“No.” His voice came out rough, barely a rasp. The word forced through damaged vocal cords that still didn’t work right. “Not.”
The sound made my breath catch. Two syllables. Broken.
His hand went to his throat, frustration tightening his jaw. He grabbed the pen again.
“How can you say that?” I finally looked at him. “I’m a nurse, Xavier. I’m trained to assess emergencies. To recognize whensomeone needs immediate help. And I failed. Completely. She called six times, and I kept saying tomorrow.”
Xavier wrote fast, underlined words for emphasis.
Depression is complex. You couldn’t have known. She hid how bad it was. You’re not responsible for her choice.
Rational. Logical. Everything the grief counselor had said after Emma’s funeral.
It didn’t help then. It didn’t help now.
“My dad blamed me.” The words came out flat. “Said Emma called me. That I was supposed to be there for her. He was right.”
“Wrong.” The rasp was stronger this time, forcing the single word past whatever damage kept him mostly silent.
He wrote furiously: He was grieving. And wrong.
“He hasn’t spoken to me in four years. I left Boston six months after she died because I couldn’t work at that hospital anymore. Every double shift reminded me that I chose work over my sister. That I made her wait.” I pressed my fist against my chest. “So now I don’t make people wait. Ever. I show up. Immediately. Because what if this is the time they can’t hold on? What if I think I have time and I don’t?”
Xavier’s hand cupped my face. Turned me to look at him.
His eyes were fierce. Certain.
He wrote: You’re not failing me.
“You don’t know that.” I pulled away from his touch. “I thought I had time with Emma. I was wrong. What if I’m wrong about you? What if you need Maeve and I’m keeping you from her? What if she’s your wife, your girlfriend, someone important, and my presence is making everything worse?”
“Don’t... remember.” Each word came out strained, his throat working between them.
“But you might. Your memories are coming back. What if you remember her and realize...” I couldn’t finish.
Realize I was a mistake. A distraction. Someone who didn’t matter.
Xavier grabbed the notepad. Wrote furiously.
I don’t care who Maeve is. Or was. I remember YOU. I choose YOU. Right now. That’s what matters.
“You can’t promise that.”
“Just did.” The rasp was getting stronger, more confident, even if the words came slowly.
“No.” I stood. Paced to the window. Stared at my reflection in the frost-covered glass. “You can’t promise anything because you don’t remember. Maeve could be your wife. Your fiancée. The love of your life. And I’m just... temporary. The nurse who happened to be there when you needed help.”
The notepad hit the bed. Xavier stood. Crossed to me in three long strides.
He spun me around. His hands gripped my shoulders. Not rough, but firm. Demanding my attention.
His mouth moved. Formed words. Some sounds came out. Fragments, broken syllables that didn’t quite connect.
Frustration flashed across his face. He grabbed my hand. Pressed it against his chest. Over his heart.
The beat thundered under my palm.
His other hand came up. Cupped my face. His thumb traced my cheekbone with devastating gentleness.
