No one knew about this little ritual, of keeping something from Zane near her. But still, she wasn’t fooling herself. Over time, it had become this weighty stack of something far more meaningful.
More itchy. More complicated.
Zane had rejected her way back when, and that event was forever known in her head as The Incident. When he hauled her out of one of their best friend’s weddings? She called that The Incident PartDeux.
The Incident PartDeuxwas marked as a sort of new beginning. It represented the need for her to move on with her life. She really, really had to move on. Because in the confusing aftermath and swirl of emotions during that weekend in Jamaica, he’d avoided her as if she had leprosy.
She’d respected that, since it was Anjali and Parker’s wedding and all. But in the weeks after? He didn’t reach out to her to explain himself, to ask for her forgiveness, to say what had been on the tip of his tongue before. Whatwashe about to say? Something about things between them getting worse and that he felt…something. He acted like she would know what he was talking about.
What was that supposed to mean?
As the weeks went on, and as he missed KNO both times since then, Mabel slowly began to understand that this was something he just wasn’t going to talk about.
Then she told herself she’d been imagining its significance all along.
It had been a blip. Nothing. If he’d had a rush of emotion, it had certainly died down since they’d come back home.
In reality, this was nothing new. She’d been fighting against herself since she was fourteen years old. They’d been doing this dance between them ever since.
Well, no more. She was done dancing with Mr. Zane Taylor. He’d rejected her after they’d kissed as kids, and nothing had been quiteright with them since. His rejection after the wedding was the last straw.
She could find joy in nursing and in her special assignment from Mack. Mayor Mack Duncan had asked her to head the water authority months before, and though she was way out of her element, she could see how that could be fulfilling. She could work as a nurse during the day, perform her water authority duties a couple of nights a week, and spend the rest of the time successfully managing not to think of Zane.
She was hanging up her Zane hat. With that thought came a zing through her body. She didn’t want to do this, to be done loving Zane. But she had to.
If Jamaica had taught her anything, it was that it waspasttime to let go.
Maybe there were other men she could love. There was one who might prove to be a good distraction.
Raylene closed out the patient’s file—they’d sent him home after treating his sprained ankle—and Mabel started thinking about how she’d fill out her care plan for this case as homework that night.
An alarm buzzed loudly, and the scanner crackled with an incoming ambulance’s information.
Raylene got right to work.
“Do you like the ER scene?” she asked Raylene as they prepped.
“The question isn’t if I like it. It’s if my adrenal glands can handle the stress.” Raylene waved a hand around the small department. “It’s hard.” She had dark circles under her eyes, and she wrung her hands. “But in my opinion, it beats the Mother/Baby unit and the surgical floor.”
Before she could respond, Mabel felt the whoosh of the double doors leading into the ER from the outside and a blast of warm autumn air coming in. She heard a shout.
“Mr. Ryland,” the man’s voice let a slight soft baritone laugh escape.” You’re going to end up with two lacerations if you aren’t careful with that hand.” A pause, and then, “Oops. Watch the metal frame,” the man’s voice said.
Mabel placed both hands on the small computer cart in front of her, grateful that Raylene had already rushed to their side. That gave her half a second to breathe before she needed to jump in to help.
Because hearing Zane Taylor’s voice again just as she had decided to forget all about him, made her blood run cold.
If she could, she would have turned away from the scene immediately and gone and worked in another area of the hospital. She would have gladly cleared away bed pans or administered catheters. Anything but trying not to fail her clinical with Zane nearby.
One more steadying breath later—and a fly-by-night wish that she were Catholic so she could cross herself—she turned to help, to do her job. At first, Zane didn’t see her, and she got the advantage of watching him work.
He wore his paramedic uniform—a short-sleeved white button-down shirt with the medic patch on the breast pocket and black polyester pants. How he managed to make the boxy uniform attractive, she’d never know. She did know how to explain his attractiveness in his firefighter turnout gear, though. She’d sung operatic praises to herself when she saw him wearing it at a city safety event the year before.
His face wore a scowl. It was probably her favorite of all of his scowls—the hard-at-work frown. He focused on restraining the patient, the skin and muscles of his biceps pressing hard against the fabric of his sleeves.
“Easy does it, dude. You weren’t agitated on the ride over. Slow down,” he chastised. But with it came an undercurrent of concern. “Take a deep breath. We’re going to help you feel better, okay?” His voice was so kind, it almost made Mabel herself feel better.
Almost. Because it also happened to be the voice of the guy who had, through his indifference, ripped her heart to shreds on multiple occasions.
