Some I know instantly — the trauma questions, the emergency protocols, the things I do with my hands every shift. Some I wrestle with — pharmacology dosages, lab values, and priority-setting questions where every answer seems half-right. I read each one twice. I breathe. I let my body take over.
The computer shuts off at question 88.
I stare at the blank screen. The minimum is 75. The maximum is 145. I have no idea if 88 is good or catastrophic. The screen tells me results will be available in 48 hours and thanks me for completing the examination.
And … that’s it.
I have now completed the thing that’s been standing in my way. There’s nothing more to do but grab my stuff and head outside into the February chill.
The sky is gray and flat, and the air bites my cheeks as I cross the sidewalk, not knowing if I’m a nurse.
I start walking toward the bus stop, legs hollow and brain full of static.
But then I see the G-Wagon.
Parked outside the sub shop is a familiar black SUV, with a familiar, enormous man leaning against the rear bumper. He has his arms crossed over his massive chest, a hat pulled low over his curls. He looks like an ad for something expensive and irresponsible.
The sob hits me before I can stop it — not sadness, not failure, just the raw, cracking overwhelm of someone showing up when you told them not to because they knew you needed them to.
My vision blurs and my throat seizes, and I'm walking, and then I'm running across the parking lot, backpack bouncing against my spine, and I crash into him so hard he rocks back against the bumper.
His arms close around me, tight and solid, wrapping me up the way they did that night he climbed into bed beside me by accident. Except this time he’s holding me on purpose, in broad daylight.
"I've got you," he says against my hair.
I press my face into his chest and cry. It’s like he released a blood pressure cuff for my emotions.
His big hand strokes my hair. His lips press against the top of my head. He just holds me and lets me shake and breathes steadily against my hair like he's trying to lend me his calm.
"You came," I manage.
"Of course I did."
"I told you not to."
"You tell me a lot of things I ignore.” His cheek settles against the top of my head. "It's part of my charm."
I laugh into his hoodie. It comes out wet and broken, but it's a laugh, and his arms tighten, and for thirty seconds the world is just this: Bernard's chest against my face, Bernard's hand in my hair, Bernard's lips on my head, and the feeling of warm support.
Then I hear a car.
Bass music thuds loud enough that I glance over to see an expensive car driving too fast, screeching to a halt in the lot. I recognize Jason’s souped-up SUV, which comes to a halt a foot away from Bernard and me.
Through the windshield, I see my brother’s face, frozen, like he’s watching a replay of a penalty the ref missed.
I see my brother notice Bernard's arms around me. Bernard's hand in my hair. And my tear-streaked face pressed against his best friend's chest.
Jason kills the engine. The silence is thunderous.
He opens the door, steps out, and stands in the cold with his jaw locked and his eyes moving between me and Bernard while he finally sees what I’ve been trying to pretend wasn’t happening.
My brother growls and finally says, “What the fuck is this?”
Chapter 20
Howie
Jason's face tells me everything before his mouth opens.
