Stupid, stupid, stupid, Hannah.He’s probably laughing at you in his head right now over the fact that you can’t even walk straight. It’s probably why he’s never invited you out before now.
“You okay?” Thomas calls, and I internally diejusta little more.
“Fine,” I squeak, holding up a thumbs up as I dash out the sliding doors.
I climb into the ambulance, and pull my seatbelt over my body. “Ready?” Miles asks.
Nodding, I fiddle with my fingers in my lap. “Thomas is going to text you about some coffee breakfast thing this morning.” I tell him as he drives out of the hospital parking lot.
“Oh, is he?” Miles prompts. Miles is also ten years older than me, but he’s taken on more of a big brother role if anything with me.
To someone that doesn’t have social anxiety, going in and picking up a coffee or food order is no big deal, but for someone like me, that might be the hardest thing they do that day. Throw in the fact that I also have good old generalized anxiety disorder, and I’m a real treat. Miles, along with the help of my therapist, have helped me so immensely that now I can do things like that, mostly without a second thought.
Miles has also become a safe person for me. If there’s a work event and he says he will be there, then I can go, no problem. If he’s not there? Count me out. Like I said, it probably sounds stupid. But for me, that’s my reality. I can’t just… turn it off, or make the thoughts in my brain go away.
“Are you going to go?” Miles asks, turning onto a highway. We don’t have a call right now, so we get to drive until we do.
“Are you?” I turn the question on him. He narrows his eyes, glancing over at me briefly.
“Hannah,” he starts. “You can go alone. You don’t need me there.”
I sigh. “I know I don’tneedyou. It’s just easier for me if you are there.” Miles knows my issues, and he and I are pretty close, despite never hanging out outside of work. When you spend as much time together as we do in close quarters, it’s hard not to get close. I still have some things I mask when I’m with Miles, as well as things I overthink or worry about, but it’s getting easier with him. It also helps that he understands certain things that make me uncomfortable. He’s been trying to help get me out of my comfort zone, while also not pressing me too hard.
“I have to check with Lochlan. He wants to head up to the cabin this weekend since it’s our last shift until Monday.”
I nod, while internally trying to come up with ways I can get out of going now that he probably won’t be there.
“You still should go, Banana,” he says, using the nickname he knows I hate. It’s the most basic nickname for someone with the name Hannah. “I know it’s hard. But I bet you can do it. You know Thomas and some of the other guys well enough now.”
Miles also knows about the teensy weensy little crush I have on Thomas. Crush is such a stupid word. He’s attractive. I would love to get to know him more, but I don’t know if I’ll ever make the first move. And I doubt he’s attracted to me.
What can I say? I’m a mess. I’m a twenty-seven-year-old woman with severe social anxiety that prevents me from going on dates, a virgin, and I’ve never been kissed. Lovely, right? I’m totally dateable, I know.
“I’ll try,” I tell him, not really committing myself to it, though. A sideways glance from Miles tells me he’s not buying my blatant lie.
“Hannah,” he says my name slowly. “You really don’t need me to come.”
“I know I don’t,” my voice grows higher pitched. I do know that, and I hate that I feel that I need him. Things are justeasierif I have a person I trust there.
“So you’ll go,” he states.
“I will think about it,” I correct.
Miles sighs, and his phone lights up in the center console with a text. “Can you check that?”
I nod, grabbing it and asking for his code. The message is from Thomas.
Thomas Cunningham
Hey, breakfast at the diner after shift. Meet at six-forty-five. What’s Hannah’s number? I should have asked her at the hospital for it. I want to shoot her a message about it too.
“What did he say?” Miles asks.
I swallow the lump in my throat. “He said breakfast is at six-forty-five at the diner and asked for my number.”
“So, give it to him?” Miles responds.
“Right,” I mutter, typing a response, and tagging my contact card in the conversation.
