Page 60 of Fighting for You
After a pause, her face softens, and she says, “Ah, well, that’s a very personal decision, and it’s entirely up to you what you choose to share with him when it comes to intimacy. But I tendto find relationships have the strongest foundations if everyone involved is open and honest from the start.”
“I know. I wanted to tell him, but I couldn’t find a way to slip it into the conversation, and then one thing led to another…”
“And you decided to pass go and hitch a ride on the love train," she says, looking thoroughly amused with herself.
“Okay, we have to take away your cable access. Where are you getting these phrases?” I ask. My face is on fire with embarrassment, but at this point I don’t know if it’s for me or for her.
After a few more minutes of chatting, I wish her a Merry Christmas since I won’t be in for a few days and head to the nurses’ lounge to change into the clothes I brought for tonight. After much debating this morning, I chose a simple scoop-neck tee and skinny jeans.
I grab my jacket and purse. Looking at the time, I see I have about half an hour before I promised I’d meet Brooks at Louie’s. I shoot him a quick text letting him know I’m heading out. A few seconds later, the little “read” appears underneath it, but no reply.
I sigh at the sinking feeling in my gut. I want to stay positive, live in the bubble of happiness I found a few days ago, but it’s getting harder and harder. Did he change his mind? Is it too much for him? I know he doesn’t do relationships, but he seemed excited. He pursued me. I thought we were on our way to building something special. Brooks let me see a side of himself I don’t think many others have. Maybe that’s what’s scaring him?
I have to pull my big girl pants up and talk with him. I can speculate and spiral about this like a teenager all night, or I can go meet him and talk this out. If he’s decided he’s not ready, it’ll hurt, but I’ll understand. We just have to handle this with clarity, like adults.
The door to the lounge swinging open pulls me out of my self-pep talk. Aubrey rushes in holding a small gift bag with a reindeer on it.
“Oh, I’m so glad I caught you before you left,” she says, huffing like she just ran here.
“Hey, what’s going on?” I ask.
“I keep forgetting to give this to you,” she says, smiling and handing the gift bag to me. “I’m your Secret Santa—surprise! I’ve had it in the back of my car forever now. Merry Christmas!” I take it from her, but my confusion must be evident because her smile slowly fades. “What’s wrong?”
“I-I don’t know,” I stutter. “I thought I got my Secret Santa gift a few weeks ago. There was no name…” I trail off as a pit in my stomach opens. My heart rate picks up as realization hits me. My lungs stutter.
Miss me?
The pounding hot water feels good on my sore back. Spending the last week in the ER, running around with few breaks, has been wreaking havoc on my body. I’m so tired, I can’t wait to crawl into bed as soon as I get out of the shower.
I shampoo and condition my hair as I think back on the last few months. Work has been exhausting since Blackwood kicked me off his service, and I’ve been relegated to all the scutwork and worst shifts. Despite me hoping he could keep it professional between us after he came on to me in his office, Julian requested I be removed from the cardiac program the following day. I tried to speak with him about it, but he was always busy and wouldn’t take an appointment with me.
At first I was angry and considered reporting him to the hospital board, but quickly realized it would be my word against his, especially since I mentioned it to my supervisor, and he dismissed me. What’s one second-year nurse compared to the prestige and money he brings to the hospital? I decidedI’d keep my head down, work hard, and make my way up to one of the other specialized services.
Unfortunately, I’m beginning to think he blackballed me because no department head wants to take me on, so I’m left with whatever shifts need covering, which typically lands me in the ER with the drunks, vomiting kids, and sometimes violent dementia patients.
Sighing, I turn off the water and stand dripping in the shower for a moment. Maybe it’s time to look for another hospital or private practice. I pull the shower curtain back and grab a towel, wiping my face and squeezing water from my hair.
As I wrap the towel around my body, I look up at the mirror above the sink and freeze. My blood runs cold, and if my body could move, I would scream, but the sound seems to have lodged itself in my throat.
Written in the fog created by the steam of my shower is “Miss me?” As I stare, unable to get my body to move, a droplet slowly runs down from the “M,” and my eyes track the movement. I feel like I’m floating outside of my body. This isn't happening to me. I’m watching it happen to someone else.
Suddenly, I realize someone wrote thiswhileI was showering. That someone might still be in my apartment. My breath quickens, and my vision goes hazy. I left my phone in my bedroom, anything could be waiting for me outside of this bathroom.
I quietly open the door and peer through the crack, seeing nothing and no one in the hallway. As silently as possible, I open the door more and slip out, still only in my towel. I peer through the doorway to my living room and kitchen—both appearing empty as well. With a steadying breath, I continue down the hall to my bedroom, quickly grabbing an umbrellafrom the hook by the front door. Not sure what I’ll be able to do with it, but it’s better than going in there empty-handed.
My bedroom door is ajar, and I wait before going in, listening for any movement. Hearing nothing, I gently press my palm to the door, and it swings open. My bedroom is small, there are no hiding places aside from my closet.
Feeling brave or maybe just a little crazy, I stomp over to the closet and tear the door open. Only my clothes and shoes greet me. I heave out a huge lungful of air and swipe my hand down my face, my hand coming away wet. I didn’t even realize I have tears streaming down my face.
Miss me?
I thought this was over. I haven’t heard from him in over two months. The strange notes and presents stopped. I thought he moved on. But he was here. He was in my apartment with me. He somehow bypassed my locked door and entered my space. Panic grips me. What if he comes back? I don’t even know who he is, not really.
With my heartbeat in my ears and adrenaline running through my veins, I toss the towel to the ground, pull on the first pair of leggings in my drawer along with an oversized sweater. Then I grab my suitcase from the back of the closet and start tossing in clothes.
I run to the bathroom and grab my toiletries—only the essentials I can’t live without. As I’m making my way back to the bedroom, I stop in the hall and look over the art I’ve collected throughout the years. My heart hurts because I know I can’t take it all with me, but I grab the paintings of the fish and hurry back to my bedroom and throw it all into the suitcase. Zipping the luggage closed, I jam my feet into sneakers and grab my phone.
As I’m about to open the front door, I remember my Lucky Penny painting and run to the living room to grab it from above the couch.
