, I don't need any further details.” He makes a gagging sound and clears his throat before he continues. “I was going to tell you at lunch, but I guess I’ll tell you now. I found someone to move in next door, so you’re going to have a new neighbor.”

“Okay…”

“Don’t sound so excited.”

“What? It’s been kind of nice not having anyone live there. It feels more private,” I say, tapping my fingers on the wheel as I pull out of the parking lot.

“I’ll be sure to let Dad know he shouldn’t rent that cottage out anymore and lose money so that you can have yourprivacy.”

My dad owns all six cottages on my street. After college, I wanted to move out and support myself, but finding an affordable apartment with my best friend Allie proved tough. Eventually, I let Dad help us out. He knew of six craftsman cottages for sale, but the deal was all or nothing, so he bought them all. We got to pick the one we wanted and insisted on paying rent, though it had to be well below market value to work for us. Dad rented the others at a fair price, so it didn’t set him back too much. He can afford it, anyway. My father owns a billion-dollar cybersecurity company in New York. He has a satellite office here in Emberfield, but he’s hardly ever there, preferring the bustle and grind of the city to our humble little New England town.

The cottage next to ours has been empty for a month, ever since the single mom and her kids who lived there moved to Michigan to be near family. Dad appointed Nate to rent it out, and apparently, he came through.

“Okay, you have a point,” I admit. “But it better not be some weirdo.”

“Oh, hey Em, I’m getting another call. I’ve gotta take this. I’ll see you at family dinner tomorrow.”

“But we’re not done talking about this alleged new neighbor yet,” I try to get out, but the call has already ended.

I pull onto my road and take in the maple-lined street. Our cottage is the last on the left, with just one neighbor beside us and one across. All the cottages are painted white with black trim. Each has a front garden and a back teak deck. They were originally built in the fifties, and then a developer slowly bought and renovated them before selling to Dad. They are modern yet maintain New England's classic charm. Honestly, our cottage is my dream home, and I'm grateful to Dad for it. As I park, I spot Allie at the door. She steps onto the front porch and leans against the front door. I can see her glare from here.

“Do not take another step, young lady.” She stands there, unmoving, with a scowl on her face and her hands firmly planted on her hips.

“Allie, I’m older than you.”

“Only by a few months. Now strip.” She points her finger at me, then points to the ground, motioning for me to take my clothes off.

“Excuse me?”

“I heard all about the barf fest at work today, and I’m not interested in having your nasty-ass scrubs in our home,” she huffs.

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