Page 5 of The Wrong Husband
I step toward him—the sound of his voice still vibrating through me like a low-frequency hum—like gravity itself just shifted toward him.
His spine straightens. His shoulders lock. All of his muscles seem to freeze.
I lean forward to take another step—when a hand lands on my shoulder. I spin around.
“Phe! Thank God, I’m not the only one late.” Emma pants as she rushes up beside me. “Took my daughter to the zoo on my day off—I need another day just to recover. Oh, did you hearabout more staff cuts?” Her brow furrows. “I really hope I don’t lose my job. I’ve got rent, student loans, daycare…”
Typical Emma—an open book. The complete opposite of me. Maybe, that’s why we click.
She pauses, then frowns. “Wait—aren’t you off today? Why are you here?”
Because I’ll do anything not to be home while Drew's there.Because the place which used to feel like a refuge feels suffocating with him in it.
Before I can think of an answer, she barrels on, “Let me guess. They called you in, short-staffed again. You really need to stop saying yes. You deserve a break.”
I let her voice fade into the background and glance back toward the man who rescued the kitten—but he’s gone.
The crowd has already dispersed. The woman with the cat walks past me, fussing over her pet.
I pocket my earphones.Where did he come from?And when he praised the cat…“Good girl…”I shiver again—the sentiment in those words resonating with a hidden part of me. A very secret, very forbidden part of me. One I didn’t even know existed. Until today.
“What did you say?”
“What?” I glance sideways to find Emma frowning at me.
Ugh. Did she hear me mumble,good girl?“I said, good morning.” I curve my lips into what I hope looks like a smile and not a grimace.
“Oh, right, good morning.” She accepts my explanation without question. “Let’s hope it stays that way.”
It does not stay that way. Things go downhill from there. My shoe falls apart. It literally comes apart at the seams. Guess I wore them out.
I don’t have a backup, so I change into a pair of borrowed clogs a size too big for me. Ugh! They’re also a hideous yellow color. But needs must…
I shove the curtain aside and step into the cubicle. The air reeks of antiseptic and adrenaline. A teenage boy clutches his abdomen; his tracksuit soaked in blood.
“Stabbing?” I ask the nurse who hovers at the foot of the bed.
She nods. “Lower right quadrant. BP’s dropping. Looks like internal bleeding.”
I turn to the boy. “I’m Dr. Hamilton. You’re safe now, okay? What’s your name?”
He barely murmurs it before his eyes roll back. I slap the call bell. “Get the trauma bay prepped.Now.”
The nurse bolts. I press two fingers to his neck. His pulse is thready.
We wheel him through the swinging double doors, past cubicles spilling over with groaning patients, past a toddler screaming in his mother’s arms, past an elderly man vomiting into a plastic bowl.
The trauma bay is more chaos. Machines beep. Monitors flash. A woman with half her scalp torn open is mid-suture on one side. A cyclist with a shattered femur moans on the other. I slide the kid in between them and snap orders. “Cannula, fluids wide open, crossmatch six units. Page surgery, now.”
The surgical registrar arrives just as we stabilize him. I hand over, peel off my gloves, and toss them in the trash. My hands are shaking. I don’t have time to breathe.
Outside the trauma bay, another nurse flags me. “Dr. Hamilton, cubicle four’s asking for a doctor again—head injury, belligerent, tried to leave.”
Of course, he did. I hustle down the corridor, adrenaline pumping, pulse racing. On the way, a consultant I’ve worked with many times murmurs a sarcastic, “Goodmorning,” as he passes, then leans into a registrar over a set of CT scans.
In cubicle four, a man in his forties sits shirtless, arms crossed, a gash over his left eyebrow oozing sluggishly. “Sorry to keep you waiting.” I flip open the chart. “Head injury protocol says we need to keep an eye on you. And from the look of that laceration?—”
“I’m fine.” He coughs. “I have to get to work.”
