Page 44 of Sexting My Ex’s Dad

By ten o’clock the floor feels handled. I duck into the side hallway near the supply room and finally check my phone.

One message waits.

Nate: Can we talk?

I stare at the screen as the hospital corridor carries on behind me. A cart rattles past. Someone calls for a resident down the hall. The phone vibrates again.

Nate: Just ten minutes.

My thumb moves before I think too hard about it.

Athena: About what?

The typing bubble appears almost instantly.

Nate: I’d rather say in person.

I rest my shoulder against the wall and look down toward the hospital entrance through the narrow hallway window. Cars pull in and out of the drop-off lane while families move through the doors with overnight bags and coffee cups.

The phone buzzes again.

Nate: Lunch?

Athena: I’m working.

A moment later another message appears.

Nate: After your shift then.

My thumb hovers over the keyboard before I finally answer. I’m not looking forward to seeing him today or ever again, but I’m partly concerned he knows something he shouldn’t. If he wants to say anything, I’d rather he do it in front of my face.

Athena: Where?

The reply arrives immediately.

Nate: Same café we used to go to after work.

I stare at the message for a second. Maya pushes the hallway door open and spots me leaning there. “Alvarez is looking for you in 206,” she says. “And if you’re hiding from rounds I fully support it, but he does not.”

Nodding quickly, I slip the phone back into my pocket. “Coming.”

I follow Maya down the hall and push through the door to Room 206. Dr. Alvarez stands at the foot of the bed while a teenage girl scrolls on her phone like the entire hospital exists only to interrupt her morning. Her father hovers near the window, arms folded, the expression on his face halfway between worry and impatience.

Alvarez glances up when I step in. “Athena, good,” he says. “Can you walk them through the medication schedule again? I want to be sure we’re clear before discharge.”

“Of course.”

I move beside the bed and pull the chart up on the tablet while the girl sighs pointedly. “You’re going home,” I tell her. “That usually improves moods.”

She rolls her eyes but sits up while I explain the antibiotics, the follow-up visit, and what to watch for over the next few days. Her father asks three questions. I answer all of them. Alvarez nods once when we’re done and heads for the door.

By the time they leave, the floor has settled into its midday rhythm. Charts get signed. Lunch trays appear. A toddler refuses to take a nap and negotiates with a nurse about cookie privileges.

I’m updating notes at the station when I realize I need one more signature from Trauma. I grab the tablet and head toward the elevators.

The trauma floor opens with the intensity that sits just under the surface when people spend their days pulling strangers back from the edge. I step out into the corridor and almost run straight into Nathan.

He’s halfway through reading something on a tablet while walking, sleeves rolled to his forearms, tie loosened just enough to suggest he’s been here longer than he planned.