“I’m thinking about my couch,” I tell her. “And complete silence.”
She snorts. “Lance Bradford doesn’t do silence. You’ll start talking to your ceiling fan in under an hour.”
“That’s between me and the fan.”
“You need a drink, and people.”
Unfortunately, she’s probably right. A drink and people might keep my brain off George for at least a couple hours, which currently qualifies as therapy.
Charlie, Josh, and a few other nurses fall into step with me on the way out.
Coasterra sits right along the water with polished wood, warm lighting, and expensive cocktails with suspiciously tiny ice cubes. The windows are thrown open to the bay, letting the breeze move through the place. Outside, the patio stretches along the edge with string lights hanging overhead, the bridge lit up in the distance and reflected in the water.
We take over a spot right up against the bar, close enough that I can lean in and catch the bartender’s eye without shouting. I order a tequila soda with lime, already halfway out of my work headspace and determined to stay there.
Charlie takes one sip of her drink and says, “If one more patient calls me ‘nurse sweetheart’ while bleeding on me, I’m committing a felony.”
“Only one?” I ask. “I got called ‘doctor’ three times today. Corrected all three. Still got blamed for the wait.”
“That’s because you look like management,” she says.
“Tragic news. I’m barely qualified to take charge over my own life,” I mutter.
Josh points at me. “See? That’s exactly why patients trust you.”
“Charisma is a burden,” I say, shrugging.
“It’s narcissism,” Charlie corrects.
“Tomato, tomahto.”
We trade horror stories that get worse the more we laugh, the details too familiar and real, and somehow still funny once we’re out of it. I lean into this, letting myself slip back into the version of me that fills a room instead of overthinking every second of it.
Then Charlie grabs my forearm hard enough to make me spill tequila on my hand.
“Oh my God,” she hisses.
“What?”
Her eyes are locked across the room.
I follow her line of sight and immediately regret having functioning vision.
George is sitting at a corner table by the windows, half-turned in his chair. From here I can make out the fitted dark shirt pulling across his shoulders, sleeves shoved up to his forearms, a worn jacket layered over the top like he grabbed it without thinking and still looked hot in it anyway.
Across from him is a woman with dark hair falling in loose waves, wearing a soft blue dress that sits close at the waist before dropping flawlessly to her thighs. She leans forward as she talks, smiling easily.
George isn't exactly relaxed, even though I can see he's trying to be a little more open than he usually is
He’s still all contained energy, shoulders a little too square, posture too rigid. But he’s trying. He holds her gaze longer than usual, gives small nods, his mouth pulling tight at one corner like he’s remembering he’s supposed to smile.
He’s a man making an effort.
For some reason, it brings on a tight, unwelcome pressure in my chest before I can fucking stop it.
Charlie’s grip tightens. “Is that George?”
“Yeah.”
