Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 82955 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82955 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Rinsing my hair, the image of his shoulder and that bruising around his eye cause my heart to ache for him. When I read his chart, I realize he could have lost his life. The grudge I have is minor in comparison. I’m not ready to let this fully go, to act like he didn’t break my sixteen-year-old heart, but I’m also glad he’s okay.
“Enough about him,” I say, scrubbing the day from my face and body before I step out onto the softness of the chenille rug and dry off. I’m too tired to dry my hair and will deal with the consequences tomorrow when I have the energy to take on styling tools.
The fleece of my pajamas feels like the hug I don’t get elsewhere. I rely on the softness against my skin and comfort of the warm material to keep me company at night, or in this case, day, as I climb into bed. It’s been so long since I had someone holding me, kissing me good night, or whispering sweet nothings in my ear that I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be cared for in that way.
Pajamas will do, but they’ll never make up for the absence of rough hands from a day’s work scraping against my skin that leave a wake of goose bumps in their place. Heated kisses exchanged, causing my heart to beat so hard that I wonder if my rib cage can keep it contained. But it’s the looks I miss, the sneaky ones shared when no one else is looking, the gaze that says I’m his even if it’s not been verbalized yet. That possession of belonging to someone who wants me so desperately that they can’t wait to get me alone again.
Gah. I rub my thighs, missing that shared desire where everything feels possible and love doesn’t just fill the air, but every cell of my being. I punch my pillow to fluff it, knowing I’ve never felt that kind of love before. I just know I want it.
“Can I borrow this?” . . . “Fall?” . . . “Don’t you have to be at work soon?”
I sit up with a gasp, my eyelids flying open to land on blond hair and my sister twirling around to face me. She holds a silky golden dress, my dress, against the front of her body. “I was sleeping, Spring,” I grumble as I fall to my side and pull the covers over my head.
“It’s seven thirty. You’ve slept like a billion hours. Don’t you have work?”
Flipping the covers down, I evil-eye her. “Don’t you live somewhere else?”
She lowers the dress, planting her hand on her hip. “Yes, but I decided the blue dress wouldn’t work for my date. It’s too fun. I want something sexy and sultry. Can I borrow this one instead?”
“Wait . . . did you say seven thirty?”
“Seven thirty-eight, if you’re wanting the exact time”
“Oh my God!” I jump up, scrambling to the dresser to pull out a pair of clean scrubs. Pushing my pants down, I pull on the other and eye my sister again. “You can borrow the dress.”
“Thank you,” she singsongs out the door.
“Don’t ruin it. It’s one of my favorites.” I pull my shirt off and tug my work top over my head. Running into the bathroom, I’m confronted with harsh lighting and kinked hair, strongly regretting my earlier self for going to bed with wet hair.
I brush my teeth and pull my hair back in an elastic after slipping on socks. Charging down the stairs, I put on my sneakers and grab my car keys on the way out the door. “Shoot. Shoot. Shoot. Shoot. Shoot” is my mantra on the drive to the hospital.
I run toward the sliding doors only to almost barrel into Dr. Ludlow. With lanky arms crossed over his chest and a real lack of kindness shaping his expression, he says, “You’re late, Ms. Season.”
Checking my watch out of habit, I watch the digital number snap to six minutes past the hour. My mouth is running as fast as my thoughts. “The traffic when I hit downtown—”
“Silence.” He lowers his arms as I clamp my mouth shut. “This is a hospital, Ms. Season. Our patients don’t care if you get stuck in traffic. And all it tells me is you have poor time management that will need to be reported to the advisory committee for a staffing change.”
He turns his back before my jaw hits the floor. Watching him walk away from me without so much as the respect to let me finish speaking has anger steaming from my ears and my hands fisting at my sides. “Are you kidding me right now?”
Stopping, he looks back. “I never kid.”
“I know. It’s one of the reasons I didn’t want to go on another date.” I walk closer, keeping my voice lowered so patients in their rooms can’t hear and we don’t draw more attention from the visitors in the waiting room. “You throw around threats like you control my fate, like I have a record of bad behavior you can use against me, as if I don’t do a stellar job every shift. I’ve taken your shit for so long that I started to believe it was my job. It’s not.” I cross my arms over my chest this time. “So report me, and when I go before the board, I’ll tell them everything and let it all play out from there.”