Page 104 of His Last Shot
Her hand is white-knuckling the curtain as her chest rises and falls in quick breaths.
We stare.
We long.
We love.
Still.
Scott, rising from his chair, breaks us from the moment. Rachel closes the curtain and wheels the metal cart closer to the side of the bed. His eyes flick to me briefly.
From his perspective, this probably looks super awkward. As far as he knows, we broke up because Rachel was hung up on the age difference. What he doesn’t know is that what he is witnessing isn’t the usual tension that comes with being face-to-face with your ex for the first time in forever.
It’s seeing the love of your life who you can’t be with.
He’s seeing two people who are being tortured.
“Rachel. Nice to see you again,” he says, trying to play the role of diplomat.
She looks over at him.
I look at her.
“Hey, Scott. You, too. How’s Laura and the kids?”
His eyes flick to me, probably wondering why I’m not speaking. “Um … they’re good. Jake and Mallory are living their best teenage lives.”
Rachel smiles warmly. “That’s good to hear. Please tell them I said hello.”
“I will. Mallory asks about you all the time.” I hang my head, the weight of my sadness pressing down on me because it’s true. Mallory always asks about Rachel, wanting to know why we aren’t together. It’s torture on a whole other level. Mallory gets attached to very few people. But she was attached to Rachel.
Rachel pauses, letting this sink in. I’m sure it is hard for her to hear. She sniffles, then nods, her eyebrows pulling together. “I miss her too.”
Insert the knife, twist it, and leave me dead.
Scott’s expression softens, his voice kind, the way it always is when talking about his kids. “Thank you for asking about them.”
With the formalities over, no one else speaks. The three of us stand here in room six, awkwardly, as the hustle and bustle of the ER whirls around us.
Scott looks at me, and I jerk my head to the right. A get-the-heck-out-of-here gesture.
He takes the hint, clapping his hands. “Okay, so I’m going to go and wait in the truck. Rachel, it was nice seeing you again.” He slaps me on the shoulder. “Good luck.”
Pretty sure he doesn’t just mean the stitches.
Scott leaves, and then it’s just us.
I miss us.
Once again, our eyes lock. I pin my gaze to her eyes, then slowly, on their own, they trail down her body. Her face lights up with a small grin, clearly pleased by the attention.
It’s official. I love scrubs.
Breaking the moment, she turns and boops her name badge on the computer. “Okay, sir, sorry about the wait. My name is Rachel, and I am here to get you stitched up. Can I have your last name and date of birth?”
Her voice sounds like a song.
But a pain shoots straight to my chest. This is the first time we have spoken since that day on the dance floor, and she’s being so formal.
