Sweet Nothing(56)

The room was so quiet it hurt.

“Avery?”

“I love you.”

My breathing faltered and my eyes burned. “There’s more.”

“I’ll still love you.”

I gritted my teeth, trying not to break down, and then told her everything about the day Kayla died, and everything after.

I spoke about my childhood and college and everything in between. Avery listened and loved me through it all. I talked until my voice felt like sandpaper, until I fell asleep with her in my arms.





When I woke, my hand roamed over cold, bare sheets. My heart sank at the sudden realization that I was alone.

Tossing off the comforter, I pulled on my jeans, tugging my shirt over my head. I nearly tripped while slipping on my sneakers. My legs wouldn’t move fast enough as I tried to hurry from my room. Once I reached the living room, I froze at the sound of Avery’s voice.

She hadn’t left me. I spun around to see Avery and my mother sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and chatting.

“Morning,” Avery called out to me. She pulled one of her knees to her chest before taking a sip from her mug. “I made coffee.”

I rubbed my hand hard against the back of my neck, struggling to process what was happening. Not only had Avery stayed, but she seemed to be having a pleasant conversation with my mother.

Walking across the room, I bent down and pressed my lips against her forehead, letting them linger for an extra second.

“How are you feeling?” I asked.

“Better.” Her sweet smile put me more at ease.

I stood, glancing over at Mom. She looked everywhere but at me, trying to avoid eye contact. It was nice to know she hadn’t lost her conscience.

Grabbing a mug from the cupboard, I filled it with steaming coffee and sat next to Avery. She explained to my mother what she did for a living. As Avery described nursing school and her shifts in the ER, Mom listened intently and seemed to actually enjoy it.

It was hard to pay attention to their words as I watched Avery in awe, wondering what I had done to deserve someone so understanding.

We would be different on the way home … our home. The next step was to ask her to marry me. I just had to restrain myself from proposing the second we walked in the door.





An hour had passed since Quinn had radioed ahead that they were bringing a teenage boy in critical condition to St. Ann’s. When the ambulance arrived, Quinn and Deb pushed the stretcher through the ambulance bay doors. Josh was straddling the patient on the stretcher, chanting numbers as he counted chest compressions. I helped Deb with vitals as Dr. Rosenberg rushed in.

Forty minutes after the patient arrived, I reached up and grazed a cloth across Josh’s sweaty brow, noticing the green and red decorations on the ceiling.

“You need another break?” I asked, tending to the head wound.

Josh shook his head.

“You’ve only had one,” I said with labored breathing. Sweat had glued my bangs to my face, and the room was buzzing with organized chaos.

Josh refused to give up, still on the stretcher, using his entire upper body to help his arms ward off muscle fatigue.

“He’s gone,” Dr. Rosenberg said. “I’m calling it.”

“No, he’s not!” Josh said, continuing.

The ECG picked up a single sinus rhythm, and then another peak blinked on the monitor. Everyone froze.

Deb held her fingers to the teen’s neck. “No pulse."

“Resuming compressions,” Josh said, placing the heels of his hands in the proper position and working even harder. “He’s coming back. He’s gonna come back.”

“What are you doing, Josh?” Dr. Rosenberg asked. “It’s a GSW to the head.”

“It’s Christmas!” Josh snapped, panting. “He’s a f*cking kid, and his mom’s waiting on us to come tell her he’s going to be okay!”

“Fine, one more,” the doctor said, pointing to me. “Epinephrine.”

I flicked the preloaded syringe twice and then stabbed the IV port with the needle, administering one milligram of epinephrine.

Josh continued compressions for three more minutes, and then Deb checked for pulse and rhythm.

Deb’s brows pulled together. “Asystole, Doctor.”

Josh leaned over the boy again, positioning his hands. “Resuming compressions.”

“Enough, Josh,” Dr. Rosenberg ordered.

The staff’s eyes bounced between Josh and the doctor.

Dr. Rosenberg yanked off his gloves. “Time of death, one twenty-two a.m.”

Josh’s jaws twitched under his skin. He’d heard the doctor, but ignored him and continued compressions.

I glanced at Dr. Rosenberg, worrying that if he felt like he’d lost control of his ER, Josh would lose his job.

I reached out and touched Josh’s arm, leaving a bloody handprint on his skin. “Josh, he’s gone. Enough.”

Josh leaned back on his knees, winded. Sweat poured from his hairline. He used his forearm to wipe his brow, smearing dark blood across his skin.

We all looked at the monitor, hoping for a miracle. Nothing but a flat line streamed across the monitor.

“Goddamn it! Stupid f*cking kid!” Josh yelled.

“Josh,” I said, standing with my arms out to my side, my scrubs covered in blood.