Page 10 of Worth the Shot

“Great. So we’re negotiating now.”

And there it is again. The smile he keeps dragging out of me against my better judgment.

At some point, someone calls his name from the yard, but he just lifts a hand in acknowledgement without looking away from me, like he’ll get there eventually. I try not to notice how that lands.

Time slips without me realizing it. The night cools, the music changes and at some point I realize I’m no longer clutching my drink like a social shield. I’m leaning against the railing, body angled toward him, like whatever this is has quietly become the easiest part of my night. The banter. The easy conversation. The dangerous comfort of it all.

“You cold?” he asks after a while, his eyes flicking to my bare arms.

I shake my head, even though I am. “I’m good.”

He studies me for a second like he doesn’t entirely believe me, but he lets it go. And I don’t know when it happens, exactly, but suddenly the fire is smaller, the crowd is thinner, and the stars are more prominent than they were earlier.

I glance out at the yard, surprised. “Wow. I didn't realize how late it got.”

“Yeah,” he says, following my gaze before looking back at me. “Guess that happens when you’re having a good conversation.”

Something in my chest tightens at his words, because he’s right. I guess I didn’t realize how much I missed this—the feeling of not wanting to be anywhere else.

I give him a small shrug, trying to play it off. “Or maybe you’re just distracting.”

His smile grows, slow and warm, as his eyes flick over me.

“Maybe.”

Chapter Four

Delaney

I wake up with the faint smell of campfire in my hair and trouble brewing on my conscience. Not real trouble. Just the kind that comes from remembering the way a six-foot-three, human version of sunshine looked as he stood on my sister’s deck, firelight glow across his face, trying to learn who I was like he really meant it. The light leaking through my blinds is too bright, my apartment too quiet and it’s that special brand of morning silence that feels like it’s mocking you for having feelings. I roll onto my side, the sheets cool against my skin, and stare at the undented pillow beside me. Empty, as usual. I force myself not to linger on it and push myself upright, already bracing myself for the day ahead. I drag a brush through my tangled bedhead, splash some water on my face and grab a fresh pair of scrubs from the hamper of clean clothes that’s been sitting on my floor for God knows how long.

I pause before I leave, staring at my reflection a little longer this time. I haven’t really looked at myself these past few months. Hard to make eye contact with someone who seemed one minor inconvenience away from crying in a parking lot.

But right now? I don’t see her.

I see the girl who kept showing up for twelve-hour shifts even when her chest felt hollowed out. The one who learned to laugh again, even if it sounded forced and slightly unhinged at first. The one who finally stopped checking her phone every five minutes for something that was never going to come.

And then I realize I’m about to be late, so I grab my keys and sprint to my car.

I arrive at the hospital without a minute to spare. Typical. I like to keep everyone, including myself, on their toes. I grab the shift report, check my assignments, then glance at the board. Looks like it was a quiet night, which isn’t unusual. We’re a Level II trauma center, but the most excitement we get are car accidents, beer-league hockey injuries and the occasional NHLer—which always gives me a heart attack, or the random boating, ATV, or lumberjack disasters.

Being a nurse has always been my dream. Helping people, fixing people—it’s what makes me feel whole. I always thought I’d go into oncology; that was what my heart had been set on throughout college. But after my first rotation, I couldn’t bear to go back. Every single patient’s face was my dad’s and I couldn’t unsee it.

The thing is, in trauma, you don’t remember faces. You don’t have time to think about anything other than fixing what’s broken in front of you. Most patients are in and out before you can learn much more than their name and what landed them in my trauma bay.

Oncology is different. You see the same people week after week, month after month. You learn about their families, their jobs, their lives outside of being a patient. And most importantly, their plans for when treatment is over. That’s the part that gets me. My dad had plans, too.

It’s easier not to get attached when you don’t have the time to get to know someone.

It’s just you, the chaos, and a series of blood-curdling injuries. There’s no room for grief or ghosts or the kind of pain that sticks to your ribs. And somehow, for me, that’s better. Safer.

I pull my faded navy-and-red flannel scrub cap from my pocket and tie it on. It’s made from one of Dad’s old flannels, the fabric softened by years and too many wash cycles. Emma and Shayne gave it to me on my first day, and it’s become a staple.

Some people wear lucky socks. I wear grief with elastic backing.

Losing my Dad was the kind of loss you don’t think you’ll ever come back from. In a lot of ways, Shayne saved us. Endless doctor’s appointments, sleepless nights, too many “what ifs.” He showed up and quietly became the rock our family needed, even though he didn’t have to be. He was the older brother I always wished I had, and the son my mom didn’t know she needed. He was always checking her oil, hauling groceries, and cracking jokes when we couldn’t breathe through the grief.

A year after Shayne came into our lives, my dad passed away. Even after watching him struggle for nearly two years, the hole it left was unimaginable. And again, Shayne was there, ready with one of his bear hugs or some dumb comment that made us laugh through the tears. Emma needed him. Hell, we all needed him. But I think, in a lot of ways, he needed us too.