He smiles back, and the tension between us loosens for a moment before the clock on the wall grabs his attention. He groans. “Look, I need to get to work. Can we make an effort to get through a conversation tonight and not get derailed by random wrinkle-related stuff? Please?”
“We don’t get derailed,” I scoff.
“Emmaaaaaa, please,” he groans despondently, pressing his thumb into the bridge of his nose.
“Fine.” I hold my hands up in surrender. I don’t have the desire to argue. I know myself. I know we can get off topic. I have a million things going on in myhead at once, but even if we trail off, I always bring us back to the point at hand. Always. Even if it’s agonizing. Even if it ends the same way it always does.
“We’ll talk tonight.”
Without another word, he kisses my forehead, then he’s gone.
My office door clicks shut behind him, and suddenly, all I hear is the ticking of my clock and the frantic thump of my still-recovering heartbeat.
I press my palms flat against the desk, focusing on the cold wood against my skin and breathe.
We’ll talk tonight.We always do. But I hope this time I can actually find the words to say what I need. And I hope he really listens.
Chaptertwelve
Steven
I’mlate.
Only by ten, maybe twelve minutes, but the ER doesn’t care. The day has already started without me, running full throttle like a freight train I’m now expected to board at high-speed. A nurse shoves a chart into my hands before I even reach the desk. No time for hellos.
“Room four’s waiting,” she says, already halfway down the hall.
I nod, blink, try to reset.
But my mind is still on Emma. It’s always on her lately. I don’t know where I went wrong. We didn’t fight last night like I expected. But we didn’ttalkeither.
I walk into room four and completely forget to check the chart.
“Remind me what brings you in?” I ask the patient, who’s clearly wearing a brace on his wrist. The nurse, Sheila, gives me a look, but I pretend not to see it, pretend this is all a part of the process. He tells me what happened, rates his pain. We go through the motions quickly. It’s a simple fix, yet I still find myself distracted. I forget his discharge paperwork and have to circle back with a stammering apology like it’s my first day.
And it doesn’t stop there. In room seven, I examine the wrong leg.
I realize it halfway through and have a clumsy recovery. I try to joke that all of this is normal. The patient doesn’t say anything, but Sheila doesn’t hide her concern this time.
“You good, Dr. Jones?” she asks.
I lie. “Yeah. Just a slow start.”
Except, it’s not. It’s not slow. It’s justloud—in my head, where everything feels crammed and knotted and spiraling out of rhythm. I’m distracted. Rattled. Like I’m operating in someone else’s body.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it through one more exam then check between patients.
Emma: Nanny’s sick. I’m grabbing the baby and taking her to Lola’s before my meeting.
Short. Informational. No room for reply.
And I don’t need to ask why she didn’t even check with me—she already knows I wouldn’t be able to leave. Wouldn’t think to leave. That’s the problem, isn’t it? She’s been managing things without me for so long that I’ve somehow convinced myself that it’s fine. That showing up at my job is showing upenough.
But lately, it’s like we’re speaking two different languages, and neither of us is bothering to translate. She says I don’t ask what she needs and she’s right. I act like doing the right things shouldcountfor something, but I haven’t stopped to ask if they’re therightthings for her.
We’ll talk tonight, and I’ll ask her to tell me everything she needs. I’ll listen, I’ll learn, I’ll be a safe space for her again.
My phone buzzes, this time it’s the group chat with my sisters.
