Page 39 of Wrecked
“Oh, sure,” I answer. “That'd be nice.”
“Does one o'clock work for you?”
“Yeah, sure. Do you want to meet out here . . . on that bench?” I ask, gesturing to the one nearby. Ever since Walter had me start telling him what the weather was like, I've found myself taking advantage of any opportunity to eat outside.
“Sure. That sounds great.” His grin reveals his big dimples that makes it almost impossible not to smile in return. “I’ll see you then.”
We part ways, and I get started on my day. Walter happens to be getting released tomorrow, so I find myself lingering in his room every time I go in, feeling sadder and sadder each time about the fact that I'll no longer be seeing him every day. Of course, I’m super happy that he is well enough to go home. I just know that I’ll miss our daily chats. And what's more, I'm not even working tomorrow to say goodbye.
When one o’clock rolls around, I grab my lunch and make my way out to the same seat I had found Cam sitting on. This time, it’s Ash that I find sitting there, waiting for me. He’s leaning forward, elbows on his knees, with a bag of what I assume is his lunch dangling from his fingers.
Deep in thought, he doesn’t notice when I approach and jolts slightly when I take a seat.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”
He shakes his head as he sits back, pulling his food onto his lap. “Nah. I was just lost in thought.”
“Everything okay?”
We both start opening our containers of food, and he opens a bottle of water, taking a sip before replacing the lid and answering, “I just . . .” He lets out a sigh before continuing. “Sometimes I just get so damn involved with my patients, you know? Emotionally. And it makes some decisions so freakin' hard. Sometimes I just can't take it.” His eyes shift to me. “Does that sound silly?”
“No. Not at all. I totally understand. I get attached to my patients all the time.” Walter and Cam are just two examples, but I seem to find myself building a relationship with everyone who ends up under my care. “There's this one patient that's really special to me,” I continue. “And I'm sad he's being discharged tomorrow, when really I should be happy for him. Nowthat'ssilly.”
The small tilt of Ash's lips tells me that he gets it. “I have this kid, Shelby, only ten years old . . . with a brain tumor.” After dropping his fork back into his container, he brings both hands up behind his head and leans back to look up at the sky. “Just sucks.”
I feel the backs of my eyes prickle at just the thought of it, and my heart goes out to him. I can only imagine how I'd be in a situation like that – dealing with the unfairness of someone so young having to go through that. How torn up, sad, and worried I'd be. I wouldn't be able to handle it. My heart is too soft.
“It does suck,” I tell him quietly, swallowing my own sadness. “I'm sorry.”
He leans forward and sniffs in the way guys do when they're suppressing feeling a certain way and are about to change the subject.
“Anyway, tell me something interesting. What type of stuff do you get up to on your days off? What's there to do around here?”
The question causes me to let out a quiet laugh because I don't reallydoanything.It reminds me of when Cam had asked me something similar after assuming something else. Then, of course, I start thinking about the last time that I saw him and that damn kiss again.
Clearing my throat, I answer, “Well–”
“Jaz.”
My head swivels in the direction of Cam's voice, and I find the scowly face that matches the tone in which he said my name. Why the hell is he looking so pissed off?
“Cam, hey. What are you doing here?”
As he moves in closer, his eyes bounce between both Ash and me, and the muscle in his jaw ticks a few times before he relaxes it and meets my eyes.
“I needed to speak to you. Got a minute?”
“Oh.” I glance toward Ash, who's looking curiously at Cam and then back to me.
“Go ahead. I'll just be eating,” Ash offers.
Placing my food beside me, I get to my feet. “Alright. I guess I do have a minute.”
With one final look in Ash's direction, Cam turns to walk away, and I follow after him. When we're clearly out of earshot of anyone else, we come to a stop, and I cross my arms, waiting.
He scratches at the scruff on his cheek for a second and then finally starts to speak. “Okay, well, firstly, I wanted to make sure you were okay since you never sent me a text when you got home, and you haven't returned any of my texts.”
“You told me to leave,” I say quietly, a touch of the hurt resurfacing.
