I’m used to working twelve-hour shifts. It’s what I know, what I thrive on, what I live for to escape what others call life. Nursing fulfills me in a way nothing else ever has or presumably ever will. It also serves the best purpose of all: it keeps my brain engaged and focused on the task at hand. Doing my job leaves no time for my own personal crap. Twelve-hour shifts leaves little time to dwell or worry or plan a future I’ll never have. My focus is and always will be my job. It’s my salvation.
So why do I feel like I want to sleep for a week? I’ve pulled my fair share of extra days and double shifts over the past few years. Why the hell is this week any different?
My feet feel like lead as I trudge across the parking garage to my car. Just as I yank the door open, my phone buzzes repeatedly alerting me to an incoming call. Shoving the key into the ignition, I swipe my thumb across the screen and answer with an exhausted hello.
“Hey.”
I roll my eyes at Roman’s greeting. He’s such a guy. “Hey yourself.” I can hear the exhaustion in my voice, the wrung-out nothingness that remains from yet another endless day.
“Just get off work?”
He knows me so well. Too well sometimes, though he’s very good about keeping his opinions and concerns to himself. I suppose that’s the job of a big brother. Thank God all three of my brothers are so busy with their own lives and loves, they have little time to fixate on mine. Since Roman is the closest thing I have to a friend, I tend to give him a little more slack when he hovers.
“Yeah. Just heading home.”
“Want to stop by the house? Have dinner with us?”
I know exactly what he’s doing even though he thinks he’s being sly. He keeps tabs on me as much if not more than he does with his own teenage daughter—a daughter who officially became his last week after an exhausting adoption process. Roman nor Emmy needed paperwork—or blood relation for that matter—to confirm what they’ve both always known: they will always be father and daughter. Still, I think he’s more than relieved to have the legalities out of the way.
As much as I adore him, my new niece, and my soon to be sister-in-law, I don’t look forward to an evening of watching the three of them bask in their happiness. I’d never begrudge any of my siblings the chance at a future, but having to sit back and witness all that I will never have is a little much at times. Besides, I think as I put the car into reverse and put the phone on speaker, I’ll see the entire clan at Sunday dinner like I do most every week.
“No thanks. Give my love to your girls.”
“You sure? We’d love to have you.”
Damn. I love this man so much and I hate to disappoint him. He sure as hell has never disappointed me. “I’ll come by next week. I promise.”
He chuckles because we both know I’ll more than likely back out. “Yeah, okay. Next week it is. See ya, Sis. Love you.”
Warmth spreads in my chest. “Love you too.”
After a quick stop at the grocery store for a half dozen TV dinners and a six-pack of beer, I head for home. Rain beats down on the roof of the car, a gentle staccato to the accompanying music from the stereo. It’s a warm evening like most here in Miami. The air is thick with moisture. Having lived here my entire life, I’m used to the humidity, though I’ll never be pleased with what it does to my hair. Thankfully, my job requires I keep it pulled back, which hides the springy, dark curls and occasional frizziness.
With full hands, I dash from the car, across the parking lot and into my building, shaking off the wetness as I step onto the elevator. Minutes later, I’m walking into my apartment.
I live in a structure like many in this area. Thirty-some-odd floors of one and two-bedroom apartments, all relatively the same layout, same amenities, same amazing view of the water. I’m spoiled, I know that, but I feel I deserve to have a nice place to come home to each night, especially since I have little else to call my own.
Similar to Roman’s old apartment, I have tile and granite and stainless-steel appliances, a wide bank of windows and a glass slider that opens out to a spacious balcony. What my place may be lacking in actual living area is more than made up for any time I look out the window. Sure, I’m taking my chances being this close to the water in a place that routinely sees hurricane action every year, but I’m no stranger to tragedy and death and in my years of nursing, I have developed a pretty thick skin. I’m of the mindset that when your number is up, it’s up. Worrying about what might happen is a complete waste of time.
While my Lean Cuisine heats, I pad into the bedroom to change. Like the rest of my apartment, this space is free of clutter and very simple. A white comforter covers the queen-sized mattress and two throw pillows in a deep shade of blue are thrown on top for a pop of color. There’s a vibrant throw-rug covering the tile floor and the dark mahogany furniture is minimal. No unnecessary knickknacks are lying around, just a fine layer of dust to graze each surface. I should try to clean on my next day off.
The microwave dings just as I pull on an oversized shirt and cotton shorts. Cracking my neck from side to side, I consider that I should probably spend an hour or two in the ‘fitness center’ before I turn in for the night. The gym in my building is minimal, made up of a few pieces of equipment and some nasty mismatched barbells, but it serves a purpose for folks like me who just need to get in some cardio. Usually I work out at a gym a few miles away, but since I can’t seem to shake this exhaustion tonight, I’ll settle for what’s close.
I’m finishing my lackluster meal when my phone buzzes. A quick glance at the screen and I’m grinding my teeth. I have no idea why Damian continues to pursue me. For crying out loud, we ended whatever it was we had over six months ago. I’m the one who put a stop to our on-again, off-again relationship. At the time he seemed neither surprised nor disappointed I was ending things. As I learned over the year and a half we sporadically dated, Damian knows how to shield his emotions well. I suppose being a heart surgeon could have something to do with it, but he’d be cold and intense even if he wasn’t dealing with life and death on a daily basis. I just don’t think he has the capacity to get truly close to anyone.
It’s no surprise I sought out a man like him. Once I was finally over the shock of being violated, I realized the power I had over men. Or rather, the power my body had. Sex was my weapon, control my motive. The more sex I had, the stronger it made me feel. The choices and decisions were all mine.
But after years of one-night stands and very, very bad choices with far too many men, I realized my loose morals were going to get me in trouble one way or another. Damian fulfilled the part of me I felt required to project to the rest of the outside world—someone happy and content. He made no demands on my time. Let me traipse in and out of his bed at will. He was a convenient arm piece for family get-togethers and someone to share a meal with once in a while. We might have enjoyed many rounds of hot sex, and it’s fair to say he taught me a lot about finding pleasure with a man, but eventually our mutual inability to let go anywhere other than the bedroom seemed to always leave an air of disappointment between us. He walked away more than once with a “why do I even bother?” look.
Someone like Damian DeAngelo sure as hell shouldn’t be a disappointment. The man is a walking, talking piece of art: hard, sculpted body, chiseled jaw, intense dark eyes. Far too handsome to be a doctor, that’s for sure. But as good looking as he is, he’s equally intense and off-putting. He’s incredibly hard on the staff at the hospital, barking at nurses and orderlies earning him the nickname Doctor DeAsshat. I snickered the first time I heard it but the moment I laid eyes on the man, I knew he’d earned his name well.
It’s embarrassing to admit how little I know about the man I dated. In fact, there’s more I don’t know about him than I care to admit. We had a few nice conversations, laughed a time or two, but we mostly kept one another company because we felt like we had to rather than any real need to. He’s the strong, silent type, unless he’s with a patient; then he lowers his guard and some of his humanity is revealed. With me he kept things minimalistic, which is exactly what I prefer.
Opening the text, I snicker. In true Damian fashion, it’s brief and to the point. And only because I’ve spent so much time with him am I able to read between the lines: he needs to get laid.
I must say I admire his balls. He somehow still believes that after all this time I’m going to spread my legs for him. Hardly. He may be decent in that department, but getting past the layers of bullshit to the real man beneath is exhausting. I suppose if I were the type of girl who really wanted to dig deep into what makes him tick, I’d relent. But I’m not, so I don’t. It’s better for both of us if I just let it go.
Quickly deleting the text without responding, I rise from my spot on the couch, gather up my dinner dishes, and move into the kitchen. I want a hot shower and bed, but what I need—or rather what I expect from myself—is a good, hard workout. Tiredness will ensure me a few hours of sleep at the most; exhaustion, the kind that comes from depleting my body of every bit of energy, will guarantee me a peaceful night’s sleep. It’s easy to silence those ghosts when my brain is too tired to function.
More than determined, I hastily change into workout gear then take the elevator to the main floor. At this time of night, the fitness center is empty—not that I believe it gets much use to begin with. Most twenty-somethings like me belong to gyms that are open all night, and the older folks in the building will typically walk on the beach in the morning to get in their exercise.
Climbing onto the treadmill, I set the running program and shove in my earbuds. It would be so easy to feel sorry for myself. A lonely woman doing the same thing each and every day. I’ve never once allowed myself a moment of self-pity. I live this way because I have to, because it is what keeps me sane. Stepping outside those perfectly drawn lines is a recipe for disaster, a lesson I learned all too well in college. The days of the free-spirited Isabella Moran are long past. Rigidity, order, normalcy—that’s what I strive for, what I crave. Letting loose and being free has only brought me heartache, fear, and regret. No matter what else I do, I must remain steadfast and resolute. My life is non-negotiable.