“Just the tomatoes,” he muttered, reaching in to grab them. After arranging everything to his liking, he grabbed a couple bell peppers and shut the fridge. “It’s not like I’m a freak of nature,” he insisted, turning to Emmy and brandishing the peppers at her. “Lots of people like to keep their things organized.”
“I didn’t say anything!”
“Yeah, but I bet you thought plenty,” he replied, setting the peppers on the counter.
“Maybe a little. Mostly I think it’s cute. I swear.”
The look he gave her told her exactly what he thought of being called “cute.” She only smiled back at him. Until he reached for the bag on the counter and began to unload it, lining the liquor bottles up on top of the fridge. Emmy felt the smile slip off her face, and her stomach clenched.
“Rough day?”
He looked at her over his shoulder, noted her expression. Then he sighed and dragged his free hand down his face. “Yeah. You could say that.”
“Was the liquor store having a sale?” she asked carefully.
“The liquor store had liquor.”
“Okay.”
“Look.” He set the last bottle on top of the refrigerator with an impatient clank. “I don’t need your judgment right now. Or ever. Yes, I had a rough day at work. I didn’t mind coming home so much. We had a nice moment. I liked bantering with you about vegetables. Let’s not ruin it.”
“I don’t want to ruin anything. I just… you bought a lot for one person. A lot for two, even.”
“Relax, Emmy. I had a hard day, that’s all. I’m going to have a drink to wash the bad taste out of my mouth. You don’t have to worry. My liver isn’t real, so it doesn’t matter if I drink myself stupid.”
With that, he grabbed a bottle of whiskey and strode out of the room. Emmy heard the TV going a moment later. She leaned back against the wall and stared at the ceiling, mortified to discover that she was blinking back tears. If he wasn’t real, then why did this whole shitty situation hurt so damn much?
*
He was an asshole. Will was man enough to admit it. A part of him hoped Emmy would join him on the couch so he could share the cheap liquor with her and offer an apology. Another part of him hoped she’d give him space to wallow in peace.
The whiskey tasted like gasoline mixed with rubbing alcohol, but it burned magnificently on the way down his throat. He knew he could have sprung for the good stuff—his bank account was no more real than his liver—but he’dneeded the cheap and caustic; the kind of drink that could double as paint thinner. In no time at all, his brain had a nice fuzzy blanket wrapped around it. The comforting warmth was almost enough to drown out the thoughts that had been plaguing him ever since the end of his shift.
Sure, his day had started out great. There had been the usual routines. Nothing engrossing about distributing pills or changing IV bags, but he found comfort in the familiarity. He’d also found time to entertain a pair of twins in the pediatric wing while one of them recovered from having her tonsils removed. Then he’d had a quick lunch with Jared who casually tossed out the idea of Will and Emmy joining him and Bright for dinner sometime soon. That one sure had thrown Will for a loop, but it was a happy sort of loop. His friend was starting a new relationship, and he didn’t have any problem with the fact that the relationship was with Bright. All in all, it had been a fulfilling and productive shift.
Until Tabitha McGrady had started coding.
He knew this was the risk you took when you worked in a hospital. It was especially hard when you worked in peds. Sure, you got to hand out lollipops and make the kids giggle with silly faces. But you also had to deal with the other end of the spectrum. Things go wrong in hospitals. He told himself this. He told himself he was prepared to deal with the good, the bad, and the ugly.
But Tabitha, who preferred to go by Tabby, was in the hospital because she’d been in a car accident on the way to her best friend’s birthday party. He had been there when she coded, and he knew the drill. Even as his mind balked at what was happening, his body went through the motions through sheer muscle memory. Crash cart. Compressions. Paddles.
God, she was so small.
He watched in a daze as a team of doctors and nurses tried to save her. That was when his brain hit him with the none-of-this-is-real sledgehammer again. Why was he trying to save this girl’s life? Why did he care that he wasfailingto save this girl’s life? Why did his heart feel like it was shriveling up into a wrinkled husk when he heard the doctor declare time of death?
It doesn’t matter.
It’s not real.
She’s not real.
She’s not dead because she was never alive.
Fuck!
He hadn’t made a conscious decision to hit up Cobalt Wine & Spirits. His hands had just turned the steering wheel. Muscle memory. Like packing up a crash cart after time of death is official.
He hadn’t made a conscious decision to bite Emmy’s head off either—hell, he’d been in a pretty good mood only seconds earlier—but he’d done that just fine, too.
