Brokenhearted (4/?)
When the hot spray of water hits my aching back, I feel the tension leaving my body and sigh in relief. The bitter arousal that had been building inside of me subsided the second I heard the sob escape her mouth. I scrub my hair and body vigorously as salty tears mix with soapy water. I feel dirty. I don’t recognize this person that’s been steering my body for the last 12 hours. Before I can inflict my raw skin to another round of harsh cleansing, I hear my pager go off. Probably one of my residents. I am very much late for rounds. I quickly towel off and get dressed. I fix my towel-dry hair in a messy bun and hide it under my scrub cap. Chancing a look in the mirror, I find myself looking fairly presentable, in spite of my red-rimmed eyes and gloss-free lips.
During rounds, I go through the motions. I check my patients and teach where I can. When I reach yesterday’s patient, I hesitate near the door, hopeful that Mark has already stopped by to check the burns. I know I need to apologize and make things right. I’m aware that I have a lot of explaining to do, to him and especially Lexie. “Are you really gay?” I recall her asking, full of insecurity. I assured her that there was nothing going on between me and Mark, so I can only imagine how betrayed she must be feeling right now. I enter the room and check the chart, relieved to see Mark’s scrawl and signature under today’s date. I don’t feel up for confrontations. To be honest, I don’t understand what got into me last night. I don’t feel that way about Mark anymore, but I was hurt and in need of comfort. I loathe myself for being so egotistical and unconcerned about what my actions could do to his relationship.
A huge weight lifts off my shoulders when I find myself in the OR at last. The sterility of the environment seems to not only protect the patient from infection, but serves to shelter me from my woes as well. Drill in hand, music blaring, I feel invincible. For a few hours at least, I can forget about the world outside of this room and do what I do best. Halfway through the routine hip reconstruction, I throw my neck back and roll the tension out of shoulders. When I open my eyes, I notice her sitting in the gallery, watching me. Our eyes lock and I find myself under her spell. Her cobalt eyes draw me in and it’s as if time stands still. I forget where I am, who I’m with, what I’m doing. All I can see is her. And my God, she’s beautiful. In this moment, I don’t care that she’s betrayed my trust. That she’s betrayed our love. That she’s betrayed me. I love her. I love her and I can’t imagine my life without her. She’s the only thing that matters. I heal bones. It’s what I do best. But she…she healed me. She made ME my best. I need to give her a chance to explain. I owe her that much. “Dr Torres?”
Nurse Lynn’s questioning voice reminds me I’m in the middle of surgery. I shake my head and shift my attention back to the patient. Before I continue, I throw one last look to the gallery. She’s standing now, halfway out the door. She raises her hand in a fist and lifts her pinky, followed by her index finger and thumb. I love you. She’s been treating a deaf, little girl for the past weeks and has picked up a few things. We’ve been having fun trading secret messages and flirting shamelessly when Cristina refuses to get lost. She slowly drops her arm and walks out.
I finish up just in time for lunch. I hesitate before heading towards the cafeteria, afraid of who I might find there. Before I get there though, I’m intercepted by Hunt. There’s a new trauma coming in and my help is needed. I’m torn between feeling relief and exasperation. I still haven’t eaten anything since the handful of 3-year-old cheerios. But duty calls, so I head down to the pit for a consult. “Trauma 1, Grey’s with him now”, he tells me. I grab his arm and turn him around. “Wait, wait. Grey? Meredith Grey?” I ask hopefully, praying that the universe takes pity on me. I should know better by now. He shakes his head and I shut my eyes tightly. “It’s the little one.”
Of course. Maybe when I open my eyes, I’ll be in bed and this will all have been one, big nightmare. I crack open one eye and glance around wistfully. No such luck. Owen is looking at me like I’m a mental patient, so I shrug and head for the trauma room. We enter the room to find Grey in the middle of tubing the man, while Avery’s checking out his other injuries. Hunt moves in to examine his chest injuries, while I tend to his pelvis, which looks broken. “What do we have?” I ask while I study, poke and prod, carefully avoiding eye-contact with Lexie. Avery seems to wait a second for her to answer and when she doesn’t he reports “42-year-old male, thrown out the windshield in freeway pile-up. Found conscious on the scene, collapsed on the way to the hospital. Ordered chest - and pelvic x-rays and scheduled an MRI. Pupils are blown.”
“Alright, page Shepherd,” Hunt orders, “Torres, what do you see?”
“Pelvis definitely looks broken. I need extensive x-rays and a CT before I know what I’m dealing with exactly. Page me when you get the films.” I turn around and nearly bump into Lexie who drops the supplies she’s holding. She’s looking everywhere but at me. I mutter an apology and get out of there. I sigh as I feel a tension headache coming on. I rub my forehead and decide against the chatty ambience of the cafeteria. I head for the vending machine instead and jam in some change for a granola bar. It barely moves an inch before it gets stuck. Great, just what I needed. I chuckle, quietly at first but it quickly turns into a loud guffaw. Through the mirthless laughter, I start kicking the stupid machine. Kick, laugh, kick, laugh. Again and again. But the damn bar doesn’t budge. “Careful, you might hurt yourself.”
I stop mid-kick and take a shaky breath to swallow my next bout of chortling. I bring my sleeve up to wipe away a lone tear, before I turn around. No more than you hurt me, I think. But I don’t take the bait. When I don’t say anything she hands me a steaming cup. “Coffee?”
A peace offering? It’s going to take a lot more to smooth things over. But I nod and thank her quietly. She starts to walk and I fall into step beside her. She updates me on her patients, complains about patient care suffering from the cutbacks and proudly shows me a bracelet one of her patients braided for her. I nod and laugh at the appropriate times, as if I didn’t walk in on her groping another woman 24 hours before. As if she didn’t spend all night trying to reach me, with no clue where I was. As if I didn’t practically molest her in the elevator this morning. She talks and I hum, seemingly friendly and carefree to anyone who might be watching us. Nobody would notice the way my back is stiffer than usual. The way the bounce is missing from her step. The way I move an inch to the side so we don’t accidentally brush hands. The sparkle missing from both of our eyes. Nobody notices but us.