Page 4 of When Sky Breaks
CHAPTER TWO
sky
Why did I think signing up for a twelve-hour shift the day after a vacation was a good idea?
My feet ache, and I wince once I slip off my work shoes at the door. It was a brutal shift. The flu is hitting kids early this year, and we’re seeing an influx of babies needing breathing treatments and extra oxygen support. Breaks my heart to see them suffering.
“I started dinner,” Phoebe calls from our kitchen.
“You’re a lifesaver.”
Knowing Graham isn’t home yet, I hang up my purse and whip off my scrub top and bottoms, shuffling to the laundry room in my underwear to dump them into the washer.
The aroma floating in the air makes me lift my chin to sniff. “Chili or Stew?” I set out meat this morning, not knowing what I would fix or if anyone would be home to cook for. Phoebe eventually texted that she was off early and sent Graham out for wine.
She grins and holds up a packet of seasoning. “Chili. Extra spicy.”
“Oh geez. Thanks for the reminder to grab Pepto.”
She cackles as I head to the shared bathroom for a shower.
Phoebe’s eclectic style is evident on every wall in the apartment. Expressionist art—replicas, we’re on postgraduate budgets—provides color, the white, sterile plaster needed. Although we’re both so busy, it’s hard to enjoy anything other than the table to eat at, the running water for hot showers, and a cozy bed to flop in at the end of a long day.
Water drips from under the towel on my head and I swipe it away before rifling through my drawers to find comfy clothes to wear, as I haven’t even thought about emptying my suitcase.
Blindly, I tug out a sweatshirt and pause.
My fingers roam over the soft, black material as my throat bobs on a hard swallow. It’s stupid that I kept it. Because of everything that happened, you’d think I would’ve gotten rid of every reminder of August. After all, it was just a silly romance between two teens. But I could never bring myself to throw it away, so I shoved it as far back in my drawer as possible. Not far enough.
Compelled by a part of me hellbent on torture, I bring the material to my nose and draw in a deep breath. All remaining scents of August have disappeared over the years, but I don’t need them to remember him. The Irish Spring. His own personal scent of home. Of safety. Of trust.
“What am I doing?” I murmur as I rub the strings of the hoodie between my fingertips. I promised myself I would leave it—him—in the past. Every time there’s an apple or I hear a whistle or listen to a sappy love song, the image of August perforates my brain so vividly I’m tempted to use my skills as a nurse to cut it out. To dissect those memories into tiny pieces so I might forget how scarred my heart really is. How closed off I’ve become to dating anyone for longer than a few months. No one touches my soul the way August did, and I’m afraid if they get close, it won’t be enough.
That’s what I told myself before I met Johnny.
It’s only been two months, but there’s hope he won’t be discarded like all the others. He’s certainly wooing me beyond anything I ever imagined.
The front door opening and closing snaps me back to the present, and I quickly throw on a pair of leggings and a different sweatshirt. I comb through my wet hair and wrap it in a neat bun on the top of my head and figure I’m presentable enough for dinner with the roomies.
“It smells great, Phoebs,” I say as I enter the kitchen.
Graham chuckles and lays his suit jacket over the back of a chair in our small dining area and joins me at the short bar top overlooking Phoebe, stirring the food in a pot. He smiles at her softly, and a pang pricks in my chest. I’m happy she’s happy.
After high school, she got serious in college, meeting Graham our sophomore year. He went to an all-boys college, but the two universities used to pair up and do co-ed events. I can’t even recall the amount of stories Phoebe told me of her and Graham getting creative about seeing each other. As if leaving dorm doors open at forty-five-degree angles during visiting hours stops any college student from finding a way to have sex. Junior year that all changed once Phoebe and I got this apartment and Graham moved in, so now I get to hear their shenanigans through the paper-thin walls.
“Sure it was a good idea letting her be in charge of dinner?”
Amused at Graham’s audacity to insult his girlfriend’s cooking, I let out a low whistle as Phoebe whips around and pins him with a teasing glare in her dark eyes. “For that, I think I’ll add a little more chili powder to your bowl, mister.”
“Remember what happened the last time you made my food extra spicy?” He arches a thick, black brow and smirks as she plants a hand on her hip, clearly in thought. Her eyes flare, and I scrunch my forehead before remembering exactly what he’s talking about.
As her best friend and resident nurse on this floor, I get asked strange questions all the time like I’m their private physician.
No, Phoebe, your vagina won’t be permanently on fire. Imagine that chart at the ER. Flaming Crotchitis from Cunnilingus.
“I personally think you should return the favor.” I snort and sideswipe Graham’s hulking frame as he chuckles to help her dish out the food into bowls and take them to the table, letting out a sigh of relief once I settle my body into a chair.
Hungry, I dive in only to need a drink of milk to override the fire currently going on in my mouth.