A weepy feeling washes over me when I see the measly meal.
Yes, I was hungry. I could have housed an entire stack of pancakes with four pieces of sausage on the side—that’s my usual post-overnight shift meal order.
But this sad substitution for a real breakfast is on me, I have to admit. I’m really wishing I hadn’t told Jonathan I wanted to get into keto but wasn’t sure how on our first date. He’s been pre-ordering for me ever since.
Jonathan values healthy living. Both his mother and recently revealed ex are waif thin.
But my body just plain doesn’t do that. My ass, hips, and chest simply yawn when I try to whittle them down. And no matter how many crunches I do, my tummy area likes to add on an extra layer when the weather starts to cool—as if it's worried I’ll need the additional stores to get me through the winters in this strange, seasonal land my ancestors were brought to on boats.
Still, I do what I can to eat my best. At least when I’m with Jonathan. And normally, I’m touched that he values me enough to order healthy food for me.
But thanks to me running out before I could eat the salmon and salad he ordered for me at The Spotless Dove, I haven’t eaten a proper meal in nearly 36 hours. Just an old microwave burrito I found in the break room fridge.
“Something wrong?” Jonathan asks. “Another terrible shift in the ER?”
Jonathan assumes all my ER shifts are terrible. He’s a fifth-year resident in the neurosurgery program. So, besides the occasional Intensive Care Unit shadow consult, most of his patients are expected and scheduled way ahead of time.
“You really should consider switching departments now that you’ve earned your master’s degree and leveled up to nurse practitioner,” he says, digging into his own scrambled egg whites. “It’s easy to get entrenched in departments where there’s a higher demand for capable staff. In a few more years, you might be in a situation where your head nurse refuses to let you transfer.”
I bristle at his assumption that I hate the ER as much as he does. But then his hazel eyes soften with concern. “I just worry about you getting hurt down there. I’ve heard stories. Chilling stories.”
The memory of staring down the dark barrel of that MC’s gun floats in over our healthy start breakfast. No…I can’t blame Jonathan for worrying about me.
I’m tired, I decide, pushing down my irritation. That’s why I feel so prickly.
The only reason….
But then another memory replaces the gun. His hand rough and callused, waiting for mine.
Angel, hold my hand….
“How is your brother?”
Jonathan’s question yanks me back to the present.
Dammit, I should have figured out a cover story before this moment. My reaction time is terrible outside of the Emergency Department.
“Oh, he’s…fine.” I pick up my fork and spear a few bites of the scrambled egg whites to buy myself a few moments to cobble together an approximation of last night's events. “A good friend of his got in a fight and needed medical attention.”
“I see.” Jonathan tightens his lips.
And I shove the flavorless eggs into my mouth, silently pleading for him to change the subject.
“Is this the same foster brother who also serves as the head of the DE Reyes street gang?” Jonathan asks, proving that we haven’t reached that mind-reading couples goal yet.
I nearly choke on my eggs. “How did you…?”
He gives me a superior smile as if my shock is some kind of reward he’s earned for guessing right. “I became curious after your abrupt departure from dinner last night. So I asked that friend of yours in the ER department. Sandy? Sheila? Sophia?”
My stomach sinks. He didn’t have to give me the correct name. I already know who spilled all the deets. “Sierra…”
I love and appreciate Sierra. She’s my best work friend. But she is the worse when it comes to keeping things to herself.
“Yes, I believe that’s the one.” Jonathan nods—then frowns. “But even she didn’t know a lot about him other than his gangster status. She just said that you’ve upset the head nurse a few times by leaving to attend to one of your brother’s emergencies in the middle of a shift.”
My cheeks heat with embarrassment. “I’m not sure what to say here. He’s my brother.”
“Your foster brother,” Jonathan edits. He presses his lips together, reminding me much of how the head nurse looked when I left my shift less than halfway through it because Ant had gotten stabbed.
“While I admire your loyalty to people from your past, you have to be careful about these things,” Jonathan warns. “Your association with this criminal could very well be the reason you haven’t been transferred to a better department.”
That and the fact that I don’t want to leave the ER.