Page 21 of Christmas On Call
At 9:30 PM, they crossed paths at the medication cart.
Max was restocking syringes, humming under her breath—something Asha didn’t recognize, probably from that chaotic playlist Max liked to torture the break room with. She looked up as Asha approached, and her face did something complicated: surprise, then warmth, then careful neutrality.
“Hey,” Max said, voice soft.
“Good evening, Nurse Benson.” Asha winced internally at her own formality, but the words were already out.
Max’s expression flickered—hurt, maybe, or resignation—but she recovered quickly. “Need something from the cart?”
“Just checking inventory.” Asha stepped closer, scanning the labels even though she’d memorized the contents weeks ago. “Making sure we’re stocked for overnight.”
“We’re good,” Max said. “I did a full check an hour ago.”
“Right. Thank you.”
The silence stretched, awkward and heavy. Asha could feel Max watching her, could sense the questions hovering in the space between them: Are we okay? Are you okay? Are we going to talk about this? Are you still running?
Asha opened her mouth, closed it, and settled for: “How are the twins?”
Max’s shoulders relaxed slightly. “Great, actually. Both maintaining temp, and Mom’s over the moon. She’s planning their homecoming already—matching onesies, the whole deal.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“Yeah.” Max paused, then added, quieter, “She asked if I’d be their godmother. I said yes.”
Asha looked up, surprised. Max’s eyes were bright, vulnerable in a way that made Asha’s chest ache.
“Wow. That’s a great honor,” Asha said, and meant it.
“I know.” Max smiled, but it was small, uncertain. “I just—sometimes this job gives you these moments, you know? Where you realize you’re not just keeping people alive. You’re part of their story.”
Asha nodded, unable to speak past the sudden tightness in her throat. She wanted to say,You’re part of mine, too. But the words stuck, tangled with fear and longing and the remnants of her carefully constructed walls.
Max waited a beat, then turned back to the cart. “Well. I should finish rounds.”
“Max—” The name escaped before Asha could stop it.
Max paused, looked back. Waiting.
Asha’s mind went blank. She stood there, hand half-raised, searching for words that wouldn’t sound desperate or needy or like she was unraveling. They didn’t come out.
At 11 PM, the universe conspired.
Asha had retreated to the break room, ostensibly to review a new protocol on feeding schedules but really just to escape the weight of Max’s presence across the unit. She sat at the small table, laptop open, eyes glazing over the same paragraph for the third time.
The door swung open. Max entered, stopped short when she saw Asha, then continued to the counter where the ancient coffee maker sat.
“Sorry,” Max said, not looking at her. “Didn’t know anyone was in here.”
“It’s fine.” Asha closed the laptop. “I was just reading.”
Max nodded, busying herself with the coffee. She pulled out two mugs, filled them both, and then—after a moment’s hesitation—set one in front of Asha.
“Thought you might want some,” Max said. “It’s going to be a long night.”
Asha looked at the mug—chipped ceramic, faded Oakridge Hospital logo—and felt something crack in her chest. “Thank you.”
Max sat down across from her, wrapping her hands around her own mug. For a long moment, neither spoke. The coffee maker hissed and dripped. Somewhere down the hall, a monitor beeped steadily.
