I pulled into my apartment complex, Derek's words still echoing in my head.You can't marry the job. It'll never love you back.
Maybe not. But it had never asked me to be smaller, either. It had never demanded I choose between who I was and who someone else wanted me to be.
And before Derek, there had been Marcus — the personal trainer who'd loved my "athletic build" until he realized I was stronger than him. Who'd made increasingly pointed comments about how I should "soften up" my look, grow my hair longer, wear more makeup. Who'd sulked when I could deadlift more weight than him and stopped inviting me to his gym.
Before Marcus, there had been Ryan — the construction foreman who'd been impressed by my "tough chick" personauntil I'd gotten promoted to full firefighter and started making more money than him. Suddenly, I was "too ambitious," "too focused on work," "not feminine enough."
All of them had wanted the idea of a strong woman — right up until they had to live with the reality of one.
But tonight... tonight had been different.
I climbed the stairs to my apartment, Jimmy's voice replaying in my head:I really, really wanted to impress you.
Not change me. Not fix me. Not make me smaller or softer or more convenient.
Impress me.
He'd spent hours cooking, had worried about every detail, had been nervous about whether I'd like it. He'd been flustered and adorable when I questioned the tres leches, but not defensive. Not angry. Just... honest about his intentions.
And when I'd kissed him, he hadn't tried to take control or turn it into something more aggressive. He'd just kissed me back like he couldn't quite believe it was happening.
I unlocked my apartment and stepped inside, the familiar silence greeting me. But for the first time in years, it didn't feel lonely. It felt... peaceful. Like maybe I wouldn't be filling it with just my own company much longer.
I headed for the shower, still tasting tres leches and possibility. For the first time in three years, I wasn't thinking about Derek's ultimatum or Marcus's insecurities or Ryan's wounded pride.
I was thinking about Jimmy's hands shaking as he served dessert, about the way he'd looked at me like I was something precious, about how he'd cooked for me — really cooked — just because he wanted to make me happy.
Maybe Carmen was wrong. Maybe I didn't need someone to take care of me.
Maybe I just needed someone who wanted to.
And maybe … I’d found him.
chapter
twelve
The thingabout working nights in the ER is that sometimes the universe decides to have a theme. One night it's all chest pains; the next, it's a parade of kidney stones. Tonight, the theme was norovirus. We were four hours into the shift, and it felt like half the city had decided to simultaneously evacuate their gastrointestinal tracts within the fluorescent-lit walls of Metro General.
"I'm never eating takeout again," Chloe muttered, as we helped our third patient vying to see which direction they could expel more of their internal fluids from.
"Sure you will," I said, handing her a pair of gloves. "You'll just repress this memory. It's a vital nursing skill."
Our fourth patient of the norovirus parade was Mary, a middle-aged woman who looked like she'd been through a blender, clutching a tissue box and eyeing me with the desperate hopefulness of someone who'd been violently ill for the past twelve hours.
"I knew you'd want a sample," she announced proudly from her gurney, clutching her purse to her chest. "So I brought one for you!" She started to unzip a pocket.
My training kicked in with the speed of a defibrillator shock. "NO!" I said, maybe a little too loudly. I softened myvoice. "No, no, that's totally fine, Mary. We'll take your word for it. We don't need a sample."
She looked genuinely disappointed. "Oh. Are you sure? It's no trouble. It's double-bagged."
The phrase "double-bagged" made something inside me die a little. "I'm absolutely certain. But I really appreciate you thinking of us."
"But how will you know what's wrong with me if you don't test it?"
This was the part of the job they didn't teach you in nursing school — the delicate art of convincing patients that you believed their symptoms without having to examine whatever they'd thoughtfully preserved at home.
"Mary," I said gently, settling into the chair beside her bed, "generally speaking, people don't go through all the trouble of coming to the ER at two in the morning if they're faking their symptoms. And even if we wanted to run tests, we'd need to obtain fresh samples here in the hospital. But honestly, based on what you're describing and how you're feeling, it sounds like you've got the same bug that's been going around."
