Page 10 of What We Break
"I'll take butterfly guy," I tell Joyce.
"Thanks, hon. My spidey senses are telling me we're in for a long night."
No way would I doubt a nurse with Joyce's experience. If she thinks the crap's about to hit the fan, then it is. "I'm ready."
Reid glances over as I speak. Our eyes meet, and the grin widens into something genuine and blinding. Full wattage. The kind of smile that makes you forget what you were doing and then feel stupid about forgetting.
He gives me a quick, two-finger salute. "Good luck with the metamorphosis."
Say something. Anything. You have a mouth and words and a degree.
He's already turning away.
Great. Nailed it.
Joyce smiles at me. "That's Reid Garrison. He's a good medic. He's been around a few years."
Yeah, she totally saw me looking. I could lie about it. I won't. "He seemed to handle the butterfly situation pretty well."
"Yeah, he doesn't get rattled. At least, I've never seen it."
The automatic doors whoosh open, and who I assume is Reid's partner appears, pushing a wheelchair with a guy who is clutching his arms across his chest like he's trying to physically hold his chest together. Reid immediately steps in to help guide them.
"It's okay, Brett," Reid is saying, leaning over the patient, invading his space in a way that seems comforting rather than aggressive. "We're inside now. No wind in here."
"But what if I fall apart in there?" Brett's voice is high and panicked. "What if the air conditioning blows my pieces around?"
"The air conditioning is set to 'gentle breeze' only," Reid assures him with absolute conviction. "And the nurses here have the medical-grade superglue. They are experts at keeping people in one piece. Trust me."
Joyce and I trade glances, both grinning. "Medical-grade superglue?" I whisper. She rolls her eyes and waves a hand at me. This guy is something else. The patient is buying every word though, which is all that matters. I've worked with a lot of first responders — stoic ones, burned-out ones, ones who treat patients like cargo — and I can count on one hand the ones who would invent medical-grade superglue to keep a hallucinating stranger calm.
Dr. Cervantes appears. "What've we got?"
"Brett Reynolds, twenty-five, also took something at the festival," Reid reports, voice turning all professional, though he's still tapping a rhythm on the wheelchair handle like he's got a song stuck in his head and his body won't let it go. "Vitals stable, but he's pretty sure his body is dissolving. Molecular instability."
Dr. Cervantes barely blinks. "Any idea what they took?"
"No one's talking."
Dr. Cervantes nods. "Bay four for Brett. And the other patient?"
"Bay six," I say. "I've got him."
Reid glances at me again as they wheel Brett toward bay four. This time the look lasts a beat longer. Warm. Appreciative. The kind of look that saysI see youwithout being creepy about it, which is a surprisingly rare skill.
I smile at him, because why the heck not? A hot guy with great bedside manner who invents medical-grade superglue for scared patients deserves a smile.
He smiles back — and it's a full-body thing, crinkling his eyes, shifting his weight, like smiling requires his entire skeleton — and I let myself enjoy it for exactly one second before heading to bay six.
One second. That's reasonable. That's a normal amount of time to enjoy a man's smile. Shut up.
"Hey, Marcus," I say to butterfly guy. "I'm Laine. Let's get you settled."
Marcus looks like he could pass for a college freshman, with sandy hair and pupils so dilated his eyes look black. He's sitting on the edge of the bed, moving his arms in slow, fluttering motions.
"The other man said you'd help me learn to fly," he tells me seriously.
"Reid said that?"
