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uwiuwi · 2 years ago

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Days of You & Me: September

Word Count: 12.7k+ Warnings: Hospital talk. Sick people talk. People being shitty to hospital workers. Marriage talk. Slight alcoholism talk. Unprotected sex. Note at the end. Author’s Note: Thank you to @tauralmie and @darnitdraco as well as @marvelousmermaid for being my continuous shoulders to lean on throughout writing this series.

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Days of You & Me Masterlist | ← Previous Chapter

September 3, 2003:

“Fancy seeing you here,” Drea grins over the desk. “That boy ask you to marry him yet?”

“God, what happened to good morning and how do you feel, Sonny?” I ask her. “And no, that boy did not ask me to marry him yet, he says he’s waiting on permission.”

She laughs, loud and full, and throws her head back, light bouncing off the dark brown of her skin in what looks like rays.

We had lunch a few times, even got together as families to have a pizza and movie night last week. I don't even remember saying goodbye that night, I had fallen asleep on the couch before the movie ended and woke up in bed. The next day, Joel showed me a polaroid Warren had taken of Sarah and I asleep, each tucked into one side of him.

But even though I've seen her, I haven't worked with her and that’s heart breaking. The knowledge that I won't be here after this month, that I won't work with her anymore, is heartbreaking. I've missed her and I know that I'll continue to miss her.

“I don’t know what he’s waiting for,” she says, taking a deep breath. “We gave him permission weeks ago.”

“Weeks ago as in…”

“Pretty much the moment he asked,” she says. “I didn’t see a ring the last time I was over but I know y’all have been busy with the business and with moving plus”—she shrugs—“I didn’t want to ask in front of him and spoil any special plans he may have.”

“Well,” I start, hands flattening on the counter top to show bare nails and bare fingers. “As of last week, he told me he was still waiting for permission so I don’t know what he’s waiting for either.”

He says he’s worried that I may be unsure of him but now I can’t help but wonder if he’s unsure of me. Even as I'm thinking it, I’m trying to tamp it down—those insecurities that are cropping up. Because if he was unsure, he wouldn’t be so hellbent on painting our room the perfect color. It wouldn’t even be our room, it would still just be his.

“Maybe I said something I shouldn’t have said,” she breathes out. "Let's just get through this day and then maybe you’ll go home and he’ll have made you a fancy dinner and set out candles and wine and bought a whole new box of condoms—“

“Drea!” I look around to see who may have heard, heat blooming up my cheeks even as I remind myself that we are adults and healthcare professionals so this isn’t necessarily inappropriate for the kind of work that we do but, still… “We don’t use those anymore,” I whisper out, the words leaving me as quickly and quietly as they can.

Her jaw drops and then she lets out a low whistle. “Like I said, both of you got it bad.”

But he’s not home when I get here. His truck isn’t in the driveway and there’s certainly no wine or candles but there is Sarah with her big, bright eyes telling me happily that dinner’s in the oven and it’ll be ready by the time I get out of the shower.

“Thank you, bug, but you didn’t have to do that,” I tell her as I kick off my shoes. “I would’ve cooked.”

“Oh, I didn’t cook,” she says. “Daddy made lasagna, it's just in the oven.”

“He's not working a double?” I ask, feeling my eyebrows pinch up. “His truck’s not outside.”

She shakes her head. “He was home for a bit but left a little while ago, Uncle Tommy’s truck broke down again.”

I learned pretty quickly that saying Uncle Tommy’s truck broke down is another way to say that Uncle Tommy got thrown in county jail for throwing a punch or two on a drunk and disorderly charge but Sarah doesn’t need to know that. “Any idea when he’ll be back?”

“No,” she says. “He said to go ahead and eat without him and that he’d see us tomorrow so I’m guessing it’ll be late.”

Late is exactly what it is when he crawls into bed beside me, jeans pushed off and shirt tossed to the side to leave his tired body mostly bare.

“How's Tommy?” I mumble into his chest as I turn into him. “That was a long ass time this time.”

Joel pushes his head into the pillows and takes a deep breath, broad chest expanding against my cheek, and he lets his arm settle around my waist. “Fucking dumbass,” he breathes out. “He has to go to court now because this is his third charge in as many months and the fucking cops said they’re gonna start booking him on assault charges if he doesn’t clean his fucking act up.” He takes another deep breath and pulls me closer. “Dumbass was still fucking drunk when I got there so I got some food in him and took him home, I’ll have to pick him up tomorrow but I’d rather him not have access to his truck tonight.”

“I know it’s a lot, baby, but you’re a good brother,” I tell him, lifting my head to look up at him, “you’re a good man and I know he appreciates that.”

He pushes a laugh out and I can see the exhaustion heavy on his face. “What about you?” He asks, changing the subject. “How was your first day back at work? How did they take your notice?”

Shrugging, I tell him they said they saw it coming. “My vacation time won’t be impacted and they were grateful I gave a month long notice.”

“Mmm, good.”

“They also said they know it won’t be the last they see of me since you’ll be the one working there after that. Everybody seemed kind of sad though which I guess was nice. Not nice that they were sad but it was kind of confidence boosting to know that I could have that impact on others.”

He pulls a strand of hair away from my face and twists it around his finger, eyes darting from mine to my lips and back. “Of course you have that kind of impact,” he rasps out, accent coming out thick through his exhausted body. “My incredible fucking girl, you mean so much to so many.”

Thank God for the low light of the bedroom because I can feel heat rushing up my cheeks in shades of what I’m sure are brilliant red. “When’s court?”

“Next week,” he breathes out. “They're fast tracking it so we’ll see what shit looks like, he’ll probably have to do community service which will hopefully inconvenience his ass enough that he just gives up drinking altogether because I’m sick of this shit.”

“Half of these fights aren’t his fault though,” I remind him. “He doesn't throw the first punch, he doesn’t start this shit.”

“No,” Joel agrees. “But he sure does fucking finish it, doesn’t he?” I watch as his eyes close and he takes another breath. “I love him but he’s gotta stop running his fucking mouth, I’ve bailed him out too many goddamn times, I’m shocked he hasn’t bankrupted me.”

“Take a breath,” I say, guiding him through the action before pushing myself up and over him.

“Are we having sex?” He asks, eyebrows pinched together in confusion. “Because I’m tired as shit, you’re gonna have to do all the work—“

“I'm kissing you,” I interrupt him. “And then you’re going to get up and brush your goddamn teeth because I refuse to be trapped beneath your mouth breathing at five in the morning.”

Pursing his lips in a pout, he pushes up to meet me halfway, dodging to the side just as our lips are about to touch to lick me up the side of the face, capping the action off with a kiss and laughter as he pulls away to slip from beneath the covers.

The bathroom light trickles out into the dark of the room as I fight to keep my eyes open so I can fall asleep in his arms this time. I finally give up when he sticks his head out the door, says he’s gonna hop in the shower and that he won’t be long but that I shouldn’t wait up for him.

Doesn't matter what he says, I still try.

With the light falling out of the bathroom door, blurred out through steam and tired eyes, I finally give up close to the hour mark as he starts singing I’m Your Man beneath the spray.

September 9, 2003:

Sarah climbs into the passenger seat and smiles wide as she takes her coffee from me. “Are we ever going to tell dad you load me up with sugar on Tuesdays?”

“Absolutely not,” I laugh out. “He’ll give me a lecture about spoiling you.”

Her eyes turn up towards me and she places a hand on her heart. “How am I ever supposed to respect you if you give in to my every whim and desire, Alison?” Her tone is mocking and she sits back, picking at the whipped cream with the end of her straw. “He's such a funny old man, I think he sometimes forgets that I genuinely like you and is afraid that I’m just using you.”

"He is a funny old man,” I agree, turning the car towards the grocery store. “It’s not like you ask for these things, I just get them for you. It would be pretty shitty if I picked you up on Tuesdays with only a coffee for myself, that would be like if I brought dinner home but it was only for me.”

“Ooh, Tommy’s done that before,” she says. “I was really upset because I wanted French fries and he wouldn’t let me have any.”

“See and I’ll let you have all the French fries you want because I'm not denying you food or happiness.”

She tsks in my direction and shakes her head. “Absolutely killing it as the wicked stepmother here, Ali, actually caring about me. How dare you?”

“And those girls?” I ask. “Are they still giving you hell?”

“One of them tried to trip me in the hallway earlier,” she says. “It didn't work but she tried and another one wants to organize a fight and I don’t really understand, I don’t know what there is to fight about.”

“Just don’t pay attention to it.” I turn to her as I park the car outside of the store. “They're trying to goad you into looking angry and like you’re the problem, it can have a negative effect on soccer. So just ignore them and if it continues to be bad, your father and I will talk to the school.”

“Mrs. Adler says that she's going to pray for them.”

Rolling my eyes, I open the door and gesture towards the store. “You know, I’m fucking catholic but I’ve never seen anybody up Jesus’ ass the way that woman is—not even Nana Nora.”

“Maybe she dropped off the crazy Jesus train after finding out she had a gay son and a daughter who got pregnant at fifteen,” she suggests.

We stop in the parking lot and look at one another, her question of whether that was okay or too far barely out of her mouth before both of us break out into laughter.

Pulling her close as we talk through the doors, I tell her she’s going to love Uncle Bill when they meet over Thanksgiving. “He helped pay for me to go to University of Texas so, really, he’s kind of to thank for me and your father being together.”

“I think we’re going to need to talk to the school,” I tell Joel later after dinner. “She said one of those girls tried to trip her in the hallway earlier and another one is trying to organize a fight.”

“And you think we should talk to the principal about it?” He asks over his shoulder, turning off the water at the sink. “I'm worried that might make it worse.”

"And I’m worried about our kid coming home with a black eye—“

“Hey.” He turns in my arms and frames my face with his hands. “I love you and I love you going into protector mode, but until she says she wants us to intervene, I think it’s best that we let it fizzle out. All we’ll do is make them act worse because they’ll think she went crying to her daddy to fix it but they will get bored eventually.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I was a little fucking asshole once, too,” he says like it’s obvious. “I'm an asshole now, truth be told, and I am telling you that it will be okay. Now, if she or the principal come to us, then we will step in. But until then, sweetheart, we just need to let her vent and you’re a safe person for her to do that with.”

“But—“

He presses his lips to mine. “You are perfect and she will be, too. Now get your ass upstairs and let’s go to bed, I’m tired and I’d like to put my penis in you for a bit.”

“But—“

It’s funny how we went from awkwardly eating lunch in my car to romantic dates in gardens to being very crass with one another in a way that the spontaneity of sex is kind of gone. Not gone in a bad way, I assure him as he pushes me towards the stairs, but gone in the way that neither of us feel the nerves around it anymore. We don’t have to wait for half a spark of bravery, we can just say what we want.

“I'm in my mid-thirties,” he whispers, pushing me through the door. “I don’t play fucking games, I met the love of my life and I am going to tell her that I want to fuck her but I am also going to be honest about my exhaustion. Take your top off.”

He laughs and it hits something inside of me that makes my brain go fuzzy. “You called my daughter our kid and have been in protective mama bear mode for hours and I am telling you that if I have to undress you, I will rip your clothing to pieces so”—he pulls his belt buckle open—“take off your top.”

“And if I don’t?” I ask him, biting back a smile as I watch frustration harden his features.

Instead of answering me, he pushes his jeans off, pulls his shirt over his head and walks towards the bathroom instead of towards me. “I'm marrying a smartass,” he mutters under his breath. “A complete and utter little asshole.”

“Joel,” I call his attention back to me as I throw the shirt to the side and barely have time to brace myself as he quickly closes the distance and throws me onto the bed. “You don’t seem too tired to me,” I whisper.

Teeth scraping against my jawline, he breathes out that he’s not too tired yet. “All I said is that I’m tired and I want to be with you, the too tired part comes after you have.”

I can’t think because he doesn’t let me, the full weight of his body laying down against mine. The moment I told him he wasn’t going to hurt me is the moment he turned back into that overwhelming kind of lover he was—all big and broad and all encompassing.

Even Tommy walked in on us one time and asked if Joel was fucking me or trying to crawl inside of my skin. Joel didn’t even both yelling at him, just told him both options sounded great and asked him to lock the door on his way out. He even said please like the nice, polite southern boy that he is.

“What has gotten into you?” I ask the moment he separates from my lips long enough to take in more than just a breath in the space between us. “You've been insatiable the last few weeks.”

He looks up from where he’s bent down to push my underwear off of my legs, eyebrow raised in question. “I'm insatiable? Bold words from somebody who started crying because I’m old and needed to catch my breath before I went in for a fifth round.”

“That's not fair to use against me, Joel, I was on my period and bloated and felt very unattractive, catching your breath might as well have been a rejection.”

“God forbid I ever experience erectile dysfunction,” he breathes out as he pushes inside of me. “Not tonight though.”

One large hand smooths my hair back and out of my face, making room for the soft press of his lips against my forehead. He really has been insatiable lately, like everything is going right and he needs to celebrate between my legs before the bubble bursts.

As if it’s all some kind of dream—me and this house and the business.

September 13, 2003:

Yelling pulls me out of my dreams—loud and lively suburban kind of yelling while the weight of his palm rests on my back. He’s not here when I open my eyes, though. No warm hands or strong arms around me, no soft voice coaxing me from my dreams.

In fact, it’s his voice that’s doing the yelling—half of it, at least—in a back and forth across the street with a neighbor.

“No, Denise!” He yells back to the question I didn’t quite catch. “I’m not moving out, my girlfriend’s been moving in.”

The neighbor—Denise—gasps. “Joel Miller,” she yells over, “you finally found yourself a nice girl?”

“I don't know about nice—“

“Uncle Tommy!”

The clock shows it’s a little past ten and the anxiety for missing so much of the day sets in immediately. I can’t remember what time it was when he brought up the coffee, rubbed my back and told me he’d be down in the yard, but the sun was up so it can’t have been too long ago.

“She's perfectly nice, Denise,” Joel responds as I make my way out of bed. “Far too good for me.”

Putting on shorts, I grab the travel cup he left for me and take the stairs two slowly, their conversation following me from the bedroom’s open window to the living room’s.

“I'll have to tell my niece the handsome young man I live next to is off the market,” she says.

“Happily so, Denise, but”—his head turns towards me as I open the front door before turning back—“you can always give her Tommy’s number.”

Tommy’s face drains of color, flat hand subtly moving across his neck while he mouths for Joel to shut up.

“They been like this all day?” I ask Sarah as I sit beside her.

Looking up from her book, she shrugs. “More or less… also”—she drops her voice to a whisper and leans in closer—“dad’s not in a great mood.”

“What's going on?” I ask her, looking over at him digging in the dirt.

Shaking her head, she tells me the contractor they’ve been working with has been calling all morning, apparently some kids came in with baseball bats and destroyed most of the framing they worked on yesterday.

“And he… what? Wants your daddy to go fix it on a Saturday morning?” I ask her.

“That's exactly what he wants,” Joel interjects as he walks up. There’s dirt stains on his jeans, neckline of his t-shirt stretched out and a dirty, old rag worrying between his hands to get the dirt off.

“Don't get paid on Saturdays though,” Tommy says from his place still in the grass. “Don't get paid, don’t work.”

“Y'all are real bad at whispering,” Joel continues. “Baby girl”—he turns to Sarah—“you all packed? Kenzie’s mom is gonna be here to pick you up soon.”

“What time is it?” She asks.

He shakes his head and yawns, “I don't know, my watch isn’t working again.”

“Was almost half ten when I ca—“

Before I can finish, she’s jumping up and running back into the house almost knocking her father down on her way.

“Movies and arcade,” he answers my question before I can ask, sinking down into the seat next to me. “It’s McKenzie’s older brother’s party and Susan invited Sarah so the girls are gonna watch what they want to watch and the boys are gonna watch… I don’t know, I don’t care.”

I hand him my coffee up when he reaches for it. “When did this happen? McKenzie doesn’t just want to come over here?”

“Susan called first thing this morning, McKenzie wasn’t originally going but it’s a nice day so she didn't want to be stuck in the house and, also, there’s nothing to do here,” he shrugs as his head drops back onto the chair, “Susan’s house has video games and skateboards and a trampoline, this place has a broken down car in the backyard and a lame movie collection, I don’t wanna hang out here either.”

“Yes, you do,” I respond. “You like lame movies and working on your broken down car, you’re lame and it’s okay.”

Groaning, he stands up and gestures for me to do the same. “Come on, let’s go pack, I can’t have both of my girls thinking poor of me.”

When I reach for my coffee cup, he wraps a hand around my bicep and hauls me up alongside him as he moves towards the open door.

“Is this the bad mood she was referring to, Mr. Miller?” I ask.

We’re halfway into his office when he spins me around and pushes me up against the bookshelf. “I'm in a mood alright,” he says, eyes flicking down my body and back up. “You don’t know how fucking hard it was to say no to you earlier,” he goes on, “so sleepy and cute and begging me to come back to bed with your soft little voice.”

“You and your damn responsibilities, baby.”

He laughs as he presses his lips into me. “God, you’ve been getting so twangy lately,” he breathes out. “My rude ass northern girl with her adoptive accent, you’re fucking gorgeous.”

More laughter but it doesn’t come from either of us and his jaw sets as he looks over at the man standing in the open doorway.

“Can I help you, Thomas?”

Half a smile on the younger man’s lips and he pops a fruit snack into his mouth. “I just like seeing you happy,” he shrugs. “It's so different.”

Joel lets out a breath, shoulders relaxing as he hangs his head. “That was actually really nice of you, Tommy,” he says as he lifts his head again. “Thank you.”

“Nah,” he says, smile growing wider. “We should all be thanking Alison, it’s funny what a little head can do for a man and you”—his eyes flick up to me as he raises his hands in prayer—“are an angel and a saint.”

“Tommy.” Joel’s voice is low and stern but not in the way it is with me in the moments where he has been. No, this is a dangerous kind of tone and his grip on my hip is tightening.

“Aww, Tommy,” I cut in, “what’s really funny is what giving a little head can do for a man.”

“Jesus Christ,” Joel breathes out. “Don't encourage him, baby.”

“Let him have his fun, Joel, he’s just jealous. Isn’t that right, Tommy?”

“Swear to god if he doesn’t marry you,” he says, mouth full of the rest of the snacks, “I am first in line”—he points at Joel and then back at himself—“you hear me? Give me a head’s up for when you’re gonna break her heart, big brother.”

Joel’s ringtone starts playing and his eyes roll back as he fishes the brick out of his pocket. “This fucking prick again”—he hits the answer button—“hell—no, I told you that we’re not coming out tod—because we don’t get paid on weekends, if you want the shit fixed quick, get those boys who fucked it up back down there but if you want it done right—“ Joel’s eyes roll back in his head and he holds the phone away from his ear, covering the microphone as he says, “I'm gonna finish this call and take a shower, lock the door when both of my children leave, please.”

“Bye, daddy,” Tommy says as he leaves the room before looking back to me. “He's too fucking easy, Murph.”

“Yeah, Tommy, but you could still go easier on him.”

He considers me for a moment, eyes squinting as if he’s studying me. “That’s a nice thought,” he finally declares. “But the answer is no.”

Joel’s voice trails down from the top of the stairs, an argument going back and forth between him and the contractor and Tommy shrugs. “Look, I have to do my brotherly duty,” he says. “When it comes to his balls: I bust ‘em and you suck ‘em.”

“Oh my god.”

Since our conversation on Sarah’s birthday, we’ve developed more of a rapport, almost how I imagine it’d be if I had a sibling of my own. He said it helps that I feed him, that’s why he warmed up to me so quick. He also said all of Joel’s other girlfriends haven’t liked him too much in the past. I asked if it was because he was too crude or because he was flirting with them so much. Apparently it was because they didn’t like how close he was to his brother.

“Look,” he pleads as he follows me out of the room and into the kitchen, “all he has ever done is look out for me and I try to do the same by being the one person in his life that isn’t treating everything with dead seriousness. I’m an adult, not a funeral director.”

“Fine,” I shrug, turning to find him peeling open another fruit snacks package. “I can’t believe he told you I put his balls in my mouth.”

“Oh, he didn’t.” A smile unfurls across his face and he pops a red Scooby-Doo shaped treat into his mouth. “But you just did.”

His hair is dark, wet and pushed back from his face. So different from the tousled, boyish bedhead I’m so used to seeing on him. His face is clearer this way, freshly washed and glowing golden from the sun.

“Mm, was kinda hoping you’d be in bed when I got out of there.” He winks at me as he walks towards the kitchen. “Fucking contractor might never work with me again.”

“I'm sorry, baby.”

Exhaustion is heavy in his eyes, though, as he comes back, beer in hand, and settles himself in close on the couch. “What are you sorry for, pretty girl?”

“That you work with douchebags,” I respond.

“It is what it is,” he shakes his head and takes a sip. “I’ll be the boss soon so it doesn’t fucking matter, shit’s just frustrating when I’m so scared all this is going to fail and I’ll have to go back to getting bitched at.”

Planting my elbow into the back of the couch, I turn my whole body towards his and study him—the curve of his nose, the freckles on his face and arms, the way his dark lashes brush the swell of his cheeks. Head in my hands, I tell him I’m also sorry for not being in bed when he got out of the shower.

He huffs a laugh, chest rising and falling with the small sound. “Probably for the best, sweetheart, I don’t smell any food which tells me all you’ve had is coffee and”—he takes another sip, big dark eyes taking me in when they open again—“you’d really need your strength for what I want to do to you.”

“Well… then I guess I’m sorry for telling your brother I suck your balls.”

“You what?” He sits up, eyes blinking slowly as if that would make him hear me better. “You told Tommy Miller what now, baby?”

Taking the bottle from him, I take a sip for myself and hand it back to him desperately fighting the face I want to make. “He made a joke,” I say. “I said I can’t believe you told him that and he acted like he was the world’s greatest spy to get it out of me.”

A deep breath and then another, pulls off the Modelo in his hand between each one as beats pass by us. Occasionally, his face twitches like he’s running through scenarios in which Tommy could use this information against him and he doesn’t like the future he’s predicted.

Finally, he sits back again, resting his head as he scoots down, and my fingers find purchase in his waterlogged curls. “Sarah get off okay?”

“Mm.” My answer is lost in a yawn that he easily catches. “I gave her twenty bucks for the arcade.”

“Shit,” he breathes. “I meant to do that earlier, baby, thank you. I’ll pay you back.”

“Don't worry about it.”

“It’s not your responsibility,” Joel insists. “I don’t want you to feel obligated to—“

“Stop,” I try to mimic the same stern tone he used on Tommy earlier but I know I’m failing. “I don’t feel obligated, I just want her to have fun. Besides”—I grab the bottle again—“you never let me take you on a date, you can at least let me make sure she has a good time with her friends.”

His head moves against my shoulder the same way it did against the pillows in the early hours of this morning—back and forth like he’s burrowing himself in—and he expresses gratitude again.

We sit together trading sips back and forth in silence for I don’t know how long, eyes half closing as the beer warms through my veins in the moments the bottle is traded off into his hands.

Suddenly, the phone starts to ring again and he lets out a half frustrated scream as he pulls it out of his pocket. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Him?”

“Yeah,” he says.

Before he can press the answer button, though, I take the phone and send the call to voicemail before throwing it into the chair adjacent to us.

“Baby—”

“You said it yourself,” I cut him off. “You’re the boss soon; you did your job correctly yesterday and it’s not your fault there's a mess now.”

Pressing his head back into me, he covers his face with his hands and takes a deep breath. “Thank you, baby,” he breathes up at me, fingers sliding easily through his clean hair. “And what about you? I got in real late last night, you were already knocked out on the couch and you slept a long time. How do you feel?”

“Honestly? I think I could go for a nap, work was brutal yesterday.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” I breathe out. “No death, thank God. But lots of people shitting their brains out left and right. This E.Coli outbreak is no joke and they’re already prepping us for flu season so I need to take you and Sarah for your shots soon.”

He hums into my stomach as he slips down to lay his head in my lap. “It's a good thing you don't have to worry too hard about flu season, huh?” He asks. “You won’t be there for it.”

“It's still good to have the information and be prepared, Joel,” I insist. “Especially since I might not have to deal with the flu season as a nurse but you will be in that hospital as a contractor.”

He laughs, says he forgot about that part. All the events of the week with Tommy’s court date and the doubles they’ve been pulling to give themselves as much of a cushion as possible going into the autumn months on their own has left him exhausted and forgetful.

“Fine,” he breathes out, turning to curl into my stomach. “Order a pizza and brief me on the flu season when it gets here, I’m taking a nap.”

He falls easily into sleep almost the moment he says that, his soft snores pushed into my belly falling out between deep and steady breaths. Since I went back to work, I feel like it’s been a while since we both just sat here in each other’s presence—the comfortable, safe silence we hold for one another.

We’re back to mismatched schedules and late nights in bed with tired movements and tired eyes. I haven’t even bothered going to bed early, always trying to stay up just to see him after he’s pulled a double. Six shifts stands between me and later nights in my home with my family. Two weeks stands between him and freedom of calling his own shots beyond biting off more than he can chew.

Sweeping his curls back, I watch a soft smile push into the dimple that pockets his cheek while ordering food for the afternoon. He looks so content and happy, like all his headaches have melted away to the point he can’t even fathom having one anymore.

I try not to think about the insecurities that have built up in me with the knowledge that he got permission weeks ago. Not that they aren’t in my mind constantly but I do try and it helps the most to tamp them down when he’s beside me like this; safe and warm in his own way.

September 18, 2003:

“Oh, fuck me, Joel, right there,” I breathe out. “Please don’t stop.”

He shushes me but it doesn’t work as he falls into laughter when I cut him off with what very well might as well be a soundbite straight from porn. “We’re going to scar the child for life and all I’m doing is rubbing your feet.”

“Not for life,” I say. “She'll understand when she’s in her thirties and her feet hurt after a long day at work.”

His head shakes even as he starts giggling again. “You are such a goddamn pain in the ass, sweetheart,” he grins out. “You gonna tell me what else went down at work today besides it being long? I haven’t seen you this worn out in a minute.”

“Honestly, I’m seeing so much food poisoning that I'm afraid to eat anything at all,” I tell him, taking my foot back and sitting up to face him in bed. It’s late. Not so late that I run the risk of oversleeping my alarm but late enough that my eyelids are dragging down further and further no matter how hard I try to fight it. “Apparently more foods are going to be announced recalled soon but I don’t know what they are and I’m really not understanding how E.Coli is spreading through some of these things, I’ve honestly never even seen it behave like this.”

His face pinches up. “How do you mean?” He asks, shifting his own body to sit up further. “I know I'm a dumb son of a bitch but hearing you be scared over something medical scares me. How bad is this?”

“So, E.Coli is a bacterial infection that impacts the intestinal tract. Usually after a couple of days with treatment, it’s done and you’re good to go, you’ll just need to start eating solid foods again. Joel, I have patients I did intake for last week still admitted to the hospital, they can’t keep anything down and it has weakened their immune system to the point that they’re getting pulmonary fungal infections.”

“English, please.”

“Joel, there is mold growing in their lungs and, at first, we thought maybe the hospital had a mold problem but today we were admitting people who were exhibiting these symptoms and they hadn’t been in the hospital at all, they haven’t even had E.Coli but some are smokers and others aren’t.”

“So we stay away from cigarettes?” He clarifies.

“And mushrooms,” I remind him. “The FDA put out another statement that they’re still receiving reports of contaminated mushrooms in all fifty states and, honestly, I’m tempted to start making you and Sarah wear surgical masks everywhere that isn't this house.”

Joel takes a deep breath and nods. “If that’ll make you feel better, I’m happy to do so.”

Watching as he gets up to go to the bathroom, I tell him that I know it would get him shit, Sarah too, and he just laughs. “You think I give a shit about getting shit? I’ll just tell ‘em all that my doctor was worried about the sawdust particles hanging around and I’ll give Sarah permission to start throwing punches because I’m sick of those little assholes.”

We ended up having to go up to the school on Monday. The principal called Joel and said that he should get down there for an emergency meeting and Joel called asking me to meet him there. I thought that maybe the fight had finally happened even though Sarah said she took our advice and just continued to ignore them; she said they’d started leaving her alone. We all figured they’d gotten bored.

When we got into the office, Sarah was sitting in the counselor’s room crying and asked if either of us had a hat she could wear.

The girls didn’t get bored. Instead, they just waited until they could be the worst possible versions of themselves and I’ve never seen her so sad or Joel so livid.

We’d gotten her hair done on Sunday after Sarah mentioned liking Andrea’s braids. It took hours and she was so happy and confident, even had the cutest little butterfly clips throughout and, during science class, the one that tried to trip Sarah cut half her braids off.

I’ve never heard Joel yell like that and the punishment ended up in suspension for the girl as well as her parents offering to pay to have Sarah’s hair done again. I kept her out on Tuesday and she asked to just go back to how it was before, she’d try again after we got back from Wyoming.

“Swear to god, baby,” he says, turning the light off after he’s washed his hands. “If you hadn’t been there, I probably would’ve punched that little girl's father.”

“She's suspended for two weeks, Joel,” I remind him. “Two weeks and she is required to take her exams no matter her grade and the principal took away her extracurriculars for the semester, if you had punched her father they probably would’ve punished Sarah, too.”

“We should put her in a different high school,” he says, laying himself down next to me. “We should put her in one of those art schools, she really liked that pottery class.”

“She wants to play soccer,” I insist. “The best place for her to be for that is the high school she’s going to and there are little fucking assholes in art school, too. However, when we come back from Wyoming, I think that we should look at changing Sarah’s schedule so she doesn’t share any classes with these girls and I want to talk to Susan about how much it hurts Sarah’s feelings that McKenzie is still entertaining their friendship because she doesn’t feel like she can go to sleepovers anymore.”

“She told you that?” He asks. “God, how are you already a better parent than I am?”

“I'm not a better parent than you,” I laugh. “I think I’m just a woman who makes her feel safe and she can confide in me about things.” I push his curls back and fight the smile spreading across my face as he leans into my touch. “It makes me really happy that both of you feel safe with me and I’ll do everything I can to keep that trust.”

“Even making sure something scars ugly on people who are mean to us?”

“Even that, Joel,” I confirm. “Unethical as it is.”

He pushes his face into me, arms wrapped tight around me, and breathes deep with a declaration of love on his lips as he exhales. It’s late and I’m exhausted, I know he is, too, but I would rather fight my heavy eyelids right now than stop looking at him.

I lose, of course, but not before I catch him mumbling that I am a better parent than him. So much better than him and he can’t wait to see how I translate that into parenting an infant.

“How many?” I ask.

“So many,” he whispers. “Sarah deserves to be a big sister to as many as you feel like giving her.”

Breathing evened out against me, I’m not even sure he knows what he’s saying but so much is starting to make sense. He told me a few weeks ago that he wanted more kids but he couldn’t do it alone again. He got permission not long after that but hasn’t asked the question. We’re a family unit to him—we have been for a while. But there are micro-tears in his confidence in it where his past fears are seeping through, only really present in the daylight when he can consciously tiptoe around them.

But, at night, with no lights on him and fuzzy focus drifting control off and away, he pours out what he truly wants because he’s working up to asking for it.

September 23, 2003:

“Hey, you weren’t here when I woke up,” he says, hand dipped beneath the waistband of his boxers as he scratches at his lower stomach. He curls into my side of the bed and takes a deep, exaggerated breath. “Had to sit here and hump your pillow waiting for you.”

Lifting his arm, I lay myself down in the space and press my face into the crook of his neck, taking a similar breath to the one he did. He’s been keeping his face shaved for business meetings, said he felt it looked more professional than whatever the fuck sad ass shit he has the audacity to call a beard, but now it’s growing back in the lead up to our trip and I can’t stop rubbing my face against it.

“And you call me a cat,” he laughs out.

“What time are we dropping off the truck?” I ask. “It's gotta be before we see Dr. Bonner.”

Joel hums and it vibrates all the way through my body along with his. “I was thinking we could drop it off around ten and then go grab an early lunch before your appointment?” He goes up an octave on that last word, framing it as a question when I know he actually won’t let me dare skip a meal. “Then Starbucks to spoil you and the kid and you can drop me off at the build to make sure shit was done right before Tommy signs off for the day.”

“He coming for dinner?” I ask. “Or is he gonna go out to chase some college girls around the bars?”

“Oh, well, you know him,” he mumbles into the crown of my head, “they see those dimples and that jackass cowboy charm and he gets laid.”

“Poor boy,” I say. “He's got such a hard time.”

“Yeah, so long as he stays out of trouble, he can chase whatever tail in whatever bar he chooses.”

Tommy’s wearing his nicest boots when I drop Joel off, that shit eating grin of jackass cowboy charm as his brother calls it wide across his face as he takes the coffee I told Joel to buy for him.

“Don't get in trouble this week, Tommy,” I beg him, watching Joel’s retreating back walk into the new build. “No drinking.” I search his eyes for a hint of his thoughts. “Please, Tommy, you are on mighty thin ice with Travis County sheriff’s department and it could cost y’all the hospital job and he is so stressed out about it.”

My therapy sessions have sometimes turned into mine and Joel’s therapy sessions, including today where he shared his anxiety over putting the truck in the body shop to get the business name when he’s not even sure the business name will last longer than one job. Partly because of his brother’s run ins with the law, and his refusal to get help, because he thinks communication is bullshit and he can get by with a nod and a smile.

He hits me with both now and promises that he’ll be on his best behavior.

“I love you to death, Thomas Miller, and your brother will never punch you but I fucking will. Do you understand?”

“Yes ma’am,” he answers. “Love you, too, Sonny girl.”

He sends me off with a message to give to Sarah, something about some soap opera plot point because he was watching on the build and thought it was funny. She, on the other hand, thinks it’s sad—the main character lost her entire family in a series of tragic events.

“I guess the funny part is how she reacted to it all,” I suggest. “You know your uncle has a sick sense of humor, bug.”

“Yeah,” she agrees. It’s not rainy but it's not sunny either and that seems to be hanging on her.

“You alright?”

She shrugs. “Yeah, I just got a catalogue for the classes I can take next year at the high school and I thought pottery would be in there but it isn’t.”

She really liked that workshop.

“Maybe it’s in the higher grades.”

“It's not in any of the grades,” she says, big eyes up to the sky through the window. “I asked. It’s just home ec or wood working and I know how to do both of those things.”

“Could be an easy grade,” I say. “We can go to more of those little classes independently if you want.” Even as I say it, I know it’s not quite good enough for what exactly she wants—consistency in the art, time to build on her skills and the quality of what she can make.

I’m already deciding to look into equipment needed to give her a small home studio for Christmas when she turns towards me. “I want to get daddy’s watch fixed for his birthday.”

“He'd really like that,” I say. “Man might as well be walking around blind without that thing on his wrist—do you need money for it?” I ask.

Her dimples pull her smile back, cheeks pushing up against her eyes. “I would not mind that.”

“Okay, well”—I gesture to the door and get out of the car—“your daddy thinks I spoil you so I’ll leave about sixty in the top drawer next to his watch, grab that in the morning and go to our neighbors’ shop after school, they’ll give you a good deal.”

“Can I come to the hospital after?” She asks. “I wanna see Andrea, I know it’s her birthday soon, too, I made her a card.”

Taking a deep breath, I steady myself at the door and kick my shoes off. I haven't told her about what’s been going on; I don’t want to scare her. Not when Mrs. Adler and the teachers at her school keep going on about biowarfare and weapons of mass destruction. “I'd prefer if you didn’t,” I tell her, watching her face fall. “It’s just that the emergency room has been really busy lately, UT is dealing with the bullshit of rush week and people who would usually go there are overflowing to us.” If she can tell it’s a lie, she doesn’t show it. “We’ll have a movie night when we get back from Wyoming.”

“Promise?” She asks.

“Like your daddy’s always saying”—I turn and look at her on my way towards the kitchen to make a grocery list—“on my life.”

September 24, 2003:

The phone goes to voicemail for the second time and I can feel nerves snaking their way up my throat as I feel the frustration rise up in me. Taking a deep breath, I press redial and all but hold my breath in some attempt at schooling my beating heart.

“Baby?” He picks up on the third ring this time. “Are you okay?”

"Do you know what brand the flour is at home?” I ask him. “You know what,” I go on before he can answer me, “just throw it away—the pasta, too, and I don't know that I trust the frozen pizza in the fridge either.”

He laughs and I want to scream. “Are we suddenly allergic to wheat, Ali?” I can hear the power tools in the background, his petulant ass contractor barking orders like a tyrant. “I don’t think it’s fair to punish me and Sarah just because you—“

“It's the flour,” I tell him. “That's what’s making people sick, Joel. It’s flour and it’s tobacco and it’s mushrooms.”

He begs me to slow down and I take another breath, glancing up at the time to check how long I have on my break. “From the beginning, sweetheart.”

“Tobacco and wheat is sometimes grown together,” I tell him. “The farm that supplies the most to, like, all the brands had a contamination with animals getting into the crops, they defecated in the soil and mushrooms grew, that’s where the E.Coli and the fungal infections are coming from and it’s really fucking bad, Joel, so please toss the flour when you get home.”

I can practically hear him nod and he tells me he has to go. “I'll take care of it, pretty girl, just do me a favor and take a breath, okay? You’ve got two more days and we will avoid all the flour and all the tobacco until you deem it safe again.”

“Do you promise?” I’m close to tears and I feel irrational but it’s bad today, it’s so fucking bad. The products in question have been on the shelves for a bit but are really only starting to come up now with stock rotation in the grocery stores—always put the earliest to expire first. That’s what people are grabbing and they’re getting sicker and sicker.

Part of me feels horrible for leaving the hospital at this time but I don't think I can do anymore. Truthfully, I cannot do this anymore. I wish I had made my notice earlier, I wish I was gone already. There are young kids in here; kids that are Chloe’s age; kid’s that are Sarah’s age.

Joel tells me I can just come home tonight. I can come home and he won’t be mad if I don’t go back to work and when I tell him it’ll fuck up my vacation pay out he tells me he doesn’t give a fuck about that. All the worry about the business and if it’ll succeed or if it'll bankrupt us and he's telling me he doesn’t care about the money, he cares about me and my mental health and my wellbeing but I can't leave it like this. It’s not like me to leave and never come back, it’s not in my work ethic and it's not in my personal ethics either.

“It's two days, Joel,” I remind him. “It's two days and then we go to Wyoming for a week and I won’t be so stressed out.”

“And I’ll do that thing you like,” he whispers, low and drawn out, “when I’ve got you on all fours in bed, gorgeous. Hell, I’ll do it tonight if you want me to.”

“I'm so tired already, Joel,” I breathe out. “And don’t you dare focus on me while we’re on vacation, this is for your birthday.”

“You act like I give a shit about myself,” he laughs out.

There’s yelling in the background, somebody calling for his help for something. I take the moment to remind him that after this week, he’s the boss; he gets to call the shots and bark the orders.

“And Joel?”

“Hmm?”

“I really need you to give a shit about yourself,” I practically beg him. “I need you to care about your cholesterol and your happiness and your stress levels because Sarah and I need you and we need you to be okay.”

He laughs. “I ain’t that special, sweetheart.”

“I know you're making a joke but we’re in the middle of an epidemic that is getting worse with each fucking report so I need you to understand that you are everything to us and please don’t smoke that occasional cigarette I know you steal from Tommy and please throw that shit out before I get home.”

“What do you want me to tell Sarah?” He asks. "I don't want to scare her.”

“I don’t know, tell her you're on the Atkins diet or some shit and please order me beef and broccoli for dinner tonight but no egg rolls.”

He whistles low. “No egg rolls? It must be bad if you’re asking for those to be left out.”

“Yeah,” I say, the sadness and frustration I’ve felt all day giving out to defeat in my voice. “I'll see you at home, I love you.”

There’s a crash behind him as he’s barely through his response, the call going dead beneath his quick goodbye and I’m left here in the break room wondering about Sarah and wondering if the school knows and wondering how the lunches are being made and if I should let them know.

But it’s a school, they’re usually the first to know about anything that could impact the kids, right after hospitals and other emergency services. I take a deep breath and check the clock. Four more hours. Four more hours of this and then twelve more hours and then twelve more after that.

Twenty-eight total hours until I can go home to my family and start figuring this all out; who I am to myself and who I am to them and this life we built together on the thread of a few stitches.

Taking a deep breath, I pull my mask back up and head for the doors to enter back into the chaos.

Twenty-eight total hours until I don’t have to live like this anymore.

September 26, 2003:

“Joel, wake up,” I whisper against him, nuzzling my nose into his cheek as I kiss against his lips.

He hums low and lazy, the question asking me what I want very clearly on display as his grip tightens on me.

Again, I encourage him to wake up with a nip at his earlobe, and the smallest bit of laughter I can give him without being obnoxious, as I feel him harden against my leg.

“Mm, is this a dream?”

“It very much is not,” I confirm, telling him that it's just a little past five when he asks me what time it is.

Barely being able to sleep aside, I wanted to be the first one to wish him a happy birthday. But it’s also my last day at work and I’m nervous and I need him in a way that I cannot fully explain, I just know I can’t wait until tonight or tomorrow in the hotel room in Wyoming.

He pushes himself up into the kiss I press into his lips and he helps me push his sweatpants off his hips and down his legs.

By the time I take him in hand he’s already leaking. I can tell by the way he throbs against my palm that if I looked down at him, he’d be an angry, almost purple color begging to fall apart inside of me.

Not that he has to wait long for what he wants. It’s half a sleepy fight for dominance but he lets me overpower him quickly because he’s just as desperate as I am now but lacks less than half the energy I have.

Heavy lids fight to open as his jaw drops slack, his tired brown eyes watching as I sink down on him. He doesn’t even have a view of anything until I’m taking my shirt off; pulled over my head and tossed to the side of the bed where my panties and his pants lay to give him a full view of everything we both want him to touch.

“Your tits look like a fucking pillow,” he slurs out, lazily grabbing at one with his rough hand. “Bend your cute little ass over and let me suck on it.”

Hands braced on his chest, I do bend over him but not to give him what he’s asked for. “Happy birthday, baby,” I whisper into his lips, kissing softly at the open mouth that’s having trouble forming words. “You’re a good man and I love you,” I go on. “I can’t wait to be Mrs. Joel Miller, I can’t wait to be the mother of your children.”

A slow smile stretches across his face beneath another press of my lips to his and he starts giving words back over to me.

How happy he is that he spent most of thirty-five with me and that he’ll now get all of thirty-six.

The way he thinks about how it would feel when there’s a ring on my finger beneath his grip as he we hold hands.

That he notices his heart rate steadies out the moment he sees me; that my presence takes away his stresses and the only fears he keeps when I’m around are the ones about me and Sarah because all that matters to him is his family.

He makes a joke, asks if I’m getting in a practice session before he’s got me riding horses all next week and laughs at his own joke on half a moan when I bite his neck.

“Fuck, I love you, baby,” he breathes out, strength building up in his muscles as he wakes up to the moment; grabbing against me in more than just a lazy way. “Best birthday ever and it’s not even really started yet.”

“You turned thirty-six at midnight, Joel, I think it’s you that hasn’t started yet.”

He takes it as a challenge, eyes going hard as his grip tightens around me and he switches our positions to push me down into the pillows instead of him.

“Most gorgeous girl in the whole world,” he says in the space between our lips. “Thank you for waking me up, I think I would’ve been really broken hearted if I woke up all alone on my birthday.”

Trying to tell him that I would never have let that happen, he punches the breath from my lungs on a thrust that hits up against that spot he knows better than I do by now.

When my muscles tighten up, he shoves his tongue into my mouth to cut the possibility that anybody but him could hear and I can feel every ounce of his body weight bearing down on me as I push back up against him—my body desperate for all of his.

“Is this our thing, huh?” He asks. “Wake up before the sun to make a mess of one another and then just go about our days?”

Breath coming out hard as I try to catch it, I push my head further back into the pillow and take every bit of him in.

The paling skin that hasn’t seen much sun between business meetings and inside work; the gentle slope of his nose and the faint scar I love so much; disheveled hair and beard; exhausted eyes and heavy lids.

He’s losing weight, too; body returning to the size he was when we met and not the puffed out chest that strained his clothes from double days on job sites.

“Yeah,” I nod up at him, tucking my bottom lip beneath my teeth as he sits up on his knees between my legs to change the angle. “I think that’s our thing.”

Joel’s large hands rest on my hips and he pulls me up, back arching beneath his touch, just to start moving again with a steadier, more controlled rhythm.

A crooked, cocksure smile splits one side of his face as he encourages me up and over another edge with praising words and expletives until he meets me there with a deep sigh of relief.

“Best birthday ever,” he yawns out. "I swear, I could never have coffee again if I got to wake myself up between your soft, thick little thighs.”

“You’d never give up coffee for anything,” I laugh. “But nice try, baby.”

His agreement comes in the form of his body crushing down on mine again, lips pressing into my forehead and then my nose and then my lips. “Don't go to work today,” he practically begs. “Stay in bed with me and don't worry about fungus or bacteria or temperatures or anything.”

He knows as well as I do that it doesn’t work like that and I tell him so, squeezing my legs tighter around his waist as I do just before reminding him that I should get up and shower and get ready for the day.

“Don’t shower,” he says on a smile, watching me crawl out from beneath him and head towards the bathroom. “Don’t wash me off of you,” he pleads. "Don't wash me out of you, Alison.”

I’m losing my fucking mind today.

Everything is so much worse and only getting more fucked up by the second.

We down several nurses because of fever and the doctors can’t keep up; I’ve only passed by Drea and others, the only form of communication passing our lips being yelling until our throats are raw as every floor of the hospital is bending to respond to this.

Our last pandemic response training was last year and it feels like those protocols don’t even fucking matter here, everything is changing by the minute and I can’t even catch a break to hear Joel’s or Sarah’s voices.

We didn't even tell Sarah what’s going on, we’ve just been covering up my stress and the change in diet with excuses of death and Atkins which she knows is bullshit. She has to. She’s not stupid and the moment Tommy suggested he was going to follow that diet because a girl he liked was doing it, I tore him up one side and down the other for talking that trash in front of Sarah; for encouraging her to keep him accountable.

I’d screamed at him that the brain needs carbs to survive and pushing that shit on a teenage girl who’s still growing showed he didn’t have much left so he needed to be careful that he didn’t lose the rest.

But I couldn’t bring myself to tell her about any of it—to scare her. Joel agreed to play forgetful about grabbing ingredients; the pancake mix; the cake mix. He promised she wouldn’t think much of it from him because he does that sometimes and she understands things have been insane with the business.

Around six, they ask if I can stay for a few hours beyond my shift. They don’t care that it’s my last day, they don’t care that I’m supposed to say goodbye. They’re down several pairs of hands and fucking scrambling and are promising me triple overtime if I stay for a few more hours.

I think of Joel saying he doesn’t care about the fucking money but I can’t say no to this. Not when regular overtime is time and a half and they’re offering me triple that. They intentionally schedule me off on holidays so they don’t have to pay me or Drea the time and a half and they’re offering me triple. That’s over a hundred dollars for every hour past my twelve that I stay—I can’t say no to that.

With that information, I take the break I haven’t been allowed since I walked onto the floor and duck into the break room with my phone pressed to my ear.

It doesn’t take several redials this time, he picks up on the first ring with an apology that he’s not home yet; he’s working a double on his fucking birthday because they’re down several pairs of hands as well and he’s on the same page with me about money. We’re more than fine to get the business going, to last us through vacation and unemployment and getting supplies and payroll started on building a crew but we want to make sure it stays more than fine.

Emergencies crop up all the time, especially with kids, and neither of us want to be caught fully off guard.

“I'll be home late,” both of us say at once.

“Please don’t wait for me to open your presents,” I whisper down the line. “Maybe drop by the store and grab some ice cream, baby, she really had her heart set on a cake and I feel bad.”

“Y'all got me presents?” He asks, ignoring the request. “You didn’t have to do that, sweetheart.”

“Shut the fuck up, Joel,” I laugh out. “We don’t ever have to do anything, we do it because we love you so accept that or I’m kicking your ass.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he agrees, accent low and drawn out. “I can’t stop thinking about this morning.” I can practically feel the grip of his hand on my hip as the plastic of the phone creaks beneath it now. “Every time somebody says some dumb shit, I just keep thinking about how you looked so fucking angelic on top of me this morning; keep wondering if I’m still in you.”

“How many people are around you right now, Joel Alexander?”

“None,” he says and I can hear that cocky ass smile in his voice. “We’re down several hands, remember?”

When I don’t say anything he whistles out for my attention, asks me where my head is at. Truth be told, my head is filled with the sad excuse for breathing I’ve been hearing all day but his deep voice is doing its best to overtake that.

“Yeah,” I tell him, heat flooding up my face. “You are.”

“I adore every fucking part of you.” He sounds far away and I know where his mind is again, thinking about where he’ll be in the morning and tomorrow and the day after that.

“Don't operate power tools when you’re thinking with your other head,” I remind him. “It's way too busy in here for me to stitch your fucking face back together, you’ll have to wait a lot longer than three fucking hours and you’ll be lucky to get a cubicle because I’m doing most of my job in the hallway today.”

He laughs and I hear Tommy in the background making fun of the bright red of Joel’s cheeks, asking if he’s talking to his pretty girl and just what the fuck is she saying to make him look like that. “I love you, PG,” he says. “I'll see you at home.”

My extra hours are more than just a few and I am close to giving out, especially with the way these patients are behaving.

Maybe I should’ve milked the panic attacks like Joel asked me to, maybe I shouldn't have ever come back. Maybe I should’ve ate the fucking vacation pay just to stay in bed with him.

This level of aggression is too much to handle. These patients are angry and they are taking it out on the people trying to help them, unimpressed with the answer that we barely know what's going on either and trying to take our masks off because god forbid they’re not getting a smiling face in their bedside service from the nurses providing care on the vinyl flooring.

It’s eleven when I’m done for good, pulling off my gloves and telling the people in charge that I can’t do anymore. Two months ago, I was coddled with broken ribs and a bruised neck insisting that I didn’t need a CT scan and that there was no chance I was pregnant after one patient attacked me. Now I’ve spent the day getting kicked and hit and bitten like I’m working a shift on the fucking psychiatric floor and even that wasn’t the final straw.

I'm still wiping the spit off my face when the first cramp hits my stomach, doubled over with a cough crawling up the length of my throat and I want to scream.

Hours in this fucking bright light bullshit and I was about to get a break.

A real one—a good one.

The one that I fucking deserve and earned in years of razor thin PTO and overworking myself to the bone just to not think about a singular goddamn thing—including how my life could be good and what a future might look like for me beyond just being the reliable friend who spends her nights alone if she spends them out of the hospital at all.

They didn’t want to pay me for the holidays but I still took them, happily snatching shifts from working parents so they could spend Christmas with their babies and now I understand why they gave up that money. Because their kids aren’t going to care about the fucking money when they’re older, they’ll just remember if mom or dad weren’t home when they were wanted and I stayed here for money instead of going home where I was wanted by a man who meant nothing to me this time last year and the daughter he insists might as well be mine, too.

My entire life and priorities have changed in nine months.

It happens all the time like that.

Only nine months is needed to make a family; except mine didn’t really come with a physical gestational period and my baby isn't a baby at all but a fourteen year old girl looking up to a thirty year old woman the way I was at her age.

I can’t bring this home to her—I will not put her at risk.

Coughing again, I pick up the phone and dial his number, hoping he’s home. Somebody should be with her, he should’ve opened his presents. I hope he bought her ice cream.

“Hey,” his sleepy voice comes through the receiver. “I was just about to call you, I thought you’d be home by now.”

“I can’t come home, Joel.”

He’s shaking his head because I know the sounds that accompany the movement so well by now—the deep sigh; the covered eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“I'm coughing,” I tell him. “One of the patients pulled my mask off, spit in my face, and now I’m coughing and my stomach is cramping and I know my immune system is weak because I’ve barely eaten a damn thing all day, Joel, I am running on fucking fumes and I am coughing.”

“I need you to come home right now,” he says, voice stern and commanding. “I'm coming to get you.”

“Don't you dare,” I tell him. “I have the apartment until November, I’ll sleep there.”

“We have a flight at fucking five in the morning, Alison.”

“Listen to me, Joel,” I beg. “The incubation period on this is so quick that it’s almost fucking negligent so I will still be in Wyoming with you and Sarah but I am not making that flight, okay?”

“Then we’ll all take another—“

I feel the frustration of exhaustion and hunger and fear rising up in me and I don’t want to yell. I don’t want to yell because it’s not conducive to this conversation but also because it hurts. “Joel,” I interrupt on a deep breath, “please do me a favor and go on to Wyoming, I will call the airline and have my ticket switched to tomorrow night, I just need to make sure I don’t develop a fever, okay?” I know I’m begging him but I don't know what else to do. “If I don’t develop a fever then this cough is from a long day with nothing in my stomach and the cramps are likely from that, too, just—“ Another deep breath as I concentrate through another cramp, my stomach rolling in desperation for something other than air and bile to be combined in the bottom. “I love you and I will see you tomorrow.”

Joel releases a hard breath and I know his head has fallen back into the couch, probably pressed his fingers to his eyes in an attempt to wake himself up further so he can better comprehend. “I'll see you tomorrow,” he repeats. “You promise that?” He laughs and I can feel him trying to lighten the mood; my tears; his frustration. “You sure this isn’t your way of finally telling me to fuck off, sweetheart?”

“You're fucking stuck with me,” I reassure him. “Both of you.”

He hums his approval and my heart breaks because I wish I could feel the vibrations of that sound through his body and on my lips at his throat as it pushes out of his mouth. I could be home with him right now, making him make those noises out of pleasure instead of his response to how I comfort all of his fears. Because that’s what it is, when he asked me. It was fear—it always is. Fear that I am going to leave him, that every goodbye will be the last and I’ll disappear just like the last one did and the wife he had before that.

“Is she there?” I ask him, one arm slung low across my abdomen as I sit in the car waiting to hear both of their voices so I can start it, wishing it was home that I could go to because my bed at the apartment isn’t mine anymore. It’ll feel like being sick in a hotel room except this one will be filled with boxes of donations and not a bit of food in the cabinets. “Can I talk to her?”

“She's here,” he yawns out. “But I’m a fucking dick and got home real late so she’s asleep with her cute little head tucked up against my thigh and I would wake her up for you but—“

“You wanna savor your little girl still being a little girl and feeling safe with you,” I finish for him, his laughter following only to ask if he sounds completely fucking pathetic. “You are so far from pathetic,” I tell him. “You really are the best man I’ve ever known, Joel Miller.”

“Pig shit,” he breathes out. “God, I miss you already and I know what your motivation is behind this but I’m almost willing to risk it just to feel you next to me tonight.”

“I'm not.”

“I know," he says. “It's why I'm not pressuring you and I told Sarah we have to wear masks on the plane tomorrow and at the airport.”

“Please.”

Several beats stretch between us, silent and comfortable even through the telephone until sirens cut cleave through that peace to announce yet another arrival to an already overflowing sick ward.

“I love you,” I tell him again. “Now that I’ve said it, it’s so hard to stop and I wish I’d done it sooner,” I say. “I wish I’d done it the moment I met you but you probably wouldn’t have come back until I gave you my coffee order and you definitely wouldn’t have sat in my car with me acting like we’ve known each other all our lives a whole week later.”

“It was two,” he laughs. “Your math is shit and you’re wrong as hell, because I saw those big hazel eyes and wanted nothing but to be near you all the time so I need you to go rest and feel better and get your cut little ass to Wyoming tomorrow afternoon because I need you there with me; I have plans.”

“Plans?” I ask, pushing the fallen tears I hope he can’t hear away from my eyes. "What plans?”

“You'll just have to find out,” he grins out. “Won't you?”

Taking a deep breath, I call him back from the edge of all his jokes and that same stupid charm he swears only Tommy has. “I know Sarah’s asleep, but can you do something for me?”

“What's that, sweetheart?”

“Tell her I love her.”

Author's Note:

I started writing this story in December after I had been laid off from my job. I never thought it was a story that many would like beyond my own small group of friends and to say that I have been overwhelmed and that I am so grateful by the response and the very kind words feels like it's a misrepresentation because I seriously stare at some of these comments sometimes and I just think to myself, "That's the nicest thing I've ever read." So thank you all for being the nicest people in the whole wide world and sticking with me through this story. I was so close to beginning the story with a note above January that said, 'This is not a love story.' For me, it's not. It's just a story about love - self, familial, platonic, romantic - revolving around two people forming all of those bonds with one another but also the bonds they're building with the others in each other's lives. I don't know if any of that makes sense but I'm so excited that I get to end this the way that I planned.

But this is not The End.

#fuuuuckkkkkk #DUDE JUST PUNCH ME #it would be more painless #i swear i can hear my heart broke to millions pieces #😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭#he would propose #nooooooo #a moment won't enough for me to move on from this story #fuck u for make me crying #plus thanks for posting it sooner #I'm pretty sure.I remember the date supposed to be 13 right??#hahahahahahaha I'm crying #i need a hug #hugs i need alot hugs

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