Sweet Nothing(3)

I glowered at him.

He cleared his throat. “Sorry. Everyone knows you’ve had a thing for her, too. I’m just saying that just because taking her home crossed your mind, that doesn’t mean that’s all it would have been.”

I didn’t want a would have or should have. My story had no more room for regret, yet I had watched it take physical form right in front of me.

I grazed my nose with my knuckle. “This is my fault.”

Quinn shifted in his seat. “Don’t go there, Josh. You can’t take the blame for this one.”

“I was there. If I hadn’t been talking to her … I’ve told you that when people get too close—”

Quinn blew out a frustrated breath. “You’ve got to give that up, man. The universe doesn’t have it out for you.”

I shook my head. “I couldn’t get to her fast enough. She was hurt, I ran as fast I could to get to her, but my whole body was moving in slow motion. And then—against all my training—I cradled her in my arms and held her. That’s all I could do.” I felt Quinn’s fingers press into my shoulder. “I’ve only felt that helpless one other time in my life. I’m tired of being too late.”

“All paramedics get that way, buddy. It’s why we do what we do.”

“No, this was different. I wasn’t doing just my job. I needed her to be okay, Quinn. I need her to be okay. I have to see her again.”

“She’ll be okay.” Quinn said the words slow, watching me intently. “Are you? Okay?”

“I’m fine. And I know what you’re thinking.”

“That you hit your head harder than I thought? A little,” he admitted.

“I saw her get T-boned by a semi. I thought I’d lost her.” Heartbreak and loss were a part of life. Those of us who worked hand in hand with death learned early to appreciate those few precious moments we had before it was all taken away. I recoiled from Quinn’s expression. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“I get it. Sometimes I think about the people I’ve lost, and it makes me work that much harder to bring people back,” Quinn agreed.

“That’s not it. I made a decision in the ten minutes I listened to the sirens get closer.”

“What kind of decision?”

The possibility of losing something before it was even mine was something I'd never imagined. Watching what could have been slip away before it was in your grasp was enough to break a man. But it had also given me the chance to redeem myself, make myself worthy of her, in the event we finally got our moment.

“You’ll see.”





My muscles hurt even before I opened my eyes. I hadn’t dreamed, nor could I recall the moment of impact. My only memory was the pain. But when the room around me came into focus, it all but went away.

The hideous brown and mauve wallpaper was peeling in the corners. The fake plants and watercolor prints were meant to resemble a nineteen-eighties living room, even though anyone would know by the smell alone where they were.

Nurse Michaels walked in with a stethoscope hanging from her blue floral lab jacket. She had the same dark circles I’d had when looking in a mirror mid-shift. Michaels typically worked in ICU but sometimes moonlighted in the ER with me, not that she was any help at all. Being in her care was unsettling.

The tiny catheter wiggled a bit beneath the thin skin of my hand while she fussed with the tape covering the entry site of my IV. I frowned and peered up, seeing Michaels’ infernal, frizzy orange hair, and then my surroundings. Yep. I was definitely in Step-Down.

Unfortunately, it appeared Step-Down, the hospital wing for stabilized patients adjacent to the ICU, was short staffed, and Michaels clearly had hours to make up—as usual.

“Looking good, Jacobs. You hang in there. We’re all worried about you,” she said, pulling at the tape again.

“Jesus, Michaels. Take it easy,” I said. My voice sounded like two pieces of sandpaper rubbing together, and my throat burned.

She startled. “Oh.” With her finger, she pushed her black-framed glasses up the bridge of her nose, her tone more surprised than excited.

“If you’re here, who’s taking my shift?” I asked.

“I’m just going to—” She reached for the tape again.

I pulled away from her. “Would you f*cking stop?” I snapped, already feeling guilty. It was true: nurses were the worst patients.

Dr. Rosenberg’s Italian leather shoes clicked across the tile. Concern hummed from his throat, and my chest fluttered. His ocean-blue eyes sparkled, even if he was seeing me in a sack-like hospital gown. My face probably looked like a misshapen tomato, but I still reached up to flatten the rats in my hair, hoping a decent hairdo would distract him from the rest of me.

I refused to let out a sigh, or stare too long at his perfectly thick eyebrows or squared jawline, or snarl at Michaels when she did everything I refused to do. After all, Dr. Rosenberg wasn’t mine. He belonged to Mrs. Rosenberg and their teenaged daughter. But, unlike Michaels, I didn’t have to fantasize that Dr. Rosenberg cared about me. He did. He was standing right next to my bed, scanning over my embarrassingly thin hospital gown and looking rather upset, even though he worked three floors below in the ER.

Dr. Rosenberg touched my hand, and I tried not to let a squeal spill from my mouth. His warm fingers traveled up my palm to my wrist, and then he waited quietly while he checked my pulse. “Strong, considering. We can probably—”