Page 35 of Christmas On Call
She could do that. She was good at that.
The NICU was busy when she arrived. The shift report was straightforward: eighteen babies, three admissions from the day shift.
Max signed in, reviewed the census, and started gathering supplies for her rounds. She was hyperaware of her surroundings, tracking the location of every staff member, waiting for the inevitable moment when?—
“Evening, Nurse Benson.”
Asha’s voice, cool and professional, came from directly behind her.
Max turned. Asha stood three feet away, clipboard in hand, looking perfectly composed in fresh scrubs and her usual severe bun. The only sign of distress was the faint shadows under her eyes, barely visible unless you knew to look for them.
Max knew to look for them.
Their eyes met for a fraction of a second. The connection was electric, painful, like touching a live wire. Then Asha looked away first, down at her clipboard, and Max felt something in her chest harden into stone.
“Doctor Patel,” Max said, matching her tone exactly. “Good evening.”
“I need you to review the latest labs for Baby Kyes when you have a moment.” Asha’s voice was steady, betraying nothing.
“I’ll pull them now.”
“Thank you.”
Asha walked away without another word, her spine straight, every inch the professional doctor. Max watched her go and felt fury rising like bile.
This was what Asha wanted, wasn’t it? Perfect professional distance. Colleagues who happened to save lives together but nothing more, nothing messy, nothing that could threaten the careful image she’d spent years constructing.
Fine. Max could play that game too.
She pulled up the labs, reviewed the numbers with clinical detachment, and updated the chart. When she passed Asha in the hallway an hour later, she nodded politely and kept walking.
But she could feel Asha watching her. Could sense her attention like a weight, pressing down, making the air thick and hard to breathe.
By ten o’clock, Max’s hands had started shaking.
She was in pod four, changing an IV, and her fingers wouldn’t cooperate. The tremor was small but persistent, making it impossible to thread the tiny catheter into the even tinier vein.
“Come on,” she muttered under her breath. “Come on, you can do this. Fuck off, anxiety.”
But her hands kept shaking, and after the third failed attempt, she had to step away, press her palms flat against the supply cart, and take three deep breaths before she could try again.
When she finally got the IV placed and documented, she retreated to the break room for coffee and a moment to collect herself.
She was pouring her third cup of the night when the door opened and Martha entered, closing it firmly behind her.
“Okay,” Martha said without preamble. “What happened?”
Max didn’t turn around. “Nothing. I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.” Martha crossed her arms, leaning against the counter. “You look like you haven’t slept in a week, you and Doctor Patel are doing this weird avoidance dance that’s somehow more obvious than if you were actually talking to each other, and I just watched you almost drop an IV bag because your hands were shaking.”
Max gripped her coffee cup tighter. “It’s nothing.”
“Max.” Martha’s voice softened. “Honey, I’ve been doing this job for twenty-three years. I can tell when someone’s falling apart. Talk to me.”
Something in Max’s chest cracked. She set down the coffee cup before she could drop it, sank into one of the plastic chairs, and buried her face in her hands.
“We were together,” she said, muffled. “Me and Doctor Patel. For about three weeks. We were—” Her voice broke. “I stupidlyfell for her. And this is all meant to be a secret so please don’t tell her. She might actually explode if you do.”
