Brain Games

38. Crumble

I harshly rub at my tired eyes, willing them to focus on the computer monitor in front of me.

For the third night in a row, I've gotten little to no sleep. I stayed on the phone with my momma all evening until I had no more tears left in me, her letting me cry everything out, providing as much comfort as she could being hundreds of miles away. Then when I finally convinced myself to try to sleep, I couldn't, knowing Brad was right on the other side of the wall. I tried packing up my pillows and blankets and moving to the couch, but that didn't help. I still tossed and turned all night, Dr. Larson's words ringing in my head.

I gulp down the rest of my coffee, trying to get my eyes to focus as I scroll through available residency positions across the country, all of which are slim pickings. There's only one neurosurgery position left open in Texas, and if I don't choose that I'll have to switch specialties. I guess Texas will have to do, and I guess it's far enough away from New York.

I've been thinking about it, and as much as I love New York and Warner has been my dream hospital for years, I'm not going to live the next seven or so years of my life with the threat of my residency—and the constant residual feeling of heartbreak—looming over my head. I'm not going to give Dr. Larson the satisfaction of having the upper hand, living in constant fear that one small mistake can send me packing. So I figure why not beat him to the punch. It's easier this way.

"What are you doing?" a hoarse, hollow voice asks behind me, making me freeze.

I quickly exit my browser and spin around in the swivel chair to find Brad standing behind me at the charting station, staring at me with wide, vulnerable eyes.

His brow pinches with confusion and what looks to be agony. "Are you looking at other residencies?"

I open my mouth, close it, only managing to give him a guilty look.

His face falls, eyes pleading and desperate. "Delilah—" he swallows thickly, my name hushed and pained rolling off his tongue.

My own throat grows tight and my eyes involuntarily start to burn, an overflow of emotions running through me looking at his face. "I don't know what else to do," I admit softly.

If possible, his face falls further, and as if compelled, he walks forward, kneeling in front of me to be eye level. "Baby, don't leave," he pleas, his hands taking perch on my thighs, his thumbs rubbing anxious but somehow comforting circles. His touch is too much, yet not enough. "I'm going to fix this," he promises, his voice weak but determined. "I'm going to fix this," he repeats, his voice hardly above a whisper.

I quickly swipe away a stray tear that managed to escape, my heart breaking, because what does that even mean? And most of all, why is he saying this—still calling me baby—after how awful I treated him? After the things I said?

Yeah? Well I want absolutely nothing to do with you.

I said the words, but I didn't mean them. I said them as a defense, coping mechanism because I was confused, scared, and hurt, but that was no excuse to lash out at him. I acted too harshly, being swept up by my emotions and thinking with them rather than my brain.

I've always been one to feel my emotions strongly, sometimes letting them blind and consume me, and I'm no stranger to using them as a defense. Growing up, I was always the smallest kid in the classroom and was always made fun of for it—and it didn't help that I had ginormous glasses and was considered a nerd. From a very young age my instincts kicked in to keep my guard up in order to protect myself, to seem bigger and badder than I really am so others can't hurt me. I don't know if that had a role in my competitive nature or if it's just the way I was born, but either way, med school surely heightened it.