Getting Real (Getting Some #3)(12)

I nod. “I’ll be back.”

I cruise out the door with Jamestown hot on my heels. Out in the hall I glance at my watch and tell him, “Get me the vitals on the asthma attack in Exam Four; they should be done with the nebulizer treatment. Then come back here and I’ll demonstrate the debridement procedure for a diabetic, and then you can scurry off to the bakery.”

“Yes, Dr. Daniels.”

I pause then, and give him some of the most important professional advice he’ll ever hear.

“If you want to go into emergency medicine, your most vital relationships are not going to be with the surgeons or the cardiologists or other residents or the chief of staff. It’s with your nurses. They have to respect you—and they’re only going to do that if you respect in return. In most situations they’re all you’re going to have—and more times than not, they’re all you’re going to need. Don’t screw it up again.”

He looks at the floor, his face contemplative.

“Okay, Dr. Daniels. Thank you.”

I pat his shoulder before he heads down the hall.

Then I turn around—and stop short. Because Violet Robinson is standing there, staring up at me with those round, heartbreaking eyes.

This morning, I overheard her talking to one of the other nurses—Cooper Palmer—about a date he set her up on with his cousin or something. She said the guy was nice. That the restaurant he took her to was nice. That they had a nice time.

Which is frigging fantastic—because I was married for fifteen years. I know all about nice.

It’s the kiss of death.

If you give her flowers, and she says they’re nice? She’s not impressed.

Jewelry is nice? It means she hates it.

And when it comes to guys? Nice means she’s flat out, never-seeing-you-again not interested.

I get a dirty thrill every time I hear about one of Violet’s dates going down the drain. I realize this is wrong on every level. I’ve heard Vi talking relationships, maybe marriage, at some point in the future. If I’m not planning to make a move, I should be wishing her a long, happy relationship with some other worthy guy.

But . . . I’m just not that good of a person.

“That was kind, what you said to him,” she tells me softly. “About nurses.”

“No—it was just the truth.”

Her hair is up in a bun today, a thick russet knot, with gentle wavy wisps escaping behind her ear and at the nape of her slim neck. And I just can’t stop myself from wondering what those tendrils would feel like, what her skin would smell like, if I brushed my lips across that exact spot.

“You’re good with them—the first-years. You have a way of making them want your approval, not because they’re afraid of you . . . but because they admire you. And I think that’s better. Better at bringing out the best in them.”

My heartbeat picks up, pounding rough and sudden against my chest.

“Well, that’s the job.”

“Yeah,” she says with a smile and a soft nod.

A moment later, my tone shifts, becoming clipped and formal.

“I need to debride Mr. Wilson’s foot.”

Violet’s voice mirrors mine—all business.

“Right. I’ll prep him and get the cart.”

“Good.”

I hold out the chart, and when she takes it, my fingers brush the back of her hand.

There are three thousand touch receptors in the human fingertip, and every single one of mine focuses on Violet’s skin. How baby soft it is, smooth.

The hospital temperature is set at a steady sixty-six degrees to reduce the spread of bacteria. It’s why stethoscopes and doctors’ and nurses’ hands can feel like ice cubes. But Violet’s hand isn’t cold or callused from washing or the harsh rub of hand sanitizer.

It’s warm, silky . . . achingly feminine.

It’s not something that should register in my mind; it’s not professional. I have no memory of what any other nurse’s hand feels like—because I’ve never noticed.

But hers . . . I do.


*

When I was eleven, the tire on my BMX bike blew out after I jumped the homemade ramp the kid down the street constructed. I landed hard, then walked to Kmart by myself, bought a new tire with my own money, replaced and inflated the tire, and still managed to finish my paper route on time.

Because I’m a Gen X-er. My brothers and I weren’t latchkey kids, but even with a stay-at-home mom, my generation was basically raised to survive a zombie apocalypse.

On our own.

I try my best to pass those life skills—self-sufficiency, responsibility, independence—onto my boys. Aaron doesn’t work during the school year, because he plays football and keeps his grades up, but in the summer he has a part-time job as a lake lifeguard. When Brayden turns fifteen, he’ll find a part-time job too—probably as a junior counselor with Lakeside’s summer rec program.

And when I’m on days at the hospital, I’ve gotten the boys in the routine of coming home from school, doing their homework, and getting dinner started. Nothing fancy or complicated—but I trust that they can manage soup and sandwiches or mac and cheese and a salad—without burning the house down to the ground.

“Dad, please stop buying the crappy fabric softener,” Brayden says, folding his laundry at the opposite end of the kitchen table where I’m currently eating a roast beef sandwich for dinner. “It sucks.”