"Excuse me?"
"That's bullshit, and we both know it." He sets his sandwich down. "You're one of the best pediatric nurses in the province. Emma's told me about the kids you've helped, the lives you've saved. So why aren't you applying?"
My throat tightens. "Emma doesn't know what she's talking about."
"Pretty sure she does."
"Well, she's wrong." The words come out harsher than I mean them to. "I'm not good at my job. I'm not good at anything."
"That's also bullshit."
"Stop saying that."
"Then stop lying."
We glare at each other across the table. This is familiar territory: bickering like an old married couple, pushing each other's buttons. We used to do this all the time when I lived with his family. He'd make some comment about my music taste being garbage, I'd fire back about his hockey obsession being cult-like, back and forth until his mom told us to take it outside.
But this feels different. Like we're dancing around something neither of us wants to name.
"Everyone knows about Lily," I say finally. My voice comes out flat. "Everyone knows I lost a patient. A six-year-old with pneumonia that turned septic. I was her nurse. I should have caught it sooner."
Jackson's expression doesn't change. "Emma said it wasn't your fault. Said the infection moved too fast."
"Emma's being nice." I pick at the sandwich wrapper. "I should have seen the signs, should have pushed for more tests, should have?—"
"Should have what? Been psychic?"
"Been better." The words crack on the way out. "I'm a nurse, Jackson. It's my job to keep kids safe, to notice when something's wrong. And I didn't. She died because I wasn't good enough."
The coffee shop suddenly feels too small, too bright. The couple at the next table is laughing about something, and it grates against my skin.
"You know what the worst part is?" I'm talking before I can stop myself. "I can't do it anymore. Can't walk into a hospital without seeing her face. Can't look at a patient without thinking about all the ways I could fuck up and get them killed. I've been staring at job postings all morning, and I can't even click'apply'because the thought of being responsible for another kid's life makes me want to throw up."
Jackson's quiet for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is steady, certain. "You didn't kill her, Maya."
"You don't know that."
"Yeah, I do." He leans forward. "Because Emma told me what happened. Told me the whole medical team reviewed the case and found that nobody could have predicted how fast the infection spread. Told me you did everything right, and Lily diedanyway because sometimes that's what happens. It's not fair, and it's not your fault."
Tears burn behind my eyes, and I blink them back. "Doesn't change anything. She's still dead."
"No, it doesn't change that. But it also doesn't mean you killed her."
I want to argue, want to list all the things I could have done differently, all the signs I missed, all the ways I failed. But sitting here with Jackson looking at me like I'm not a complete disaster, I can't find the words.
"I'm scared," I admit. The confession feels like stepping off a cliff. "I'm scared to go back. Scared I'll fuck up again. I'm scared I'll be responsible for another kid dying, and I won't be able to live with myself."
"That's fair."
"It is?"
"Yeah." He picks up his coffee. "Being scared doesn't make you a bad nurse. It makes you human."
The knot in my chest loosens, not much, but enough that I can breathe a little easier.
"When did you become a therapist?" I try for humor, try to rebuild the walls.
"I'm not. I'm just a guy who knows what it's like to fuck up and be terrified of doing it again." He pauses. "Last season, I made a call during the playoffs that cost us the game. Wrong play at the wrong time. We lost in overtime."
