Chapter 1
John
The tension pressing against his skull seemed unrelentingly endless.
He knew perfectly well that nothing he did would make it go away, either. No amount of medicine, massage, whiskey, dark rooms, or a complete eight hours of uninterrupted sleep.
Nothing would help.
Not this damn headache.
This was his stress, manifesting into a big ball of fuck-you pain that rested right behind the eyelids. Not to mention the throbbing ache in his shoulder. His self-diagnosis was a frozen shoulder. Which, at least for the moment, wasn’t as noticeable as the headache.
“Do you think your body is trying to tell you something, John?” the therapist asked, referring to the headache John had complained about before taking a seat on his couch.
John had chosen this therapist specifically because he worked with first-responders—doctors. He needed someone who understood, not just sympathized.
John’s issues with trusting others to help him were limited, if non-existent.
“Oh, probably,” John had replied with a forced tug of his lips, not bothering with an actual attempt at a smile.
“What do you think it’s trying to tell you?” the therapist asked.
John sucked in an impatient breath, his chest expanding, leaning back into the cream white couch. “Probably a lot, if I chose to listen.”
The therapist, an older man with light brown skin, graying stubble on his cheeks, and direct dark eyes beneath simple black glasses, shifted in his seat, seeming to contemplate before saying, “I’m getting the impression you don’t want to be here.”
John actually smiled this time, shaking his head, “No. I don’t.”
The therapist didn’t look the least bit offended. “Then why are you?”
John let out a reluctant sigh. “My charge nurse threatened to have the nurses ignore me for the rest of the month if I didn’t talk to someone.”
The therapist, Miles something, chuckled. “A serious threat, then.”
“Very serious,” John replied coolly. Any doctor worth their salt knew they couldn’t do their job without the nurses, especially in his department.
“What type of medicine do you practice?” Miles asked.
“Emergency. Trauma medicine.”
“An expertise and a trauma, in and of itself.”
John swallowed, giving a short nod. “Yeah, sure. But the rewards are there, too.”
Right, the rewards, he thought bitterly, and what are they, John?
When was the last time you actually felt something for a patient? For anything?
“Tell me about them,” Miles said.
John’s throat tightened. His patience had quickly zeroed out for this conversation. He leaned forward on his elbows, rubbing his forehead. “Look, I came here because a friend suggested it… and honestly, I’m questioning my decision. No disrespect for you, I just don’t think this is what I need.”
Miles nodded, “What do you think you need?”
He paused, wondering when the last time he asked himself that question was—outside the basics such as food, sleep, and coffee. Usually in that order.
“I dunno,” John replied. “I used to think it was family, playing house…” he hesitated, working the muscles at the back of his neck and shoulder. “But when all that ended, I realized I was…”
