Before
“Where are you?” Teller asks.
Looking through the cracks in the stall, I make sure I’m alone in the restroom before whispering, “Hiding. I’m supposed to be shadowing a nurse right now, not on the phone with you.”
“Then why did you answer?” I can hear the smile in his tone.
“Because I’m a moron,” I say, unlocking the stall door and stepping out. The uninviting mint green paint on the walls and freezing temperature of the air make me feel like I’m in prison talking on a stolen cell phone. Prison might be better than following the head nurse while she does rounds. I’m the first person she looks to when bedpans need to be changed. “And because I’d rather be anywhere than here.”
The tattered hems of my scrubs drag on the floor, snagging under my shoes. My reflection in the mirror displays exactly how exhausted I am and how hard nursing school is. There’s not enough concealer at the makeup counter to cover the bags under my eyes, and the meals I’ve skipped due to stress, homework, or simple forgetfulness have flattened my normal curves.
At least my lipstick is on point.
“Come downstairs,” he says.
“What do you mean?” I sweep my bangs out of my face, only to let them fall right back into my eyes. They hide the signs of my imminent demise. “You’re here?”
“Yeah, I need to apply for a residency, so I came to talk to—”
“On my way.” I hang up the phone, not caring who he came to talk to, and I stick my head out of the door, looking both ways for the nurse in charge. When I don’t see her, I make a run for it, zooming past patients, phlebotomists, and whoever else crowds this place.
I shoulder check X-ray techs, and zigzag through occupational therapists, respiratory therapists, and physical therapists until the elevator is within sight.
“Wait!” I shout, holding my hand out in front of me as I sprint toward the closing doors. My arm slides inside just in time for the elevator to ding and reopen solely for me, much to the dismay of my fellow riders. “Lobby, please.”
The sound of my heavy breathing fills the small space as we plummet toward the earth one floor at a time, stopping along the way to unload and load people.
“We’re full,” I start to say, pressing the Close button before the elevator doors can open upon its new destination. “No room, sorry.”
When we finally land in the lobby, I make damn sure I’m the first one out, continuing my sprint down the hall. It won’t be long before Nurse Bedpan notices I’m not there to do her dirty work, and I want to be far, far away when she does.
There’s a place for me in the medical field and in this hospital, but it isn’t anywhere near grown men and their bodily functions.
Kids are okay. They’re cute. And they mostly smell good.
I’m in such a hurry to get around the corner to find Teller that I don’t notice my shoes have come untied until I trip on my laces and crash face-first into an unsuspecting bystander. My victim and I are a pileup of apologies, sharp elbows and knees, and smeared lipstick.
“Whoa there.” Strong hands set me straight, and a smooth New York accent puts me under a spell. “You okay? Where you goin’?”
After smashing my nose on his pecks and leaving my face print on his shirt, my eyes fill with tears. I look to the innocent who caught the brunt of my brainlessness for a reaction, but it’s like squinting through a fishbowl and impossible to tell if he’s mad or not.
“Did I break you?” I ask him, checking my nose for blood. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.”
“I think I’m okay,” he replies. His accent makes me smile.
Blinking away the tears, I finally look into a blue set of eyes that are a trace away from being too large for his face. Curls rest on his head like a halo, and a perfect pair of lips bend into a smile above a small chin. A spark of appreciation flickers inside of me, and I blush.
“Your scrubs didn’t survive,” I say.
He looks down, stretching the ruined cotton away from his chest to get a better look at the damage I inflicted. A perfect transfer of my lips made the cut, and he’ll never get the pinkish rouge out of the fabric. But it’s the nose print that traps me in a crate of red-hot embarrassment.
“I’ll pay for it,” I blurt out as my cheeks roast. I reach into my back pocket for the wad of cash I stuffed in there this morning. “Will forty dollars cover it?”
New Yorker chuckles. “I don’t want your money, girl.”
Narrowing my eyes, I ask, “What do you want then?”
He shrugs. “Your number?”
Thanks to his pronunciation mingled with his killer smile, I’m ready to offer up my social security number, my credit card number, and my school ID number just to keep him talking. Never in the history of words has a person been reduced to mush over a couple of syllables like I am right now.
My thighs are weak.
My knees are weak.
My ankles are pathetic.
If I trip again, he might catch me with his chest for a second time. I won’t let go. I’ll wrap my legs around him like a spider monkey and cling.
“Sure,” I say, but we don’t get that far. I sense Teller’s presence before his arm slides across my shoulders, bursting my dialectal lust bubble. My thighs, knees, and ankles toughen up; it’s my heart that fails.
He may as well pee on my shoes like a dog to a hydrant.
The boy with eyes as blue as the ocean won’t get my number today—or any other day if Teller decides our head-chest collision was anything more than an accident.
“There you are,” Teller says. He tightens his arm around me and presses his lips to the top of my head. “I was about to leave.”
I roll my eyes. “No, you weren’t.”
Prick laughs out loud, closing the hypothetical door between the trespasser and us with my lipstick on his shirt. Tell squeezes me against him like we’re old chums not currently stumbling our way to the friend zone from the land of It’s Complicated. It’s all I can do not to throat punch him and compromise his manhood in front of the new guy.
“She’s a fucking riot, right?” Teller says. There’s a cigarette behind his ear and fresh ink on his forearm. There’s no place in this hospital for Teller Reddy, but he’ll make it his anyway.
That’s his thing. He’s the riot.
“Do you two know each other?” the outsider says.
Teller isn’t swayed by the accent like I am. In fact, he acts like nothing but static spewed from the guy’s mouth. “She’s my wife,” he says.
“No,” I groan. “I’m not.”
His arm weighs a thousand pounds around my shoulders, but the weight of my mortification is a whole lot heavier. As long as I let him treat me like a possession, Teller won’t stop. It’s a behavior we found twisted comfort in as soon as we met, to the point where good intentions got lost in recklessness. We’re a bad habit gone rogue, but it’s time to reel this crap in.
I drop to my knee to tie my shoe, liberating myself from Tell’s vise-like attachment. “This guy had the misfortune of being in my way. I killed his shirt,” I explain, loop, swoop, and pulling. I look up and pretend innocence. “I don’t think I asked your name.”
“This is Joseph,” Teller cuts in before Joseph can speak for himself. He sticks the Marlboro between his teeth but doesn’t light it. Not even he would dare light up in a hospital. “He wants to do his residency here, too, so I gave him a ride. He doesn’t have a car.”
“Joseph West.” Joseph holds his hand out for me as I rise. We shake hands, and he clarifies, “But you can call me Joe.”
Teller nods his head to Joe. “He transferred here from New York last year.”
“Two years ago.” Joe drops my hand to scratch the back of his neck in a nervous why-the-hell-is-this-guy-staring-at-me-like-he-wants-to-eat-my-throat kind of way.
I get it. Teller is extreme.
“Whatever,” Teller mumbles.
It’s apparent Teller doesn’t pay attention to anything outside of his lessons … and me. Future Dr. Reddy isn’t your typical med geek. He’s rash. He’s impulsive. He’s distracted and tattooed, and he chain-smokes on a bad day. Tell doesn’t notice anyone, but everyone notices a person like that.
He’s a lot to juggle, but where would I be today if it were not for him?
A sudden flash of appreciation releases butterflies in my stomach, and I miss the weight of his arm around my neck. Joe’s swanky accent will never make me full-body weak like Teller does. The twist of his smile, or anyone else’s for that matter, won’t come close to captivating me like the smirk responsible for bringing me back to life.
Boundaries are key, but we’re keyless and wandering unnavigated.
Teller reintroduced me to the world after tragedy, and the bastard drilled holes into my bones and filled them with himself. There’s no getting rid of him, and he’s never letting me out of his sight. We need to relearn how to know each other, someday.
“Buy me something to drink?” I squeeze Teller’s fingers, instantly grounded.
“Sure, baby,” he responds. Returning his cigarette to his ear, Teller points over his shoulder and says, “I need to move my car out of the fucking fire lane. Be right back.”
Joe and I watch him jog away, holding his pants up as he goes. It’s amazing to me that I can be so obsessed with someone who drives me so incredibly crazy, but here I am, fixated.
“Are you guys a thing?” Joseph interrupts my inner struggle.
“What?” I pretend to be shocked by his assumption. His not entirely incorrect assumption. “No, we’re friends. That’s it.”
His eyebrows lift in surprise. “Does he know that?”
“We’re just friends,” I repeat. The words taste like a betrayal on my tongue, but maybe if I say them enough, they’ll come true.
Joe nods his head, pressing his lips together before he says, “So, ’bout that number?”
“Who are you texting?” Teller asks. He stretches his neck to look at my phone, but I pull it out of reach.
“No one,” I say playfully. “Mind your own business.”
“You are my business, Ella.” The late morning sun showcases the freckles speckled across his nose and cheeks. I wish I could take a pen out of my backpack and connect the dots like constellations. “Is it Joseph West?”
Scrambling for something to say, I drop my phone into my bag and map out an escape route. He’s dropping me off at the hospital for another day of clinicals before he heads to school, but this is Los Angeles, and there’s always traffic. At this speed, I can jump out and walk away with nothing but skinned knees. If I manage to outsmart him, I’ll color my hair and assume a new identity.
It’s the only way.
“He talks about you,” Teller says. His hand tightens around the steering wheel, and he clenches his jaw. “It’s hard not to knock his head off his fucking shoulders.”
“He’s harmless,” I whisper. Two weeks have passed since I literally ran into Joe’s path. Unbeknownst to Teller, but for his benefit, I tiptoe behind his back for a daily dose of normal, New York style.
Nothing but conversation has happened between Joe and me. I convince myself I slink around so Joe can keep his head, but the truth is, I don’t want to hurt Tell. And more than that, I like Joe. We don’t talk about anything too personal. I think it’s the solace I appreciate most. To have a normal discussion with a person of the opposite sex with no strings attached is fascinating.
“He’s cool,” Teller says. He pulls his car into the hospital parking lot.
Teller puts his BMW into park and kills the engine, but neither one of us wants to be the first to move. Tension pours into the car, filling it from the floor up. I should have jumped when I had the chance. Skinned knees and bruises would hurt less than witnessing my first friend battle his troubles. Our effort to be friends progresses, but our strings are permanently tangled. I have a feeling our regard for each other will never fade.
It’s better this way, I remind myself.
“Do you like him?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “It’s not like that, Tell.”
He scoffs, patting his pockets for the cigarette pack he can never seem to find. “Not yet.”
I can deny it. For Teller’s sake. For mine. He and I are messy together, but the years spent walking the line between devotion and loathing made an impact. He’s the most important person in my life; it’s a blessing and a curse.
“He’s a friend,” I say.
Teller drops his head to the steering wheel, gripping it until his knuckles turn white. The veins in his hands and neck protrude, and his back rises and falls as air fills his lungs. “This is what you want?”
Sliding my hand across the back of his head, I bend my fingers into his hair until jealous green eyes light me on fire. He smells like tobacco, soap, and ginger—familiar and gut-wrenching all at once. I take his face in my hands and brush my thumbs under his lower lashes, wiping away tears.
“Why are you crying, Tell?” I ask. My voice cracks. My heart cracks.
He rests his forehead against mine, holding me behind the neck with one hand while the other grips my wrist. “How do you expect me to sit back while you love someone else? How am I supposed to fucking accept that?”
I press my lips between his brows, below his ear, and at the corner of his mouth. I run my fingers through his waves, along the stubble growing on his jaw, and I finally rest my palm on his pulse. It reaches for me, push, push, pushing against my hand.
“We did this together,” I remind him. “We couldn’t figure it out. We couldn’t get it right.”
Teller pushes away, shoving me off when I dig my fingers into his shirt. He stumbles to get the keys out of the ignition and grabs his hat from the dashboard to help cover the mess I made of his hair and the redness in his eyes from crying.
“I won’t date him if you don’t want me to,” I cry out, grabbing the back of his shirt as he exits the car. It stretches and frees from my fingers, stronger than my integrity. “Do you think this is what I want?”
He slams the door, locking me inside alone. Rage and remorse bite my insides, chewing on my heartstrings and consuming every ounce of giving a shit I have left. No one—not my mom, not my dad, and not my brother—has ever maddened me like Teller can. It’s a fiery bitterness that leaves me silly and irrational. It launches my foot into the door, kicking it over and over until the alarm sounds. It’s a lifetime of resentment coming from me in hot tears and frantic screams.
It’s why we can’t be together.
He’s going to get me kicked out of school.
Teller opens the door and snatches me from the passenger seat.
“Is everything okay over here?” a passerby asks. Through my outrageousness, I see the do-gooder standing back awkwardly, looking for someone else to take it from here. “Do you need help?”
Without a second glance, I look away from my would-be savior and claw my nails into Teller’s stupid, gorgeous face.
“Does it look like she’s being attacked?” Teller says, holding my arms away. “Get the fuck out of here.”
Falling back into what makes us horrible is so easy and so fulfilling. Our strong attachment—this patchwork of sane and insensible—is the best kind of euphoria and the worst dose of reality. It forces me to look in the mirror and ask, What kind of person am I? Is it Teller making me react this way, or is he just a faucet to my bottled-up self?
“I get it, Ella,” Teller says. His tone is calm, and he’s lost the psychotic blaze in his eyes. “Okay? I know why … why you can’t be mine.”
“I’m crazy,” I say, heaving for a decent breath.
The right side of his mouth tilts up, and Teller pulls me closer, wrapping my arms around his waist. “That makes two of us, Smella.”
I close my eyes as he rests his lips on the top of my head, dousing me with the scent of Marlboros and spicy cologne. His closeness stitches the fragmented parts of me together, irregularly, but I’m not falling apart anymore. There’s such comfort in Teller, like a towel right out of the dryer on a cold day. In another life where he isn’t jealous, and I’m not defensive, maybe it could work for us.
With my ear pressed against his chest, I hold tighter and hear the rumble of his laugh.
“Don’t leave me, Tell,” I say selfishly.
His arms circle me, closing the embrace to the outside. We fit like this, tucked up and pinned together with no room to let light through. I want to slip under his shirt to breathe in his spirit and hide from everything that makes us wrong for each other.
But there’s no hiding from it.
Like most relationships in my life, this one is condemned. My goal is to fix it before he leaves like my mother did, or dies like my father.
“You’re stuck with me, babe,” Teller says. “I’ll take you any way I can.”