Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 81207 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81207 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Eric: Have a good day at work!
I wait until I get to a red light to reply.
Me: You too, babe.
“Thank God you’re here,” Perlie, one of the nightshift nurses, says to me when I arrive. The emergency department is already hectic—a patient screaming in one room, beds filled in the hallway, all the nurses running around.
“I’m suddenly wishing I was off today.”
“Baby.” She runs a hand over her buzzed head. She’s in her sixties and knows her shit. She’s one of my favorite nurses from the night staff. “You have no idea.”
I get report from another nurse, then send a quick text to Eric.
Me: Gonna be busy today.
Eric: Need me to come over tonight? Make dinner or pamper you?
I laugh. I get that our relationship is confusing to people. They assume there’s something more going on between us than there is. I’m not going to lie and say I don’t realize we’re probably too codependent. God, Malcolm hated it. He used to tell me all the time that Eric was possessive of me or that he took advantage of me, never willing to see that the friendship Eric and I have is more give and take than anything he’d ever shared with me.
Me: Nah. I’m good. Hang out with Ana.
I add a winking emoji.
Eric: I was with her last night.
I frown, but before I can think about it much, my name is called, so I shove my phone into my scrubs and get to work.
The day is busy, just like I knew it would be. I hate to see people sick or hurt, of course, but I love taking care of people, helping to make them feel better. Nurses and doctors were my superheroes when I was young—them and my physical therapists. Even when I was hurting or frustrated, I always knew they were doing their best to find all the answers they could for us. The nurses would spend so much time talking to my parents, letting them ask questions, holding my hand when my parents couldn’t be there. I always knew that’s what I wanted to do.
My house feels quiet when I get home, and I consider messaging Eric to see if he still wants to come over.
“No. Don’t do it. Don’t depend on Eric so much,” I tell myself.
Friends are still something I don’t have a lot of, and I still work hard to make sure Eric never feels tied down by our friendship because the truth is, my favorite place to be is and always will be with him.
CHAPTER THREE
Eric
The basketball bounces off the rim, and I jump up, securing the rebound. The second I land—rather awkwardly and not straight on my feet like I should—pain shoots through my ankle, and I know I fucked up. Big-time fucked up.
“Shit,” I curse quietly, trying to keep weight off my right ankle.
“Um…pretty sure I heard a crack,” Tim says.
“No.” I shake my head. There wasn’t a crack. He couldn’t have heard a crack. What will I do if there was a crack?
I step gingerly on my foot, and sharp pain pierces me.
“Fuuuuuck,” I say, louder this time, because the situation definitely calls for it.
Tim wraps an arm around me and helps me hobble to one of the chairs beside the indoor court at our gym. Each movement, each time my ankle jostles, I get more pain, and that’s beside the continuous ache and throbbing.
Fuck my life. I broke my ankle. I know I did. There’s not a single doubt in my mind and—no. I shake my head, refusing to think about all the ways I’m extremely fucked right now.
I plop down in a chair and untie my shoe. The swelling’s setting in, my sock tighter on my right ankle than my left. And did I mention my shoe feels two sizes too small?
“You good? Can I go back to the game?” Tim asks. Donovan, he is not, but then he’s just a guy I play ball with sometimes. He’s not my person.
“Yeah, I’m fine. You better win for me,” I grumble as I examine my foot. It’s not hugely swollen. Maybe that’s a good sign. But I already see bruising beginning. Should I bruise that quickly? I’ve never broken something before.
Maybe I still haven’t. Maybe it’s a bad sprain and it will magically be better by tomorrow.
I tell myself that over and over while I try to figure out how I’m going to get home. My apartment is within walking distance from my gym, so I never bring my car here. There’s no way I can walk, though.
I’d call Donovan, but he works until six this evening, which means car service it is.
Using the wall to jump and hobble while also keeping your shoe in your hand? It’s not a good time. Don’t try it. But eventually I make my way outside and plop down on the bench, sweat stinging my eyes more than when I was playing ball.