Page 88 of Worth the Shot

“Yeah, it’s me. I’m sorry—I thought…never mind, that doesn’t matter. Are you okay?” I listen as she answers, voice small, uncertain. Not the Delaney I’m used to.

“Yeah, I’m…I just am.”

“Okay…well, that’s a good place to start.” I try to make it sound like a joke, something light to cut through the tension, but it feels forced even to me. Still, I keep it there because anything is better than the silence creeping in.

Then she brings up the gala. Her voice tightens, like she’s bracing herself before she even says it. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to go with everything going on right now. I want to go with you, Brennan—I really do.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I tell her, keeping my tone steady and even like it doesn’t matter. As if her words didn’t just land heavier than I want to admit.

There’s a pause, and then she asks, “Are you sure you’re not upset?” Her voice softens, like she’s searching for the truth underneath my words.

“I’m sure, Laney. I promise.” And I mean to sound convincing. I really do.

But it’s the first time I ever lie to Delaney Collins.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Delaney

I’ve been awake for sixteen hours and the hospital caffeine that usually keeps me upright and numb has officially stopped working. My hands feel shaky, breathing feels like a chore and I feel like half my heart is walking around without me and I’m expected to function anyway. I force myself to breathe and pull it together. To be professional and stop thinking about all of the what ifs my brain is currently producing like rapid fire.

Halfway through my break I pull my phone out, open my call log to see the missed call from Matt for the hundredth time, and then I close it again. I look for Brennan’s text thread next, but I have to scroll to find it which feels wrong on so many levels. It usually sits right on top, the last text sent or received almost guaranteed to be between us, but we haven’t spoken much these last few days since I told him I couldn’t do the gala thing anymore. I finally find it, and I almost send a text. Almost. But instead, I lock my phone, tuck it back into my scrub pocket, and stand up. I cut my break short a few minutes and I finish my shift because that’s what I do. Because showing up is the only thing that still feels automatic.

The thing about a twenty-four-hour shift is that you move on instinct. You become a machine—efficient, detached—every motion precise and practiced. It’s a mercy, really, because it gives me somewhere to put my thoughts of Brennan. Somewhere deep and quiet where they can’t destroy me in front of other people. The clock reads 10:01 P.M. Eight hours to go. I can do this.

The trauma bay doors burst open and everything snaps into motion. Two gurneys rush in, chaos following close behind. I’m already moving, already running alongside the medic as he rattles off vitals, mechanisms of injury, timelines. I assess his cuts, bruising and swelling without having to think. Half of him is torn up and blood is pooling in places it shouldn’t be. He’s unconscious and needs to be intubated, immediately.

I pause for half a second longer than necessary before training takes over and I snap back into reality. There’s a man in front of me who needs me. Someone’s life is at stake, and whatever personal spiral I’m in has to wait, so I do what I actually need to be doing.

I move on instinct, muscle memory guiding my hands as I start IVs, monitor his oxygen saturation, prep him for intubation. My voice is steady as I call out vitals, as I run through a quick neuro exam. And then I see it—both of his pupil are blown. Shit.

“No pupillary response to light. CT, stat,” I call out immediately, already knowing how this might end but praying I’m wrong. By the time I step back, the trauma physician has taken over. I strip my gloves off slowly, staring at the blood smeared across them. The faint metallic scent of copper hangs in the air, thick enough that it coats the back of my throat.

Before I give myself too much time to come down from the high, I turn to charting, paperwork, and anything that keeps my hands moving and my mind from wandering anywhere it shouldn’t right now. I force my brain into autopilot, typing, clicking, documenting, and pretending I don’t feel like collapsing onto the gurney next to that mangled man right now.

“Delaney.” The unit secretary’s voice pulls me out of the fog. I blink, realizing I’ve been staring at the same screen for longer than necessary.

“What’s up?” I ask, peeling my eyes away.

She raises an eyebrow, holding up a to-go coffee cup. “Did no one tell you? Someone dropped this off about an hour ago.”

My eyes light up. I already know that cup, it’s the one from Emma’s. The exact same one I took with me the other day when I went home to spiral and self-destruct. The one I returned unwashed because I’m an asshole. The one Shayne explicitly told me I was banned from using ever again. And yet, here it is, sitting on my desk like a defiant little brat. How poetic.

I stare at it for a moment, taking in the simple, devastating beauty of a fresh latte. I know exactly how it was made: fresh-ground beans, that obnoxiously expensive machine they (we) love, everything done with love and care. I take a sip, the drink instantly warming my insides, the insulated mug absolutely doing its job. But the second I swallow, my heart sinks straight into my shoes.

Emma didn’t make this.

Not a chance.

Because there is exactly one person in the world who cracked the code to the perfect gingerbread latte. Not too sweet, just enough spice and extra cinnamon on top—because that’s my favorite, even though I never asked for it out loud.

My hands shake as I twist the lid off.

There it is.

The extra dusting of cinnamon resting on top of the creamy foam.

Swoon.