“About your blue hair and ivy tattoo.”
“Sneaky, getting your friend to spill every detail about me,” I say, a teasing edge to my words.
He lets out a soft laugh, shaking his head like I’ve got it all wrong.
“You know, I wasn’t even supposed to be a Teddy.”
I frown at the sudden topic change. “What were you going to be called?”
“There was another Theodore Bancroft Seaborn the Fourth.” His expression is grim, pain lacing his words. “My older brother. He died a few hours after he was born.”
Sadness swells in me, but beneath it is a need to comfort him. “Oh. I’m so sorry to hear that.”
“They gave me the same name when I was born eleven months later. It had to live on, no matter what. I sometimes wonder if I would’ve existed at all without him dying.”
I slide my hand over his twitching fingers. He lets me hold it, the restless movement stilling beneath my touch. His thumb brushes over my knuckles, deliberate or not, but the small gesture sends a rush of warmth straight to my core.
“I wonder if they ever really saw me or if I’ve been filling the hole he left behind, all my achievements and failures weighed against my parents’ expectations of what their eldest son would’ve been.”
The ache in my chest swells, thick with the unfairness of the burden he’s carried his whole life. “There’s no outline. There’s onlyyou. Who knows what your brother might’ve been.” I squeeze his hand reassuringly. “Everything you’ve done and everything you’ve fought for. That’s yours. Not his. Not theirs.Yours.”
He turns his head toward me, the corner of his mouth lifting faintly. “Enough about me. Tell me about your family.”
The question warms me even more from the inside out. I love any chance to talk about them. Thinking of my family brings an easy, genuine smile to my face that stretches wide without me even realizing it.
“Anything?” He nods, settling back against the couch, his hand still warm in mine. “I’ve got two brothers, we were all born within three years. Max is the oldest, I’m the classic middle child, and Dean is the youngest. They’re also Ice Cross racers. They work for our dad and uncle’s construction company during the off-season, building houses and whatnot. We’ve always been a package deal, so when I chose nursing instead of sticking with the family business, it surprised everyone.”
“Why nursing?”
No one outside my family and close friends has ever asked me that before. Most see the scrubs and go on with their lives. My fingers toy with the edge of my sleeve as I think it over, surprised at how foreign it feels to put the reasons into words.
“At first, it was to prove I could. Everyone assumed I’d stay on the same track as Max and Dean, but construction work wasn’t for me. I needed a bigger challenge.”
“Is that the reason you landed at Easton General?”
“Yes and no. You don’t get into a job like mine unless you’re willing to hold someone's worst day in your hands. I needed to know I could be that person. The one who stays calm in the chaos and doesn’t look away.”
“You fit the rebel type. The emo phase and tattoos included.”
“Oh, I’m the worst kind.” I let out a knowing chuckle. “No dramatic rebellion, just quiet defiance. One day I showed up to family dinner with a nursing textbook the size of my head.They stared at me and went, ‘Bubbles, what are you doing with that book?’And I told them, ‘I’m going to be a nurse.’”
“Bubbles?”
Heat crawls up my cheeks. I shouldn’t feel this exposed over something so silly, but I do. And stupidly, I also like that he knows it now.
“It’s a childhood thing…I was obsessed with bubble baths, and one day I drank almost an entire bottle of bubble solution because I thought it was potion from a fairytale. My parents freaked out, rushed me to the ER. I don’t think it was actually dangerous, but they made me drink this disgusting activated charcoal stuff and dark bubbles came out of my mouth. That’s how the nickname Bubbles was born.”
“How adorable. I mean, slightly disturbing, but still adorable,” he teases.
A wistful smile tugs at my lips. The memory is a window into a simpler time. “My extended family is huge, especially on my mom’s Italian American side. They loved the nickname and would use it constantly. My dad also told the bubble story at every family gathering for years. Weddings, christenings, graduations—you name it.”
“As he should. The story is comedy gold.”
“Hey!” I flick his ear playfully. “No more teasing.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,Bubbles.”
“Ugh, I regret telling you,” I protest, dragging out the words for dramatic effect.
