Page 4 of I Still Love You

I yank myself free, stepping to the side as I burn this handsy asshole to ash with my stare. I tell Mason, “I’m not done yet.”

Mason breaches my personal space more, his face coming up close to my ear again. “You want to be slapped with assault? I guarantee the hospital won’t let you work for them, nor will the minor or major leagues. That woman got away. Let that be enough. We’re leaving. Now.”

Goddamn it.

Mason’s words punch me in the gut and force me to focus. Reality crashes down, and the scarlet staining this asshole’s skin makes my stomach roll with disgust. Before I know it, I’m blinking back the guilt of what I’ve just done.

What the fuck am I doing? Who the hell am I turning into? I’m not a fucking animal. I was never this mean, this awful, before.

I don’t bother muttering an apology as I turn to Mason. I’m ready to agree with him, to tell him I’m ready to go, when he lunges in front of me, blocking the guy from cracking me with his beer bottle again. With the same quickness he used to have on the soccer field, he guards his face, knocks the beer bottle to the ground, and uppercuts the guy. Mason huffs, “Consider yourself lucky. If I weren’t here, he wouldn’t have stopped.”

Acting quickly, Mason spins on his heel before leading me out through the rear exit of the bar. His hand curls around my bicep the same way our dads did when he was about to toss me into the corner for a time-out.

We move farther away from the commotion, the screaming and yelling I caused. My adrenaline is so hyped, to the point I could climb a skyscraper right now, that it’d take too much effort to put together their sentences. For all I know, the cops could be here, skirting past the crowd to find me. We turn down a dark narrow hall, pass the bathrooms, and push the door open at the end. The exit opens to a shadowy alley, offering the best chance of retreat as sirens echo in the night’s distance—guess that answers my earlier thought.

Mason shoves me back a step as soon as the door slams shut. “I told you not to pull a fast one! Jesus, Luke, you weren’t supposed to lay a fucking finger on him.”

My hand finds my brown, hickory-colored locks and combs through them. I stumble back, finally understanding the weight of my actions. I told Mason I was going to talk, but I had every intent on knocking that guy’s teeth down his throat when I said it. Had it not been for Mason, I would still be in there. However, a part of me is ashamed because I’m not this guy. The alcohol amplified the heartbreak claiming my heart, magnifying the loss of the woman I continue to grieve, and that guy was a target. “I—”

“You know I’m always here to fight your battles with you. Those ladies didn’t deserve what that guy did. But whatever the hell is going on with you tonight…it’s not okay. You can’t go around picking fights with random people.” His hands jut out in my direction to get his point across, then settle on his hips, his breath heavy when he blows out a shaky breath.

Shame hits me, and as aware of it as I am, I still say, “I fucking hate guys like that.”

“Yeah, we all do. Jesus, you’re bleeding a lot.” He pats his pockets, reaching into one only to come up short of whatever it is he’s searching for. “I think you might need stitches.”

I look up as if it’ll help me see the blood oozing from my face. Instead, I’m met with the black sky, the light pollution in Austin blocking the stars. Suddenly, the sharpness from the one hit the dude got in pinches my skin, and pain shoots across my forehead. The ache in my head intensifies, and my gut twists, creating a cyclone of sickness I’m not prepared for.

For a heartbeat, I attempt to swallow it down just like I tried to do with my emotions all night, but it’s useless. Before I can catch myself, I lurch forward, place a hand against the building, and barf.

2

Layla

“Clear a path!” My voice pulsates against my throat as I yell from next to our patient’s gurney, an unconscious seventy-six-year-old woman named Alfreda who the paramedics are wheeling in through the ambulance bay.

Jimmy Cole races alongside as we move to the zone of the emergency department for critical patients being transported in, his layered hair and trimmed beard making him look more like he should be a lumberjack rather than a paramedic. “Chest pain and responsive on scene. Fell unresponsive thirty seconds out. Heart monitor shows signs of arrhythmia. Hypotensive, too. Julia administered a peripheral IV. Husband says she’s healthy as a horse.”

I don’t bother looking over when I express my gratitude. Without people like Jimmy and Julia, people like Alfreda wouldn’t have a chance. “Thanks, Jim.” I square my shoulders and hold my chin high as another nurse and the emergency physician on call, Dr. Boise, come to assist. We quickly transfer Alfreda to the hospital bed and lock it into a reclined position. All the while, I rattle off everything I know so we’re all on the same page.

“One milligram of epinephrine, stat!” Dr. Boise’s voice roars with authority that would send a chill down my spine if I weren’t already aware of how nice of a guy he is. When he’s not saving lives, he’s laid back and easygoing. Under pressure, however, he’s very vocal. Adrenaline surges through my body, inducing tiny hive-like goosebumps on my arms. Like always, I put a blindfold over the portion of my brain that’s in charge of panic and focus on the doctor’s ordering bark. “Page Dr. Limrick from cardio now!”

Susan, an excellent nurse I’ve worked with for the past eight weeks, dips out of the room after connecting the patient to the vital signs monitor to page the head of cardio on call for tonight.

I handle the I.V. with care, following Dr. Boise’s orders. “Administering one milligram of epinephrine.” I elevate her arm and wait, watching for a change in her stats.

There’s a spike in her heart rate seconds later, then it falls, and she stops breathing. Her blood pressure nosedives, and my hands beg to grab her face and scream for her to open her eyes. I’d sit on her chest and pound a beat back into her heart with my fist if I knew it would work.

I shout, “Asystole!”

“Push a dose of atropine. Get another milligram of epinephrine ready! Starting CPR!” Dr. Boise’s voice thunders off the walls as he prepares to perform chest compressions that I hope to God will work. “Where the hell is Limrick?!”

Susan bustles past the curtain at the perfect time with an automated external defibrillator. “On his way, doc.”

I prepare for another dose of epinephrine; my hands steady as I ready her I.V. for a second round. “Come on, Alfreda! Push through and fight!”

Susan is quick with the defibrillator. Dr. Boise focuses on making sure his chest compressions are life-saving. The three of us work seamlessly, our goal the same; getting Alfreda back into a better state than she arrived.

“God damnit!” Dr. Boise cries out. “She’s not responding. I swear, if Limrick doesn’t show up soon...”

---