Shannon was bringing Erin home, and she was the only one who could.
"Your husband," I said. "Your husband is asking because nine years is nine too many."
"Nick, you're—" she protested.
"I'm not having it, lovely," I interrupted. "It's time for this to end, and it ends here. There's a flight out of Reykjavík tonight, and it still has some available seats. Get your ass in one of them. I'm heading into surgery soon, but I'll see you in the morning."
Chapter Thirty-Two
Erin
I should've turnedoff my phone and hunkered down with my data sets after that call with Nick ended.
I didn't.
Instead, it went something like this. Turned off the phone, then immediately turned it back on. Glared at the phone for all that it represented. Stared into my closet for five minutes, repeating over and over "I have nothing to wear to a birth." Read through all the emails popping up like prairie dogs from Matt, Sam, and Patrick. Muttered to myself about them needing to coordinate their messages to me because they were announcing the same damn fact and asking the same damn questions. Threw some clothes on my bed, and then threw them back in the closet because fuck this, I wasn't going anywhere. Read through texts from Riley, and told him to corral his boys because they were giving me the inbox sweats. Muttered about the state of the world, and how people used to communicate with each other and now they banged out a string of characters like the monkeys with the old-school Macs. Grabbed my backpack and shoved some clothes in there without concern for what I was shoving. Read Nick's most recent emails, the ones that insisted he was sorry about the things he'd said in Cozumel and he wanted to talk again. Muttered about how I cried over him every fucking day, so fuck talking because those things still hurt. Polished off the cookie dough I'd whipped up last week because it was the only thing I was eating these days. Muttered about wanting to talk to him more than anything. Shoved my laptop in the backpack. Debated which books to bring. Threw the books across the room because fuck this again. Booked a flight to Boston. Puked up the cookie dough. Sat on the bathroom floor, crying. Changed out of the vomit-stained clothes. Washed my face and applied some makeup, but then washed that off, too, because fuck this. Shuffled through my rocks, and stuck a few in my bag. Reapplied the makeup because it wasn't for Nick, it was for me. Stared at my passport for an eternity. Yelled at myself for thinking I was going to Boston, and then yelled at myself for thinking I wasn't going.
Slammed the door shut. Headed to the airport. Doubted everything, twice. Yelled "Fuck all the doubts" out loud in the terminal, and earned several suspicious stares. Marched down the jetway and didn't look back.
There were many reasons why I got on that late-night flight to Boston. Emails and texts from my brothers. The call from Nick. Missing Nick like I couldn't believe. Feeling more alone and empty than I had in years. A shaky belief that I'd go crazy if I spent another minute in my lab. A shakier belief that I'd already gone there, and that was why I was rambling to myself.
But there was another reason, one that stood far apart from the rest.
The world only handed out a select number of fresh starts in life, and being born was the freshest. I didn't want this baby to inherit any of the baggage that had pushed me and Shannon apart. This kid didn't deserve our shit.
When I arrived in Boston, Nick was waiting on the other side of Customs, feet anchored a shoulder's width apart, arms folded over his chest, expression stony. He was wearing blue scrubs, a fleece jacket emblazoned with the Massachusetts General logo, and running shoes. A full beard was part of the package now.
He was aGrey's Anatomyfantasy in the flesh.
But still, it hurt to see him. Everything inside me lurched forward, wanting to reach for him. Just as quickly, it all slammed back down. It was as if my organs were sliding together to form a shield around my heart because they knew it couldn't withstand any more bruises.
Even if we'd laughed about Sam's brand of expectant father exuberance.
Even if he'd said he loved my random history.
Even if he'd called melovelyagain.
It was just like old times, but it wasn't.
I stopped in front of him and tucked my thumbs under my backpack straps. "You came," I said, and that was definitely the lamest thing I could've said. Six hours in the air, and the best I could manage was this. Lame. Pitiful. Pathetic. And it wasn't like I did anything else on that flight. Books, laptop, all stayed shut while I stared at the ring on my middle finger and wondered what the hell I was going to do when I got to Boston. With Nick, with Shannon, with my whole fucking life.
"Of course I came," he said. I was moving closer to him, he was moving closer to me, and everything around us faded away. The multilingual loudspeaker, the people streaming by, the roar of buses and taxis just outside, it all faded into the background. My pulse was whirring in my ears and my body was melting toward his, and my heart—the one hidden behind all the other organs—couldn't remember the bruises he'd left. It couldn't remember anything but loving him more than any one person should be able to love another.
"And you have a beard." Ugh. Fuck. Nowthatwas the lamest thing I could've said.
He ran his knuckles along his jaw. It made a soft rustling sound, one that landed right between my legs with an achingwhomp. "I've been a little distracted," he said.
I didn't stop to think about what I was doing when I reached out and dragged my fingers through his dark beard. I did it, and I didn't care that it went against all breakup protocol.
"Me too," I murmured. He leaned into my hand, his eyes closing as he sighed. "The distractions, not the beard. I don't have a beard, obviously." I snagged my bottom lip between my teeth before it could quiver. I didn't know whether I was repressing a hysterical laugh or a relieved sob, and after the misery of these weeks without him, both were equally possible. "Are you heading to the hospital now, or—"
"No, I'm not letting you out of my sight."
His hand darted out and curled into the front of my waistband, dragging me flat against him. I let out a startled squeak when he took my face in his palms and slammed his lips down on mine. For a beat, I was really fucking angry. He had no right to tell me he couldn't do this anymore, and then—weeks and miles later—kiss me like he loved me. He couldn't have it both ways. But then his hands were cradling my skull and his teeth were nipping my bottom lip and he was sighing like he'd found his serenity, and my anger bowed down to the affection I'd never be able to deny. I stopped caring about everything else, at least for this moment, and I ran my hands over the strong planes of his back, savoring him.
It was a rare pleasure, seeing him in scrubs. It was a taste of his everyday life that I'd been missing, one that reminded me of all the other everyday things we didn't share. That was all it took to bring me back down and remind me that he'd drawn his lines in the sand, even if he was sorry for them, and I still lived on the other side of those lines.
"Stop, Nick," I murmured against his lips. "Please."
