“I’m not avoiding you.”
“Really?” she asks.
No.
“Yes,” I concede.
“Here I was, thinking maybe you were just really that excited about the invitation for Monday night horseshoes. Really chomping at the bit.”
“And you weren’t avoiding me.”
She dumps her purse on the kitchen counter and continues toward the living room, dropping onto the couch in a heap.
“Oh no, I for sure was.” She yawns, snuggling into the corner of the couch.
I push off the wall and grab the blanket neatly folded over the back of it, shaking it out.
“Do you need to shower or are staying put for a while?”
“Is that an offer to help?”
“After you avoided me?” I deadpan. “You usually head straight for the shower when you get home.”
“Ah, did that at the hospital.”
I swallow down guilt. “Because of me?”
“No. Because I was . . .” She rubs her temples and lets out the kind of yawn that makes your eyes water. “Because I got baptized in vomit tonight.”
I stop mid-step, blanket dangling between us. “You what now?”
“Oh, yeah.” She drops her head back against the couch cushion like she doesn’t have the will to fight gravity. “Full coverage. If they gave out medals for Most Thoroughly Doused, I’d have gold, silver, and bronze.”
“That visual is really something.”
“Neuro patient.” She waves a limp hand. “Stroke alert from another hospital. He was okay-ish when we loaded him, but altitude, plus confusion, plus a helicopter is not a winning combo.” She snorts, but it’s weak. “He sat straight up, exorcist style, and let it rip. I was collateral damage.” She snaps her fingers. “Actually, now that I think about it, I should share my medals. He really did a great job.”
“Damn,” I breathe, wincing sympathetically. I deal with my fair share of nasty shit at work, but Aspen handles things I couldn’t stomach half as gracefully.
“Yeah, well, it managed to get down the front of my scrubs, in my hair, and somehow—under my watch.” She lets her head roll to the side to look at me. “I don’t understand the physics of it, but I’m filing a complaint with the universe.”
A laugh escapes me before I can catch it, but she’s too tired to even pretend to glare.
“That bad?” I ask.
“That bad,” she echoes. “I cleaned everything as well as I could in the chopper, but the smell was . . . lingering.” Her voice softens, fraying at the edges. “There was no way I was closing myself inside my car until I showered. And didn’t want to bring the day home with me.”
And hell . . . something tightens in my chest. Because I know she doesn’t say stuff like that lightly. She never complains about the hours or the work. She talks fondly about her patients and her job, always with a smile, so the weariness etched into the crinkle of her eyes is . . . telling.
“Another long day,” I murmur. “So long you fell asleep in the car.” The thought sits heavy in my gut. Driving that tired could have ended so much worse. I drape the blanket over her to hide the reaction crossing my face.
She nods, eyes heavy. “Yeah. I just sat down for a second and . . . my body clocked out.”
I tuck the blanket around her as she watches curiously before curling into it, instincts taking over where her brain’s too tired to help. I sit opposite her..
“You should’ve called someone for a ride if you were that tired,” I say, brushing a stray curl off her cheek.
“I know.” Her voice cracks halfway through. “Today was just . . . a lot. And I needed the drive to process, you know.”
