Learning-to-Feel (18 page)

And some days, like today, I fucking hated it.

"They've been told?" I asked.

She nodded. "Doctor Varner told them. He’s with them now."

And she was right. Behind half of the town standing in the small room, I saw his coat.

So picking up some waiting files, I started on the people waiting in the ER
.
It wasn’t until some hours later, that I was supposed to break for lunch, but my stomach wasn't up for it. Deciding on spending ten minutes of downtime in my office, I headed down the corridor to find Lucas, Adam, Dani and a few others, leaning against the wall.

I stopped, and putting my hand on Lucas's arm, I told him, "I’m sorry for your loss."

He nodded as the emotional dam broke, and he started to cry. He looked heartbroken and alone, and as tears fell down his cheeks, I did the only thing that felt right. I hugged him.

He clutched my coat and sobbed as I patted his back. It wasn’t an affectionate embrace, it was one of comfort, and because he needed it. And quite frankly, it was a little comforting to me too.

I noticed Dani and Adam's heads both turn to the door, and they stared for a long second behind me. I let go of the grieving man in my arms, and he was taken by his sister. When I turned around, I saw the back of someone's head as they walked away.

A wavy, blond haired head.

Trent.

Dani looked at me with sad eyes and whispered, "I think he was bringing you lunch."

"You want me to go grab him?" Adam asked. I realized they were holding hands, and I gave them a small smile.

My heart sparked at the thought of Trent coming to see me, but I was pretty sure I didn’t want to hear what he had to say. I just couldn’t face his
it-was-only-physical-for-me
right now. "No, thanks. Don’t feel much like eating," I told them. "If there’s anything I can do for the Rogers family, please let me knew."

I spent the next twenty minutes in my office with a pounding head and a heavy, heavy heart.

It was a long afternoon. By the time I headed home, it was late, and I was exhausted. I pulled up at the house and saw it was all dark, bar the kitchen light. I dumped my satchel on the table and with leaden feet, I walked into the kitchen.

He was there. Waiting for me. And I wanted to turn around and walk away, but my feet wouldn't let me move.

He spoke first. "Nathan... Please, I... " he trailed off, seemingly as lost for words as me.

I decided to let him off the hook. The responsibility for my broken heart rested firmly on my shoulders, not his. It was unfair of me to blame him when he said from the very beginning that whatever it was between us, was only physical for him.

"Trent, please don’t. Just forget what I said. It’s fine."

"Nathan, you came out! At work!" he said, his hands pulled at his hair. "I feel responsible for pushing you, and to make matters worse, I let you go through that alone." His voice was so quiet. "I’m more sorry for that than you could possibly know."

I snorted. I wanted to tell him it was all okay, that I loved him, and I wanted to scream at him to go to fucking Hell.

But I did neither.

"You came to see me today?"

He looked at me, and there was fear in his eyes. Fear. He looked away and swallowed, twice, like he was trying to find the right words. "I saw you with Lucas."

"Trent, his-" I started, but he cut me off.

"Nathan, the house is done."

I blinked, not understanding. I was so fucking tired and confused. "What?"

"The house. The painting," he said, still not looking at me. "It’s done."

Oh.

I wanted to ask him what that meant, but my mouth wouldn't work.

He cleared his throat. "I’m leaving."

My voice was so quiet and so removed, it sounded like someone else’s. "When?"

"Tomorrow," he whispered in return. "In the morning. When your family comes this weekend, they can have my room."

His words swirled in my head. I could hear them, but I was so tired, and I didn’t under-fucking-stand.

I blinked, and I think I swayed a little. Then it was his voice I heard again. "Would you fucking eat something? Please? Do that for me?"

He grabbed something, and I heard the microwave. Then I was sitting at the table, and there was a bowl in front of me. His voice sounded broken, "It’s soup. Please... "

Then he was gone.

I tried to eat. It smelled good, but three mouthfuls later, I pushed it away. I just wanted to sleep. I fell into my bed, fully dressed, too tired to care. It still smelled of him, the sheets, the pillow,
his
pillow.

I took a deep breath of him. The next thing I knew it was morning.

I was surprised Bentley hadn't woken me demanding his run and his toast. I shuffled down the stairs to tell him there'd be no running today. I just didn’t feel like it.

But he wasn’t there.

His bed and his dish were gone. Everything of his was gone.

I looked out the window to where Trent's truck was always parked, but I knew it wouldn't be there. Just like I knew when I checked his room, the bathroom, the attic, there'd be no trace of him.

And there wasn’t.

His bed was stripped, and his toiletries were gone. I felt sick walking up the narrow stairs to check the attic, but I needed to see it. I knew it would be empty. I knew everything would be gone, but I needed to see it.

My masochistic heart needed to see it.

I opened the door and walked in. The vastness, the emptiness, numbed me.

If it weren't for the faint smell of acrylic paint, it would be as though he was never there.

I turned to walk out, and that was when I saw it. Leaning against the wall, near the door was a painting. It was square, each side about thirty inches, and it was a dozen shades of red. It was a mass of disjointed swirls, textures and layers. It was sort of beautiful... and sad.

He didn't just accidently leave it behind. He knew I'd come up here, he left it for me to find.

He’d given it to me, his parting gift – a farewell note.

I picked it up, carried it downstairs and placed it on the table. The different shades of red were striking. There was no pattern, but it was almost poetic.

This was how he told me goodbye. A fucking painting I didn’t understand and couldn’t interpret.

Well, fuck him.

Fuck. Him.

My anger surprised me, but it was welcome. Mad was better than hurt and heartbroken. And I was fucking mad at him. So he made me realize some things about my life, I'd probably have died of old age not knowing without him. I’m gay. So fucking what. I was sure I'd have figured it out eventually. Someone else would have come into my life and shown me... surely.

I stomped upstairs to the bathroom and into the shower. I scrubbed harshly at my body, washing away the fucking hurt, and by the time I was dressed and on my way to work, I had a new resolve.

I would go about my work like I always had. Patients first, always.

And me, life and love last.

I could just put my broken fucking heart on a shelf and never deal with it, just like I did before I met him. It worked for twenty-seven years, and it'd work just fine for another twenty-seven.

At least that was what I told myself.

And for an hour or two, it worked just fine.

Until I heard my name being yelled from the ER – a familiar voice, with a southern accent.

I ran out to see a man with blond wavy hair, who'd been crying. He was holding a golden retriever, and there was blood dripping onto the floor.

Chapter 19

Trent.

Trent was standing in my ER, holding Bentley. The dog was clearly injured, his fur was damp with blood, and his front right leg was distorted, hanging loosely.

Trent looked awful. He’d been crying, and I could tell he hadn't slept.

But it was Bentley…

"Can you fix him?" Trent asked, on the verge of new tears.

"What the hell are you doing here?" My tone was harsher than I intended.

"I came back…" he mumbled in a whisper.

"No, what are you doing
here
? This is a hospital!" Now there were three nurses and Steve Peters beside us.

"I tried the vet's, but it was closed," he said, looking around the curtained cubicles. "Can you fix him? I didn't know where else to go."

"I can’t fix a dog," I told him.

He looked at me, and his eyes went wide, full of hurt and knowing.

"I'd lose my license," I explained.

Then Nurse Watson, Carla, said, "Well, Dr. Hine X-rayed his cat. He didn't lose his license."

The other nurses nodded, and then the Chief said, almost conspiratorially, "Because no one reported him, that’s why."

The other two nurses, Helen and Marta, both looked at each other, and Helen said, "I’m not gonna tell anyone."

Marta shrugged. "I won't tell anyone."

Trent shuffled his bleeding dog in his arms, the weight starting to affect him. "Nathan, please…"

Fuck. I couldn’t believe I was even considering this. I looked at Trent, the man I loved, the man who left me. And I looked at his dog. Bentley. My breakfast buddy.

"Come this way." I ushered Trent down the corridor into Radiology, and told him to lay the dog on the table. When he did, Bentley tried to get up. Trent coaxed him back down and patted his head to calm him. Trent was obviously upset, his hands were shaking, and his eyes were teary.

He looked at me, and he breathed the words, "I’m so sorry."

I couldn’t do this right now. "Trent, go to my office and grab my cell." He blinked at me, not moving. "NOW," I yelled, and he ran out the room.

Nurse Watson was with me. "Carla, you don’t need to be implicated in this. You should go."

"Implicated in what?" she said with a smile. "Don’t know what you're talking about, Doctor."

I smiled at her, and Bentley tried to get up again. I held him down. "Hey, Little Buddy. Stay there, I'll get you fixed up, okay?"

Trent came back in and handed me my phone. "Hold him down," I instructed him, indicating to Bentley. Quickly scrolling through contacts, I found my brother's number. "Brendan?"

"Hey, what's up? I’m kinda busy," he said.

"Can dogs have human sedatives?" I asked him quickly.

"What?" he asked. "What the hell do I know about human sedatives?"

"Name some sedatives you'd use on a dog."

"Nathan, what the fuck are you doing?" my brother asked.

"Bentley’s injured," I told him. "His front right leg’s broken, and he has lacerations... "I looked over the dog, "everywhere. He’s bleeding pretty badly, but I'll know more on the break when I get these X-rays done."

"
You're
doing them?" he almost yelled. "Please tell me you're not doing this in a hospital."

"Brendan…"

"ARE YOU FUCKING CRAZY?" came his loud response, and everyone in the room heard him. "You'll lose your goddamn license, Nathan!"

Trent's eyes were on me. He knew the risk I was taking.

"Brendan! Sedatives, please," I begged.

"Um, any benzodiazepines. Like diazepam-"

"Diazepam. Yes!" I called out, and Carla darted out of the room to get it. I looked at Trent, "How much does he weigh?"

It was Brendan who answered. "Four mg's should do. Nathan, I hope you know what the fuck you're doing."

I clicked off the phone and threw it on the table. He could lecture me when he got here tomorrow. And he would. I had no doubt.

Carla was back quickly. I told Trent to hold Bentley's head, and found the best vein I could in his good leg, I gave him the measured dose.

It was only then we all took a much needed breath. And I realized the Chief was in the room with us.

I looked at him questioningly, and he gave a pointed nod to Trent. "Mr. Jamieson here overtook me on the highway, drove through two stop signs…" he said with raised eyebrows. "I thought I'd follow him to see what the emergency was."

Then it was Trent who spoke. Looking straight at me, he said, "I was already coming back." He looked so miserable. "Bentley's collar must have broken, because he jumped around in the back, barking at a passing truck and just fell out."

And from his injuries, I'd guess Trent was driving fast.

"Nathan, I’m so sorry," he said, and fresh tears filled his eyes. Unable to bear his tears, I cupped my hand to his cheek, and he leaned into my hand. "I’m so sorry," he whispered again.

I didn’t say anything in response. I couldn’t. I pulled my hand away and stepped back from Trent and focused on the task at hand instead. I maneuvered Bentley so I could X-ray him, and it was then I saw that Carla was smiling at us. I glanced quickly at Steve, and his lips were in an 'o' shape. I think he just realized he’d witnessed a moment between Trent and I.

I gave my stethoscope to Trent. "Listen to his heart rate. Tell me if it gets faster."

He looked bewildered, but did as instructed. "How fast should it be?" he asked.

"I have no idea," I answered him honestly. "Just tell me if it changes."

I laid Bentley's leg out as I would a child's. I worked the x-ray machine, and while I was waiting for them to process, I started cleaning the open wounds.

As I was tying off the sutures in Bentley's chin, Carla came back with the X-rays. I asked Steve, who was still in the room with us standing guard at the door, to grab them and put them on the light board so Carla could keep cleaning the dog's lacerations. He did, and I could see the break clearly.

"I have to re-set his leg," I told Trent. "If you want to step outside…?"

Trent pulled the stethoscope off, and his eyes were determined. "I’m not leaving," he said. Then he spoke quietly, "I’m not leaving again."

I knew what he was referring to. But I couldn’t do this now. Or here.

Gingerly, I felt out the broken leg in my fingers. "How’s his heartbeat?"

Trent blinked and wiping his eyes, he looked back at his dog. "Um, good? It hasn't changed. I don’t think."

"Well, he’s fit and healthy." Then with a smile, I said, "Because he runs every morning."

Trent smiled sadly, and his eyes watered again. "But he has toast for breakfast."