by Scott, S. L.
Ruby: I’ll let you know when I’m home. Gotta run.
Me: Take care. Love you.
Ruby: Love you, too, friend.
I look at the half-eaten pastry in my hand and throw it away in a nearby trash can. With a few hours left before I have to get ready for work, I walk the streets, looking up, waiting for the moon to come out. I never did figure what that phrase meant, but I still search for its meaning every chance I can.
The pretty weather should brighten my mood, but I’m not just tired. Something else has taken over the air around me, something heavy that’s escaped my heart that even sunshine can’t shake.
I toss my coffee cup, not sure why I feel I have anything to prove. That I’m living? Thriving, surviving? If I don’t know, one photo won’t sell the idea any better.
Finding an empty bench is like winning the lottery. The people watching in Manhattan will never get old, and the hustle and bustle on the sidewalk gives my busy mind a reprieve. But I get antsy when I see all the families, so my adventure out of the house is wrapped up after a quick trip to the corner store for basics. It’s not exciting, but food doesn’t have to be interesting or creative. It can be just fuel.
But hearing the voices in the back of my mind that still try to get me to color outside the lines has me tossing in a pint of cherry chocolate ice cream. Walking on the wild side doesn’t have to mean trespassing and skinny dipping. That didn’t work out, so why tempt fate again.
With my mind caught up in things it shouldn’t be, the only way to distract me from my life is by focusing on others, so I after a quick pit stop at home, I change clothes, pack a dinner, and head into work.
Before I have time to put my stuff in a locker, my side is flanked by Julie. Our pace is never interrupted as she fills me in while walking down the hall. “Three minor injuries in two, eight, and . . .” She taps the screen of an electronic tablet. “Five. Two with alcohol poisoning in one and nine.”
Not only does she excel at her job, but she’s become a good friend. “And three, four, six, seven, and ten?”
“Brainiac. You’re too fast for me,” she says, grinning. “I was just getting to those five rooms. They’re already cleaned and prepped for incoming patients. It’s been light, considering.”
“Considering it’s Friday, the thirteenth?”
Holding the tablet to her chest, she replies with a half-grin. “Yep.”
As she remains back at the nurses’ station, I keep walking. “Thank you, Julie.”
“You’re welcome, Dr. Fox.”
We spoke too soon. As the night extends, our wish for a light load isn’t granted, and past trends fall into place again. I like being busy, but the suffering in a packed waiting room makes it hard to concentrate. I hate to keep people waiting, so I skip my break, hoping to see patients sooner. I’m given the chart for room five just as I pull back the curtain. “A lacerated forefinger,” I read aloud as I scan the chart. Age. Blood pressure. Temperature. Standard with no concerns. “You’re a cook, Mr. Evans—” I choke on the name when my eyes meet his.
Those brown eyes I still see in the sweetest of dreams look back into mine.
The slight wave to his brown hair has softened, but the scruff on his face has darkened. My heart is about to come up my throat.
I hope the lines that reside beside his eyes were formed from laughter and not hardship. But that’s a wish I have no right to make since I’m responsible for his past pain.
At a loss for rational thought, I stand there dumbly, still staring at the man who once held my heart in his hands. He says, “Chef, actually.”
“Chef?” He’s smiling, pride seen in his eyes as I try not to die on the inside.
Just breathe. Clear your head. Don’t focus on the way your heart races. Ignore that organ that decided to join the party like it’s beating for the first time, a heavy-footed throb setting in.
For God’s sake, look away. My eyes go to his hand, and the injury that brought him to the ER. My ER. In my city.
How dare he show up here? I was supposed to be safe. I had successfully disappeared from every part of my old life except for three. My plants, my mom, and Ruby. “My apologies. I didn’t realize the difference.”
“I started out as a cook at my mom’s diner in New Haven years ago,” he explains as if we’re total strangers getting to know one another. I’m not entirely upset by the charade. What we were once is not what we are now, so there’s no sense in pretending otherwise. “Now I’m a chef.”
Despite staring into the eyes that once made me feel whole, the ability to feel anything soul deep was lost when I lost him. I won’t let him turn on the faucet where my feelings once flowed free. “Don’t ever come back, Chloe.” Five words I’ve heard over and over again for the past seventy-two months. I won’t let him in again. “Why are you here?”
“Doctor,” Julie remarks. The harshness of my tone takes me by surprise, so I know it does her. “A laceration—”
“Right. The chart,” I mutter distracted.
Tapping her tablet, Julie asks, “His vitals are good. When I examined the injury, the cut’s deep enough to warrant sutures. I can do that if you’d like, Dr. Fox.”
I keep my eyes on her. It’s easier to find words without seeing Joshua Evans staring at me like he’s seeing a ghost. “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.”
"If you’re set, I’m needed at the nurses’ station.”
He says, “We’ll be fine. Right, Dr. Fox?”
“Yes, fine. I’m fine. Totally fine.” I sound like a crazy person. I hate the way he’s shaken my foundation.
Julie’s eyes go wide, silently asking me something I can’t decipher. “Thank you for setting up the tray. I can take it from here.”
She nods and leaves.
Setting the chart down, I check his stats on the monitors before asking to examine the wound. He holds his hand up for me.
I’ve never hesitated. Not in medical school, or with a patient. Not ever.
With him, I do.
I know when I hold his hand in mine and see that tattoo, it won’t matter how well I pretended to move on with my life. I’ll be transported back to a time I refuse to believe ever existed. Looking at him now, I taste the bitter truth.
Joshua Evans is what I’ve been missing all along.
35
Joshua
I can’t stop staring at her.
God, I never thought I’d see Chloe Fox again, and here she is, holding my hand with her half of an anchor I’m more than familiar with still there. I smirk, feeling a small piece of ownership over that ink, even if I can’t call her my girl anymore.
My girl . . . wow. She’s no longer a girl, but a woman who’s grown into her own body and self-worth by how she carries herself. Her focus was always an enviable trait, and it’s on full display, just not for me. It’s who she’s become, which is everything she wanted to be.
It’s impossible not to acknowledge that she manages to make that boxy white lab coat look good. Bare lips are licked, drawing my attention. Taking the moment of silence, I trace over her appearance. A small section of hair is pinned on top with a ponytail collecting the rest. I’d wager it looks longer than she used to wear it. She’s wearing makeup, yet that doesn’t distract from her natural beauty.
By how she’s using such a light touch, this must be a delicate operation. I won’t break. I already did that years ago, so it’s too late to worry about me now. But she’s still being careful with every glance and word spoken between us. Controlled. Neutral. Like we don’t know each other at all.
I’m thinking we’re supposed to be enemies, but I never did listen to reason, especially when it came to Chloe. “Thanks for doing this.”
With her eyes on the needle, she concentrates on the task at hand. “It’s my job.”
“I would think the nurse could have handled such a small emergency.”
“Friday the thirteenth always packs the ER. Julie is needed elsewhere.”
&
nbsp; “Aren’t you?”
Her lashes lift, tapping her brow. I don’t remember them being that long, but it wasn’t her lashes I was staring at. Her green eyes—a fire lit glows bright inside—glare at me. I start to wonder how many people have been willing to get burned just to be near her over the years. She always was the most gorgeous girl I’d ever seen. Still is, though now she’s a woman, and I can’t complain about my current view.
It wasn’t her face, though, that had me tripping over myself too naïve to know better. It was the way she saw me as a better man than I was and treated me as such. Seeing myself through her eyes became addictive. There was such an innocence about her back then that was easy to feed off of. Nothing was impossible when we were together. But life has a way righting its course, and damn, did it ever.
So I couldn’t have predicted I’d be sitting here with her searching for the remains of a heart she used to wear on her sleeve. Outwardly, I don’t find anything that makes me think she’s that same girl.
She replies, “Yes, I am,” and then returns to sealing the cut, ending the nonsense going on in my head. I’m not even sure what she’s responding to anymore. But I wholly recognize that even through latex gloves, I can feel the heat of her hands. “I’ll wrap the wound to get you through the night.”
“Okay.”
Each of her glances is felt, dipping into my chest, and squeezing my heart. Ironically, that’s not an organ I’ve been in touch with for a while. But right now, it’s beating hard, strong, making a whole show of it for her. “You became a doctor,” I say as if I have a right to share in that pride.
“I did.” Her voice is softer. “Do you feel any pain?”
“A lifetime’s worth.”
She looks up as her hand stills. “I was referring to your injury.”
“Right. No. I’m completely numb just how you wanted me, Doc.”
A sigh comes with an unreadable twist of her lips. “I understand too well. Sometimes . . .” She clears her throat gently. “Injuries take longer to heal than we expect.” A smile matching her demeanor appears. “That shouldn’t be the case this time.”
This time.
So much could be said about that simple phrase. But I don’t go down winding alleys that lead nowhere—verbally or in life—anymore. “Good to know.”
“Are you returning to work or going home?” She finishes dressing my finger and starts returning the supplies to the tray.
“I didn’t know we were getting personal.” My smirk comes naturally when I flirt, but why the fuck am I flirting with her?
When I don’t get so much as a facial twitch in response, that settles it. I clamp my mouth shut, hoping to regain my better senses. She says, “Change the dressing after a shift, or if you’re going home, this should hold for the next twenty-four hours unless it gets wet.” She effectively shuts me down while running the tip of her finger down the length of mine. “Make sure to keep this area clean. If you see anything that looks out of the ordinary, you can call me.” She seems to catch herself when the words are already out of her mouth. “Contact the hospital, I mean, and someone can help you.”
The slightest of pink colors her cheeks, and I soak it in, finding comfort in the semblance of familiarity. I start to wonder about her life outside this room, but I bite my tongue. This is not the time or place, but will I have another chance? Ah, fuck it. “You’re not married?”
A match of disbelief is lit. “That’s none of your business.” Standing abruptly, she sinks the chart in the slot just outside the door. She was never halfheartedly in our relationship like she’s standing in the doorway. “We’re done.” Another phrase thrown out that I could add so much to the ending, but I hold my tongue instead. Turning on her heels, she says, “Nurse, please tend to the patient.”
I hear the nurse telling her about someone in nine with a fractured wrist.
Six years ago, I let her go when she wanted to stay, so I have no right to barge into her life now. So, what the fuck am I doing? Stepping beyond the curtain, I call, “Dr. Fox?”
Chloe looks across a row of open doors, her expression unbiased like her tone after she corrected it. Although everyone around is moving quickly, the sound of a hospital at full volume between people and machines, I hear her ask, “Yes, Mr. Evans?”
I’m at a loss for what to say. Anything I want to voice shouldn’t be heard by strangers. Holding my hand up, I say, “Thanks,” like an idiot.
I hate the disappointment that comes over her when she looks down and nods. “You’re welcome.” She disappears into the room in front of her, leaving me standing here staring like she might magically reappear. Spending only a few minutes with her has me wanting to see her again. We could talk about life, what happened, and the pain sustained that a hospital can’t fix. Knowing the truth of how we played out, I struggle to stay mad.
“We’ll go over here, Mr. Evans.”
When I’m finally free to go, I leave the ER with the doors sliding closed behind me and stop on the rubber mat. I look back. The area Chloe works in can’t be seen from here, but by instinct, I take the chance, just in case, to steal one more glance.
Then I leave because again, what the fuck am I doing?
Chloe Fox is my past. The five months I spent with her were only a dream, and a small cell doesn’t offer much room to hold onto things that weren’t real. I’ve built a life without her. A good life. It may have cracks and empty spaces, but dwelling on her won’t make me whole again. I spent years with only memories to keep me warm under a threadbare blanket. Like all dreams, one day we wake up to reality. I woke up, and reality is where I’ve planted my feet.
I don’t get far when I hear my name being called down the congested sidewalk.
Stopping under the white and red awning, I turn back. Her hair has escaped the ponytail, and her white coat flaps open as she hurries to catch me.
I’ve become so aware of my heart and the emotions tearing through it. All of a sudden, it’s willing to forget the past like it didn’t happen. Anger that she didn’t fight harder for me. Pain that streaks through me when I let the memory of how we ended perform an encore.
Holding her hand out, she says, “I figure you’re probably going back to work, so just in case you don’t have any at the restaurant . . .”
Five latex finger protectors fall into my open palm, allowing disappointment to set in. This is it? This is the way we end, again? As heartless as before? “I have some.”
Discomfort works its way into her features, and she shakes her head just enough to make me think she feels the same disappointment. “All right. Just wanted to make sure.” She backs up and gazes straight into my eyes before turning away, as if one more look will tide her over.
Good luck with that. When it comes to her, it never worked for me.
But now I’m feeling a ridiculous rush to get her attention again. “Chloe?”
Her feet stop, a jolt hitting her shoulders. She turns around, and this time, she’s not the doctor she was inside. She’s the person I met many moons ago—lowered chin, shy eyes, her frame carrying emotional baggage she can’t hide. “Yes, Joshua—Josh?”
I regret that my words from so long ago continue to burden her, even if I understand it too well. In her best interest, I hate it for her. “It was good to see you again.”
“You too,” she replies with the smallest of smiles. Still standing there, we let awkwardness sneak in, both of us waiting for the other to . . . to what? Make small talk? Catch up like old friends? Pick up where we left off, be that with a fight or a reunion. My mind plays tricks on me like it has all along. Love isn’t real, I remind myself. If it were, Chloe would still be my girl.
I don’t know how long I stand there with the ghost of our past keeping me company. For someone who doesn’t put stock in feelings deeper than puddles, I’m starting to consider the concept that I might still have unresolved feelings for her.
Needing to get back, I finally drag my ass away but find myself takin
g the long way to stew in my own misfortune a little longer. Feelings and the sort aren’t usually something I put stock in, but that’s easy to say when you’re desensitized to so many things.
Clearly, I’m not numb to Chloe. Does she feel anything, or is she numb to me?
Pushing through the back door, I set these fucking feelings aside. I have other more prevalent concerns when I enter this kitchen.
I’ve been gone from the restaurant long enough for the dinner rush to end. Cleaning up isn’t a hardship after a long shift. I let some of the other guys go home to their families, girlfriends, or waiting beds. I don’t mind the chores.
The kitchen in jail was my safe place. My thoughts, my feelings, whatever was troubling me was worked out while scrubbing dirty pots and pans. Scouring the grill top is a good way to relieve stress, wearing my muscles out while my mind works through what happened.
What just happened?
Chloe Fox just happened like she happened six years ago.
She’s coincidences and destiny, our lives entangled in ways that can never be fixed. I didn’t look her up over the years, not to see if she graduated or what medical school she attended. Weddings and obituaries were never checked. Yet there she is just like she always said she would be—a doctor working the ER against her daddy’s wish.
Fuck Norman Fox.
That is definitely not a memory lane I’m traveling down tonight. I may have almost cut my finger off, but the outcome wasn’t so awful. I’m not letting him back in to ruin it. Again.
Exhausted, I fall into bed just after three. I never liked the hours of working at a restaurant that stays open late, but it’s kept me out of trouble. The kidnapping charge was dropped, but I still served over almost three years for reckless driving and stealing a car, keeping me locked up long enough. So I need to be on my best behavior. The record will follow me forever, and the lessons learned have been ingrained.
Even after probation, I walked a straight line on the legal side. Busy is the best way to forget your troubles. Keeps your mind on the task at hand instead of the things we lost control of.
