Yours: A Standalone Contemporary Romance

by Jasinda Wilder

  I always get the shakes after surgery or an emergency. Never during.

  Finally outside, I wander aimlessly. Looking for somewhere quiet. I want to be alone. Away from the ambulances arriving at the ER entrance. Away from the patients and visitors at the main entrance. Finally, I just collapse on the curb underneath a towering palm tree. I bury my face in my hands and try to keep from actually sobbing. I try to banish the vision of Malcolm fading, confused, afraid.

  I become aware of the sound of soles scuffing on the concrete, and I blink through my salt haze to see a big pair of tan combat boots, and the faded, torn cuffs of blue jeans. The guy sits down beside me. I clear my throat. Blink away tears, rub at them quickly.

  “Here.” Smooth, attractive male voice. Not deep, but smooth.

  I glance, and see a large masculine hand, hair and scars on the knuckles, proffering a cigarette.

  “I don’t smoke.”

  “Neither do I.” He reaches over, bold as you please, and places the filter between my lips. Sparks plume, and it’s lit. “But you need it at times like this.”

  I take it between my index and middle fingers, like I’ve seen Delaney do on countless occasions, and pull it away from my mouth. Finally I take a look at my companion.

  Oh. Whoa. Okay. He looks like McDreamy from Grey’s Anatomy. Early thirties, thick black hair swept back, streaks of silver at his temples. Ten-day scruff, not quite a beard, also salted with silver. Brown eyes, the corners wrinkled from smiles and the sun.

  “Puff.” He commands it. Soft, but insistent. “Trust me.”

  I take a puff.

  “Now inhale. You’ll cough, but it’ll be worth it.”

  I inhale. Taste mint…menthol. Then I cough like I’ve got emphysema, but the subsequent rush is…worth it. Just like he said. I extend the cigarette to him, but he shakes his head.

  “I only smoke after an operation, and then only after the really gnarly ones.” He rubs at the corner of his mouth with a big thumb. “That’s the trick to not getting addicted. You only have one when you’re cracking up.”

  “You’re a doctor?”

  He nods. Watches me take another hit, and hack again. “A surgeon with MSF.”

  “MSF?” It sounds like something I should know.

  “Médecins Sans Frontières,” he clarifies, in a flawless French accent. “Doctors Without Borders.”

  “I’ve heard of it for sure, but I don’t know much about it.”

  “Non-profit, international humanitarian aid. We put together teams of medical personnel from all over the world, and we go into nasty situations, provide medical treatment. Civil wars, natural disasters, disease outbreaks.”

  “Where have you been?”

  His eyes reflect the fact that he’s seen hell. “South Sudan, Uganda, Cambodia, the quake in Haiti. I was stationed in Côte d’Ivoire for a couple of years.” He points at my still-shaking hands. “I get those, too. The shakes, after it’s all over.”

  “Lost a patient.” It’s all I can get out.

  He nods, squinting as the sun peeks out from behind a cloud to shine in our faces. It’s L.A. hot. “Never gets easier. Harder, if anything.”

  “He was twelve. Shot four times. Just…bled out.”

  “And you promised him you’d save him.” I can only nod, and he manages to be a little closer to me without moving, somehow. Nudges me with his shoulder. “Never stop making that promise. They need the lie, and so do you. We have to lie to ourselves, just so we’ll keep trying even when it’s hopeless. We lie, and work so that maybe it won’t be a lie after all.”

  “I hate that lie.”

  “Me too.” He extends his hand to me. “I’m Oliver James.”

  I take his hand. Don’t really shake, just hold it. Like a needy dumbass. “Niall Mackenzie.”

  A silence, then. Comfortable. I don’t really smoke the cigarette, just hold it. Take a puff now and again, but the act is soothing. Comforting. The pretense is…necessary. I see what he means.

  Oliver stands up after a few minutes. “Got to go back inside, check on my dad.”

  I stand up too. “Is he a patient?”

  A nod. “Yeah. Bypass. Second one. Stubborn old goat won’t quit the Big Macs, y’know?”

  “Thank you, Oliver.”

  He grins, and god, is that smile gorgeous. McDreamy, even.

  He turns serious, then. “You make a difference. Every patient, save ’em or lose ’em, you make a difference.”

  That doesn’t help my still-roiling emotions. “Thanks. That means a lot.”

  He waves, an easy toss of his hand. Only makes it a few steps before he turns back around. “I don’t suppose you speak French, do you?”

  I frown. “Um, actually, I do. Not perfectly, but pretty well. Took it all through middle school, high school, and college. My roommate in nursing school was from Quebec, so I’m conversational to a certain degree.”

  “My MSF team, we’re short-staffed and shipping out for the Central African Republic in a couple months. We desperately need French-speaking nurses trained in emergency triage.” He strides over to me, hands me a card, and scribbles a phone number on the back. “Call this number tomorrow morning if you’re interested, ask for Dominique. I’ll put in a word for you tonight.”

  I consider his offer. “Is the work like that?” I gesture at the hospital.

  He shakes his head. “Worse. You’re there when the guns are going off. When the mines are exploding. When the endemic is sweeping like wildfire through entire towns. What’s going in Africa right now? It’s gonna be gnarly. But if you can do that—” he jerks his head at the ER entrance, “—you can do it. Plus, I’ll be there and we’ll be on the same team. I’ll always be right beside you, if you ship out with us.”

  He doesn’t give me a chance to respond, he simply strides away. Not quite a swagger, but close. A sexy walk, a man who is utterly self-confident, but not arrogant.

  I tuck his card into the back pocket of my scrubs and go back to work.

  And the next morning, over a cup of coffee, I stare at that card. I’ve got my cell phone in hand, thinking hard. Then I dial the number.

  “’Allo?” Strong French accent.

  “Hi, is this Dominque?”

  “Oui, c’est moi.”

  I start the conversation by speaking in English, hoping she can understand me, “My name is Niall Mackenzie. I, um, I met Dr. Oliver James yesterday. He said he’d talk to you and, um, I’m a nurse. An ER nurse. He said you needed—”

  “Ollie did indeed speak to me,” Dominque replies in rapid French. “What are your qualifications?”

  I have to switch mentally into a French-speaking headspace. It takes a second to translate my thoughts. “I’m an RN, received my degree from UCLA. I have three years experience in the ER at Los Roboles.” The fact that I say this in passable—if not flawless—French is evidence of my qualification in that language, so I don’t mention it.

  “Why do you want to work for MSF?”

  Why do I? I don’t answer right away; take a moment to formulate my thoughts.

  “I want to make a difference. Save lives. Help as many people as I can. It’s why I became a nurse.” I say this in English. Saying that I also want to go because I want to be close to Oliver probably isn’t a good idea.

  What I’ve said is true, but there’s more…I haven’t mentioned the down-deep reason for wanting a change like this. And it doesn’t have anything to do with Oliver at all, to be honest. I mean, yeah, he’s hot, sexy, and who wouldn’t want him? But…I have this need. I don’t know how to fully explain it to myself other than to say it’s a need to take things farther, a drive to push myself to my limits.

  Being an ER nurse in an LA hospital is pretty damn close to working in a war zone. You see all sorts of horrible shit. But as much as I sometimes hate it, there is something in me that needs the rush. The adrenaline. The frenzy to fix a patient. To save a life. To try my damnedest, even if I fail. To know that I’ve helped. To
make a difference, as Oliver put it.

  There’s a pause on the other end of the line. “If Ollie tells me I should bring you on, it is reason enough for me,” Dominique says, in English now. “He is never wrong. Not about people.” She rattles off an address, tells me to bring my resumé and prepare for a more in-depth interview, but then reassures me it’s a formality, and that I’ll have the position if I want it, on the strength of Oliver’s recommendation.

  When I report for my next shift at work, I have to break the news to Delaney and hand in my notice.

  She hugs me, with a teary-eyed smile. “You’re too talented a nurse to be stuck here. I knew someone would lure you away someday.” She holds me by the arms and looks at me. “Just be sure it’s what you want. MSF, it’s…hardcore. And very dangerous.”

  “I know. Maybe it’s crazy, but…that’s part of why I’m going, if I’m being honest.”

  Delaney grins. “You’re at your best when things get hairy. You’ll be great. Just…stay safe, okay?”

  “I’m not leaving for another two months, Delaney.”

  A sniff. “But still. I’m not going to say goodbye. When you go, just go. And know I’ll miss you.”

  Delaney is my best friend. She was enrolled in nursing school at UCLA, a year older than me. She got the job here first and rose up the ranks. She’ll be unit head before long. I can’t imagine not being with her. We work almost every single shift together. Side by side, every day, for twelve or fourteen hours a day. We drink a bottle or three of wine together after work, and watch Real Housewives, talk about boys and never about work.

  Now I’m leaving her.

  We drop the subject and prep for a night shift of incoming patients. A weekend midnight shift always hits hard and heavy with multiple GSWs, stab wounds, concussions and contusions, car accidents and cardiac arrests.

  Through it all, we stay calm, because that’s what we do.

  As the shift finally comes to an end, I spare a thought for the future. I wonder what it’ll be like, in Africa.

  * * *

  Bangui, Central African Republic

  Six months later

  “Niall! Get your ass over here!” Oliver shouts from the other side of the tent.

  “I’m kinda busy, Ollie!” I shout back.

  “I’ll take over,” François says in French, stepping in, taking over my suturing job. “He needs you. It’s bad.”

  I strip off my gloves, toss them in a garbage can, and tug a new pair out of a box on my way over to Oliver’s table.

  Fuck.

  He’s working on an adult male, late forties. Entire stomach is blown open, intestines pulled out of the cavity to reveal a rupture, blood gushing like something out of a Tarantino film. One leg is missing from the knee down, the stump blackened and oozing.

  Mine, or a car bomb.

  Oliver is covered in blood up to his elbows, and from his hips to his chest. His face is covered in a mask, but I can see his eyes are laser-focused on the job at hand.

  He feels me come up beside him, and doesn’t have to tell me what he needs. One glance, and I’m on it. I take the forceps from him and hold them, then blot away the blood so Ollie can see what he’s doing. We manage to stop the internal bleeding, then Ollie dumps the intestines back in the cavity and we both watch as they rearrange themselves. He pulls the edges of the gaping stomach wound back together, and then Ollie leaves me to do the sutures while he tends to the leg. Remove shrapnel, clean it, cauterize it, and bandage it.

  Finally done, Ollie steps away and lets someone else move the patient to a recovery tent. We strip off our blood-soaked gear, step out of the tent and into the blazing African sun. Walk together in silence, both of us pretending our hands aren’t shaking.

  “You can’t fucking hesitate, Niall,” he says, his voice tired, a little angry.

  “I didn’t hesitate. I was stitching somebody’s arm back on, okay?” I’m defensive.

  “If I need you, I need you right away. Get someone to take over and get where I need you. You have to trust me to know what’s a priority.”

  “I’m sorry.” I want to think I know better, but he’s the surgeon, and I’m the nurse.

  He’s got lots of experience on me. My job is to trust him.

  “How’re you holding up?” He leans up against a two-ton truck, rubbing his eyes.

  “Fine,” I sigh. “You?”

  “Well, aside from having been awake for thirty hours, I’m just dandy.”

  I’m about to say something else, but a truck rumbles into the station, and the air is filled with shouts in English, French, and several African dialects. There’s a swarm of activity, crimson-soaked bodies being hauled out of the back of the truck and carried to the triage tent.

  “Ollie!” Dominique, shouting, urgent. “Need you, now!”

  A sigh. “Hello, another thirty hours.” Ollie pinches the back of my neck and rubs it. “You’re doing great, Niall. But trust me, yeah?”

  “I will. I mean…I do.” I glance up at him. Our eyes meet, and the sparks are there.

  We’ve been too busy for anything to happen between us, but we both know it’s on the horizon. If we ever get a break. If the fighting ever dies down. The UN has nearly evacuated us a few times, it’s gotten so bad. But Dominique refuses to leave, and so do the rest of us. When the fighting is at its worst, that’s when we’re needed the most. They’ll have to tie us up and drag us away to get us out of here. This is what we do.

  Namely, run back to the triage tent, tug on gloves, pull on new aprons, and assess incoming. Sort the dying from the ones who’ll make it with immediate treatment, get Ollie working on the worst cases, me beside him, assisting. We don’t need words, Ollie and me. We just know. I know how he works, and what he needs. He knows I won’t flinch, won’t fail. Won’t hesitate, won’t get sick, won’t get tired. You don’t get to do any of that until after it’s over. Then you can have your meltdown.

  And we all have them.

  The next eleven hours are a frenzy of blood and stitches and severed limbs. There’s a skirmish going on between sects to the north of us, dozens are wounded, and all of them coming our way. By far, it’s the worst it’s ever been. Since I’ve been here, at least.

  Of the thirty-eight victims that come through our tent, five die and seven more probably won’t last the night.

  Finally, in the smallest hours of the night, Dominique sends us away. My feet drag, and I stumble. Oliver is barely functioning. He’s been awake and working for forty-eight hours straight. Not stopping for anything, not until the last patient has been given the best possible care. I hang onto him, and he onto me. We’re leaning on each other, supporting each other.

  We find a spot to lie down, in the bed of an old, battered Nissan pickup used to transport supplies across the station. We lie down side by side in the bed, staring up at the stars. Just breathing. I have that dizzy feeling you get when you finally stop moving after being in motion for endless hours. Like after a day at a theme park, when you close your eyes and it feels like you’re still on a rollercoaster. Like that, but infinitely worse. Your hands want to stitch, compress, apply pressure, wrap bandages. Your eyes see wounds, pleading eyes, you hear whimpers. You see it, feel it, hear it even after you’re done.

  Ollie lifts a hip, digs in his back pocket, comes up with a flattened soft-pack of Camel Lights, and a blue lighter. Puts one to his lips, lights it, drags.

  That’s when I know he’s struggling. So far, Ollie hasn’t had to light up, yet.

  He breathes out the smoke, and it’s a shuddery, frail sound. “Jesus Christ, that was bad.”

  “Yeah.”

  He hands me the cigarette, and we share it in silence.

  When he lights a second, I know he’s working up to something.

  “Nights like this, I hate it here. I hate people. I hate what we do. I hate that people can hate each other for no reason, hate each other so badly they’ll just…butcher one another like that. Over what? I don’t ev
en know. Beliefs? Traditions? Politics?” I watch him put the cigarette to his lips, watch the orange cherry tremble in the darkness. I see his fingers shake in the dim glow as he drags on it.

  “It’s so senseless.” I don’t know what else to say. I’m only good at comfort when I’m in the thick of things. Otherwise, I get…tongue-tied.

  He gives me a drag, takes the butt back, and flicks it away. Lifts up on an elbow. Starlight illuminates his beautiful face, gorgeous even when haggard, exhausted, done in.

  My heart thumps wildly as he looks down at me.

  “I’m gonna kiss you now. Okay?” His eyes are intense, piercing.

  I just nod, reach for him. Pull him down to me, and we kiss.

  That kiss, that’s when I know.

  He’s it.

  He’s my only.

  When he pulls away, breaking the kiss, I can see he felt that, too.

  “I really, really like kissing you.” There’s a twang to his voice I’ve never noticed until now.

  “Probably because you’re so damn good at it,” I say.

  “Lots of practice.”

  “Not supposed to admit that, I don’t think.” I grin up at him, though, because I like this banter. It takes my mind off things.

  “Oops.”

  “Where are you from, Ollie?”

  He lies back down beside me. Twines his fingers in mine. “Heard that twang, did you?”

  “I caught a little something, yeah.”

  “Ardmore, Oklahoma. It’s right on the border of Texas.” He pretends to tip an imaginary hat. “I’m a real-deal cowboy, I’ll have you know.”

  “For real?”

  He laughs. “For really real. Grew up on a six-thousand-acre ranch, roping steer and breaking broncs. My dad kicked a fit when I moved to LA to go to med school. Had to give the ranch to my kid brother who, I have to say, can’t ride half as good as me.”

  “How did your dad end up in Los Roboles?”