Page 22 of What We Break
Easy breezy is the goal for this morning.
"What about you? How long have you been nursing?"
"Ten years. But this is my first permanent job in..." I trail off. Do the math, Laine. "Well, ever."
His brows wing up. "Ever?"
"I was a travel nurse before this. Never stayed anywhere longer than six months."
"What made you stop traveling?"
Good question. The kind I've fielded a dozen times — from Bethany, from my parents, from Joyce during my interview — and I always trot out some neat little answer. Wrapped up with a bow. Palatable.
But it's 7:30 AM. I've been awake for fourteen hours. And something about this guy makes me want to skip the packaging.
"I got tired of being a ghost," I say.
Reid tilts his head, hands finally still.
"Not literally. I mean — everywhere I went, I was great at my job. Good evaluations, patients liked me, coworkers liked me. But I wasalways passing through. I'd learn someone's name and their coffee order and what their kids looked like, and then three months later they'd replaced me with the next travel nurse and it was like I'd never been there." I wrap my hands around my coffee mug. "I started wondering if I was actually building a life or just visiting a bunch of them."
"That sounds lonely."
"It was, sometimes. But it was also exciting. New place every few months, new challenges, new people." I take a sip. "I've seen some pretty incredible places."
"Any favorites?"
"Montana was incredible. This tiny hospital in the middle of nowhere that was always running out of, like, gauze. Basic stuff." I smile. Can't help it. "But on clear nights you could see more stars than you knew existed."
I turn my glass a little. Watch the light catch it.
"And there was this assignment in North Carolina, right on the coast. I'd walk on the beach every morning before my shift. Found a sand dollar on my third day and kept it on my nightstand the whole time I was there." I shrug. "Left it behind when I moved. Didn't even think about it until weeks later, and then I was just... devastated. Over a sand dollar. Like, genuinely grieving a piece of dead sea creature I'd known for two months. Very normal behavior."
The corner of his lip turns up. "What'd it tell you?"
"That I was tired of leaving things behind." I set down my mug. "So I applied for a permanent position. First time ever. Picked Oregon because I'd never been here and it felt like starting fresh."
"Brave."
"Or stupid. The jury's out." If I get more mornings like this? Even if it's not with this sunshiney guy, it's a pretty enticing reason to stay. "What about you? Are you from here originally?"
"Born and raised about twenty minutes outside of town. Never really wanted to leave."
"Never? Not even when you were eighteen and thought the world was waiting for you?" Yeah, I'm planning to stay now, but at that age, all I could think about was leaving.
"I did my traveling in the Marines. Saw enough of the world to know I liked it better here." Reid's expression shifts — a shadow crossing his face, there and gone. "A lot of dust, and too much death. I didn't have any of the fun postings."
He's seen too much dark. I get that better than most people would. Not from the military — but from the hospitals. The rooms where the worst things that can happen to people are happening right in front of you, and your job is to hold their hand through it. Then go home. Act normal. Like your whole world didn't just crack down the middle.
"So you came back and became a Paramedic?"
He shrugs, fingers drumming on the table. "My brother suggested it, actually. Said I'd be good at helping people in crisis situations." Something shifts in his face when he says brother. Not the shadow. It sits heavier than that. "He was right."
"Is he in medicine too?"
"No, he..." Reid pauses. Picks up his coffee. Puts it down. "He died seven years ago. Military."
My chest tightens. I've seen what losing someone in the military does to families — the chaplain at the door, the folded flag, the way grief rewrites everything that came before. I can't even imagine. "Oh god, Reid. I'm sorry."
