Someone with a brain injury needs full-time care, and I wouldn’t be able to raise Jacksonandworkandhave her at the same time. “I did my research, I interviewed facilities, and I put her there thinking I made the best choice possible.” My breath shudders, an embarrassing hiccup escaping as I speak. “I have to work three jobs just to support all of us.” The life of a floor nurse was all I knew, but I quickly realized that twelve-hour shifts, sometimes longer, aren’t feasible as a single guardian to a little kid.
I did what I never wanted to do. I quit. I took a case management job in the clinic to have a flexible Monday through Friday schedule, and I hate it. I don’t get to do anything fun, I don’t get to clean wounds or give injections. Instead, I argue with insurance companies all day about what’s considered an inpatient stay versus observation and how that affects payment. But it allows me to pick up Jackson at the end of his school day, and I can work from home if he’s sick.
On the weekends, he spends Saturday night at my parents’ house, and I work a grueling third shift at a different hospital. There are times I stay awake for nearly forty-eight hours,sacrificing sleep, my health, time for myself, but the pay is worth it.
Once Jackson goes to bed each night, I stay up and write articles as a freelance copywriter. I scour the internet for the latest health trends or research breakthroughs, write an essay, and submit it to various nursing journals. A single article can get us a few hundred dollars, so between the three jobs, it’s enough to keep myself and Jackson afloat while keeping my sister at what I thought was one of the better facilities in the city.
“Three jobs that force me to sacrifice time with Jackson and my sister, so that I can afford tokeepJackson and my sister. How fucked up is that?” It never mattered to me what I sacrificed. My once sacred condo, my beloved job, my sleep, my freedom. That sacrifice served a purpose. But tonight, it all feels in vain.
“Christ, Megan. You can only go at that speed for so long before you break.”
Most days, I think I’ve already broken.
“I just—” I say as he starts to talk.
“You go first,” he says.
I pull back, taking a deep breath and holding it for a few seconds before exhaling. “I wanted to say I’m sorry. Not for that night, but for not being honest with you. For keeping this a secret and ghosting you over the last half of a year.”
“Don’t,” he whispers, shaking his head. “Don’t start that. You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“No, I do. I’m sorry I didn’t just tell you what was going on. Clearly it would have been a major turn-on to have me sobbing on your shoulder like this.” I wave a hand over my face to reference my blotchy, crying state. “But that night…everything—you have no idea what that meant to me. This whole situation with my sister felt so fresh. I was happy with my choices but not really happy, you know?” That night, dancing, drinking,just being with him—all of it—took my mind somewhere else. Somewhere I desperately needed to be. I look down at my hands, unable to look him in the eyes as I say my next piece. “Sometimes, when the days suck, I go back to that night in my head. Let myself feel good again. I guess I’m sorry I couldn’t be honest with you from the start. I’m sorry if you felt like I used you and ran, but I just wanted a night of absolute…bliss. I wanted something unforgettable.”
A blush spreads across the apples of his cheeks, so bright it shines through the darkness surrounding us. His tongue darts out to lick his lips and my eyes follow the movement, my body suddenly hyperaware of our position. He’s still squatting low in front of me, my legs trapped between his, with his hands rubbing smooth circles over my lower back. “Well, I hope I was able to give that to you.”
“You did. Three or four times if I remember correctly.”
His head tilts to the side, gaze meeting mine. We stare at each other for a beat, the heat between us kicking up a few degrees in the cold, sterile room. His eyes continue to roam over my face, landing on my cheekbone as he smiles.
“What?”
He brings a hand up, his pointer finger delicately tapping underneath the outer corner of my left eye. “I’ve never seen all of your freckles.”
I left the house in such a whirlwind; I didn’t bother to slap on any makeup. I thought I was safe from handsome men if I was headed to a hospital at two in the morning.
“Right here,” he continues, brushing a finger back and forth over the spot. “There is one freckle that’s slightly larger than the others. It’s adorable.”
Adorable, hah.
I know exactly what freckle he’s talking about. There is one that sits at the outer corner of my eye, where the first tear usuallyfalls. The kids in elementary school had plenty of other words for it besides adorable. But hearing Jim compliment it does something warm and fuzzy to my insides.
His hand falls, my skin immediately missing its warmth. “I understand why you feel like you can’t add anything else into your life. But I swear to you, I only want to give, not take anything away.” He pauses for a beat before continuing. “Let me help.”
“How?” I scoff. “I don’t even know what to do right now. I could try to move her, but is that going to be too hard on her?” Can I even afford a nicer facility?
He sighs, leaning back to rest on his heels. His arms hold their position around my waist, forearms resting on the tops of my thighs. “Let me do some research, let me help find another facility for her. I might have some connections. A few of the guys I went to med school with are medical directors for nursing homes or long-term care facilities–they might know of an opening somewhere else. Maybe they’d have ideas about additional care programs, or state funding. At the very least, they could point us in the right direction. Will you let me call and see what they could do for her?”
“I’m sure there are better places, but it’ll come at a price.”
“We won’t know until we try. Just…let’s try this.”
I sniffle, using the sleeve of my sweatshirt to wipe my face. “Why do you want to help me?”
His eyes soften, a hand coming up to graze my cheek. “We’re friends, aren’t we? Friends help one another. I’d do anything for you, really.”
Friends.
Are we just friends? We were friends who shared one ridiculous night together before I panicked and ran. We’re friends except I ignored every casual text he threw my way over the last eight months. We’re friends…who could have hadsomething more. I want to be friends, I think. Weshouldbe friends, but something tells me even being his friend will be hard.
