Then: "Oh, fuck."
The mattress lurches. Bernard throws himself backward so hard the headboard cracks against the wall, and something crashes off the nightstand—a glass of water, maybe, or his phone. I roll over in time to see him standing at the foot of the bed in black boxer briefs, chest heaving, eyes wild in the dim light, and even in the chaos of this moment, I cannot help but notice that Bernard Houser's body is a medical marvel.
He’s massive, built like a damn Viking. He has a broad chest, dense shoulders, and a solid slab of an abdomen. My gaze slides down, and I cannot look away from the protrusion at his crotch.
"Ella." His voice is wrecked. "I am so sorry. I forgot…I didn't…I was at Gianna's, and we lost the game, and I had too much to drink, and I forgot you were—fuck. I am so sorry."
He drags both hands through his curls, pacing two steps in the small space between the bed and the bathroom. He's tripping over his own suit pants, crumpled on the floor alongside a dress shirt that appears to have brown sauce on it. I see it now. The guys lost, went out for gross food, and he probably drank an entire pitcher or three of alcohol.
He scrubs his face with both hands. "I owe you, Ella. I'm so sorry."
He lingers in the doorway, outlined by the faint light from the living room windows. I can see the mortification radiating off him. He opens his mouth, closes it, and then says again, "I owe you," before disappearing into the bathroom.
I hear the lock click. The fan turns on. The shower starts.
I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling and try to convince myself that my heart rate is elevated purely from the adrenaline of being startled awake. This is a normal physiological response to an unexpected stimulus. Tachycardia. Vasocongestion. Elevated cortisol.
Completely standard.
Except my hand drifts to my stomach, to the place where his palm was, and I can still feel the phantom weight of it. I can still feel the press of him against my back. The sound he made.
I roll onto my side and curl my knees up, pressing my thighs together.
The shower runs. I think about Bernard in there, and then I try very hard not to think about Bernard in there, and then I think about him anyway.
I can imagine the water sluicing over those shoulders, those hands braced against the tile. I wonder if he’s thinking about what just happened, whether he’s?—
I press my face into the pillow.
Which smells like him. This whole room smells like him, like soap and something woodsy and, now, beer and garlic and regret.
I owe you, Ella.
The words sit in the dark room like an offering. I know it’s a learned response to my brother’s absurd transactional friendship requirements. Bernard doesn’t owe me a thing after offering me the use of his bed and room and simply forgetting about it one night.
My brain spirals through yesterday's events. My first shift at Mercy was twelve hours of controlled panic. I wrestled new systems, new faces, a charge nurse who looked at my badge and said "Oh, Rookie's sister?" before I'd even clocked in.
I was assigned to a senior nurse named Susan, who talks too fast, calls everyone "honey," and told me I'd "figure it out" when I asked where the supply closet was. I stood in the hallway of the ER holding a blood draw kit and feeling like a complete fraud while an attending yelled at someone behind curtain three.
And then I came back here, exhausted and wired and questioning my life choices. I managed to study like three flashcards for my boards before I passed out. I didn’t even wake up when Bernard slumped in here. I have about five more minutes before my alarm and my second shift at Mercy.
I lie in the dark listening to my brother's best friend shower, and I feel more alive in my body than I have in months.
The water turns off and I squeeze my eyes shut as he leaves the bathroom.
I hear him move down the hall. The couch creaks. Silence.
I owe you, Ella.
Here is the thing about being a twenty-three-year-old virgin: it's not a badge of honor, and it's not a source of shame. It's just a logistical reality, like not having a driver's license until you got to college because your parents were too busy driving your brother to practice to take you to the DMV.
It's a thing that didn't happen because there was never space for it.
But I'm almost a real adult now. I have a job—provisional, terrifying, but mine. I spent two weeks filling out paperwork and watching videos about regulatory details I immediately forgot. I have a test to pass that will determine the entire trajectory of my professional life. I have roughly ten thousand problems stacked on top of each other, and somewhere near the bottom of that pile, beneath the NCLEX and the apartment search and the question of whether I'll ever feel like a real nurse, is the matter of my persistent, inconvenient virginity.
I can't exactly swipe through dating apps while crashing at my brother’s place, the hockey player. I can't bring anyone home. I don't know anyone in this city except my brother and his teammates, so my options are limited to approximately zero.
Except.
