Near Miss

by Haley Warren

“She’s not mean, Dr. Davis. She doesn’t tolerate mistakes or lazy surgical work, and it’s not her fault some of your colleagues can’t perform to her standards. I mean it, she signs off before we move forward.”

Nathaniel might think she’s mean, but I think she was probably nicer to me than most people are on a day-to-day basis.

I nod, looking back at my hands and flexing my fingers. “Very all-American.” “We live in Canada.”

LMAO

I do hope he tells him, and even though I don’t know him, I hope Beckett Davis sleeps better tonight.

Stella and I somehow became the most stereotypical children of addicts you’d ever find—she spends her days trying to help people get sober and I put organs back in people whose disease ruined theirs. It was all we knew, and I don’t think we ever left.

I feel it in my chest—strolling across my rib cage and planting itself there, kicking its little feet right alongside the still-too-fast beating of my heart. I forget I ever wanted to be alone.

It seemed sort of like he was excited to have someone to talk to. It would have been cute, if it didn’t seem so sad.

He looks back up at me, and he winks, like he doesn’t realize he’s probably one of the most beautiful people someone has ever seen in real life.

She didn’t ask me anything about football, she mostly just listened to me. And I definitely talked too much, but it sort of felt like I was a whole, real person again after a really, really long time.

But I think I might actually wait to watch her a bit longer because she’s not as mean as she thinks—she’s actually quite thoughtful, and she’s actually quite beautiful. Bile in her hair and all.

I turned inwards, couldn’t set a boundary to save my life, and tried to be an adult before I was even a child.

She looks at me like I’m something—not nothing—but she’s not quite sure what. As she should. Because I think I look at myself like that—I’m something, not nothing—but I’m not quite sure what either.

She’s not looking at me like I’m her son, or a living, breathing person who had things taken from him, too—she’s looking at me like she needs another favour.

But sometimes, I wish they’d just look at me like they loved me.

Did you just stab me 💔

You save lives, Greer. That’s what you do. Whether you want to rewrite history or not.” I wish someone would have saved mine.

I remember what Beckett said. That he’s only here until regular season starts. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but now I think I might miss him when he leaves.

The sunlight hits her and, not for the first time, I think about the fact that she’s beautiful, but she has no idea.

The way she says my name makes me want to die. Granted, it would be a better death than I ever would have imagined for myself. The most beautiful person in the entire world arching into me.

Somewhere along the way, Stella shed the shackles clamping her mouth closed, and I think maybe during the car accident—the water rusted mine shut.

I tried not to make it as big of a deal as I felt like it was—I was a bit worried she’d run away like a startled animal if I told her that it made me want to cut my lungs out of my chest so she could have those, too.

That I think she’s one of the bravest people I’ve ever met in my entire life, I wasn’t real before I met her, and I really wish she’d scrap this no dating rule.

The truth is—I want her. More than I think I’ve ever wanted anything. I’ve gone to war with myself in the mirror over this, when I’m lying awake at night and her side of the bed is empty. But I respect her more than anyone on the planet, and I’ll never ask her to give me what she can’t.

That I’m enough for him even though I’m empty.

I don’t mean to fall in love with her. I try pretty hard not to, actually.

He deserves the world. He deserves more than someone like me can ever give him, even though there’s this tiny part of me blooming, sprouting in and amongst the empty space that says maybe we can be whole for him without carving ourselves away.

All I think about and everything I can’t have.

I shrug one shoulder. Indifferent. Cool. Not hopelessly, desperately, stupidly in love.

She’s not mine. She’s not my girlfriend. She won’t compromise for you, and she shouldn’t have to. You’re in love with someone you can’t have, but that’s okay, you’ve survived before, and you’ll survive this. Maybe.

“She’s pretty great.” A massive, colossal understatement.

It’s just these hours and I don’t want to spend a single second on something other than her.

I get a bit lost up in my head trying to make the whole thing count, imagining a world where I can tell her she’s the love of my life and that I don’t think I really care what happens on Sunday as long as I have her.

My chest tightens, and I start to shake my head, swallowing, not sure how to answer that because I did get to know her, and I fell in love with her.

It happens when Beckett tips his head back and smiles—a real one. Not the grin he parades around and pulls out like a party trick because he thinks he needs to please people for them to love him the way he deserves.

Oh, my heart whispers. You love him, this boy with the heavy shoulders and wonderful smile.

“I love you,” I whisper, and it’s so quiet I’m not even sure he’ll be able to hear me, but I think my heart might hold my blood hostage if I don’t say it.

I can hardly hear anything over my own heart, but I do hear the words he whispers to me. “I love you, too.”

But if someone was going to etch a date of birth on my tombstone, I’d ask them to get it right down to the very millisecond she whispered those words out into the world. I love you.

“Dr. Roberts.” I lean across the passenger seat, and she glances back over her shoulder. “I meant every word.” She smiles softly, raising her hand. “So did I.”

Reporters try to get my attention. “Beckett!” Doesn’t work. I don’t think I even know my own name. “Nineteen.” Don’t care. I’ll be whatever number she needs me to be. “Who is that? Is that your girlfriend?” Just the love of my life.

But as it would turn out, none of it fucking matters without her.