My boyfriend, Tanner, had an understanding when it came to each other's time and space. We'd been together since my senior year of college and still didn't live together. We had keys to each other's places, but generally called to let the other know we were coming. Even if we left clothes in one place or the other, it was clear that, no matter how comfortable we felt, the apartment was mine, the townhouse was his. And we both liked it that way.
Tanner Boswell was the sort of boyfriend any woman would've loved. Dark brown hair, bright green eyes. Tall, athletic. He was charming, gorgeous. Rich.
I still sometimes had a hard time believing he'd picked me over all the other women he could've had. I was pretty enough, I supposed. Heart-shaped face, teal eyes, nice curves. But a man like Tanner wasn't only interested in looks. He was the sort of man who liked a particular type of woman, and when he'd met me four years ago, he'd shown me that I was that kind of woman. I supposed it didn't hurt that I wasn't after his money and wasn't pressuring him to marry me.
And he was amazing. Generous. Strong. Supportive of my career, but still the sort of man who wanted to protect what was his. He never made me feel like being an RN was somehow inferior, like I should've gone further in school, tried to be a doctor. While I knew my parents were proud of me, there were times they acted as if becoming a nurse was just one stop on the path to becoming a doctor. Tanner knew I loved what I did, and he never acted like it wasn't enough.
It wasn't easy, especially working the burn unit. The people here were in a lot of pain, and the wounds were ugly. Debriding, cleaning, changing bandages...all of it was unpleasant at the very best, and it was rarely at the best. Then there was the psychological component. These injuries were often disfiguring, debilitating. I'd minored in psychology, so I tried to help as much as I could. That was the whole reason I'd gone into the medical field.
To help people.
Like I hadn't been able to help...
I pushed the thought away before it could finish. It was never good to start down that path, especially not at work. I needed to be on my game. The slightest mistake could cost someone their life. Pneumonia, infection, lung failure, sepsis – all of them could be minor complications with fairly easy treatments. Unless they weren't caught early enough.
I took a slow breath and then let it out even slower. When I was done, I intended to go home and sleep for ten hours, but right now, I was going to get another cup of coffee, then head to see my least favorite patient.
I tried not to think of my patients that way, as best and worst, favorite and least favorite, but it was hard sometimes.
I understood people being angry about what happened to them. I understood depression. Hell, I even understood taking all of that, plus the pain they were in, and taking it all out on someone else, even people who were trying to help them.
I didn't get people who were simply mean.
Leta Coffee was forty-two years old and one of the meanest people I'd ever met. She'd been in my ward for the past three weeks, and she'd been a pain in my ass every single minute of it.
Of all my patients, she wasn't the best off physically, but she was far from the worst. The second wife of a retired general, she expected us to defer to her every wish, and even went so far as to bark out orders regarding her treatment. When she didn't get her way, she cursed at us, pouted, and generally behaved like a spoiled toddler.
Her burn was deep and painful, and it'd leave a nasty scar, but it was on her upper thigh, near her hip, and could easily be covered most of the time. She, however, acted like what happened was something everyone would stare at every time she walked into a room. Like she could compare it to all the soldiers I'd seen over the past few years. The ones coming in with limbs burnt off, their faces unrecognizable.
The thing that bothered me the most was, it was her own fault. The burn had been the result of Leta passing out drunk while smoking a cigarette and drinking a cocktail. The alcohol had spilled on her clothes and the flammable material caught quickly. I actually thought she was lucky she hadn't been hurt more.
I pushed my personal feelings aside as I reached the door to her room. I had to be professional, and that meant I couldn't let my opinions regarding the patient influence my care. I put as genuine a smile on my face as I could manage before heading inside.
“You have my meds?” Leta snapped as soon as I stepped over the threshold. “I've been buzzing this fucking button for ten fucking minutes.”
A part of me wondered if she spoke like this at any of the functions her husband attended, or if this side of her personality was reserved solely for people like me. I'd met her husband a couple times, but hadn't been able to get a clear image of him. He smiled, was polite enough, but I always felt like he was playing to a crowd.