Ican't focus.
It's a problem when you're an ER nurse assessing a patient's chest pain for signs of an MI, but all you can think about is the way a man said your name, the way he looked at you across a coffee cup, the way he didn't kiss you when you wanted him to.
"Frankie." Jen's voice cuts through my distraction. "You with me?"
I blink and refocus on the monitor. Mr. Rodriguez is in one of the cardiac beds, presenting with substernal chest pressure radiating to his left arm. His troponin is pending, EKG showing some concerning ST changes.
"Yeah, sorry." I pull up his chart. "Let's get him to the cath lab. I'll call cardiology."
Jen gives me a look that says we're talking about this later, but she nods and heads back to the patient. I make the call, document everything, and try to get my head back in the game.
Barely into my shift and I’m forcing myself to concentrate when my brain wants to replay yesterday afternoon. The coffee date that turned into hours, the walk home with his hand on myback, the moment outside my building when I thought he was going to kiss me and he didn't.
I keep thinking about the way he smiled when I asked how he knew things about me. That smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
I'm more worried about that than I want to admit. Worried about the fact that he knows details I never told him, about the way he showed up exactly when I needed help, about how little I can find about him online, like he doesn't exist outside of the moments when he's standing in front of me.
But the thought of seeing him again is far more alluring than it should be.
My phone buzzes in my scrub pocket. I'm not supposed to check it during shift, but we're in a lull right now, so I pull it out.
Dinner tonight. 8:30. I'll pick you up.
It's not a question. It's a statement.
I stare at the text, and something swirls low in my belly—anticipation that feels too much like a warning.
Where are we going?
You'll see. Wear the black dress.
The black dress. How does he know I own a black dress? I suppose that's not much of a stretch. Every woman I know has a go-to black dress.
My thumbs hover over the keyboard. I want to ask, want to call him out on the fact that he's telling me what to wear, what time to be ready, making all the decisions without asking what I want.
I should care that he's taking control, should push back, but working in a job where I'm involved in life and death scenarioswhere a wrong move could cost someone their life, there's something dangerously appealing about letting someone else decide.
I type
Okay
before my brain catches up, slip my phone back into my pocket and get back to work.
Later I’m finishing notes when I turn around to find Jen watching me with her arms crossed and a knowing smirk on her face.
"You're glowing," she says.
"I am not."
"You can’t stop smiling." She leans against the nurses' station. "Who is he?"
"A guy. I met him a couple of days ago."
"And?"
"We've had coffee. We're having dinner tonight."
Jen's eyes light up. "Dinner. That's a real date. What are you wearing?"
