“You keep looking at me like that.”
“Because no one’s ever looked at me the way you do. No one has ever treated me the way you do, either.”
“Maybe they just don’t see what I see. Not sure how, but maybe they don’t.”
Her eyes narrow inquisitively. “And what do you see?”
“Someone worth it,” I answer without hesitation—because summed up, that is exactly what I see: someone wortheverything. “We should get some sleep, Cherry. You have work tomorrow night.”
She’s surprised that I remember that, and I let her sit in that shock, because I need her to understand that I will always pay attention to her. Always.
I turn around so I can turn off my bedside lamp. Eventually, after she’s composed herself, Oakleigh does the same.
In the darkness, the sweetest words hit me before I fall asleep.
“I think I’m starting to like that nickname.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Goodnight, Cherry.”
ChapterTwenty-Three
OAKLEIGH
I’ve made a decision. An executive decision, in fact.
I’m not going to overthink this. All I’m doing is stressing myself out worrying about feelings and reveling in my anger toward Finn when, frankly, there isn’t any anger left. From now on, while Finn and I are in this fake relationship, I’m just going to go with the flow. Finn needs a girlfriend, then fine, I’ll be that for him. I’m going to enjoy being looked at like I’m worth something more than a few nights in bed and a dinner at some shabby restaurant. From now on, it’s picnic blankets in a decorated barn and being picked up from work at five in the morning. From now on, it’s kissing my boyfriend and helping him see that a mental-health disorder is the furthest thing from shameful. It’s acceptance and communication.
All well and good having such a realization such as this, but I think I may have actually had it a bit late.
Because I am fully convinced that this work shift is going to kill me. And before Finn and I even had a chance to finish what we started at the bar.
My entire body feels heavy with exhaustion. I can barely bring myself to speak to patients, and it’s even at a point where Antoine has to administer all the medication as I keep seeing two of every line on the needle.
“You shouldn’t be fucking working while you’re like this,” Antoine chides as we leave the bay of a patient with a severe burn on his arm. “This place is killing you, Lee. Six night shifts in a row is goddamn ridiculous.”
Isn’t that an understatement. This place is sucking my soul from the inside out. I should have had a day off in between these days, but I was woken up in the morning by a call from my boss telling me that I was needed, and like the idiot I am, I went in. Finn chided me, as I expected, but he also made sure he was there in the waiting room ready to take me home. There’s been two mornings where I’ve found Bash instead of him, but he’s always left a message explaining that something had come up with work. This morning will be the same. A few of his builders have called in sick and so he has to go to pick up the slack.
My plan for after my shift had been to stop by his work and bring him coffee and breakfast, but I’m dead on my feet. I can barely write my own name on the charts I fill out.
“Michaels, look at me.” I turn to face Antoine and catch Nicole standing right beside him. “Go. Home.”
“But I’m not done,” I say weakly.
“You’re only supposed to be here until three. It’s four-thirty. You’ve served your sentence. Go. Home. Now.”
I don’t even have it in me to argue. I want to fucking go home.
Nodding, I hand Nicole the chart in my hand before picking up lip balm and keys off of the desk.
“I’ll see you guys next week.”
“Oakleigh?” Nicole catches my attention before I leave. She watches me worriedly. “Maybe consider some vacation days? You need the rest. You deserve it. Besides, if you take some time, you’d be able to work on your book some more.”
She’s right. It would be great to catch up on some sleep for a week. Maybe even finish what Finn and I started? I kinda just want to spend some more time with him. It’s time I be a bit more honest.
As for the writing part? I’m not so sure. I still haven’t heard anything from the agent I sent it to and the panic of it being rejected and told that it’s shit is halting any motivation to write the ending. Writing has been my dream since I was a kid. To be told after all this time that my dream is not going to amount to anything is my biggest fear. And of course I know that rejection doesn’t equate to worth in this field of work, but all of my years of yearning for this have created a massive ball of anxiety that just sits on my chest and sends thoughts to my brain that make me doubt my worth.
Bash stands outside the entrance to the hospital, a joint in his hand.
