Fighting For You (Bragan University Series Book 2) Read online

  I hook my arm with hers and begin to pull her out of the room. “We’re leaving now.”

  Turning back, I mouth, “I’m so sorry about her.”

  He chuckles, a laugh so rich that I feel it in the depths of my stomach.

  “No worries,” he mouths back. “See you tomorrow.”

  “See you then,” I answer. Mom and I reach the elevator bank, and I press the button for the lobby, where Dad awaits.

  I’m shocked because for the first time in a while, I’m actually looking forward to tomorrow.

  Even more surprising is that I’m looking forward to coming back here.

  8

  Cafeteria Date

  Zoe

  “I haven’t seen you in a couple of days, where have you been hiding?” Jesse asks, coming into the room I’m staying in. I had chemo again this week, and as usual, after I’m treated, I stay in the hospital for a couple of nights so they can keep an eye on me and the chemo’s effects.

  “I could say the same about you!” I respond.

  “They’ve been keeping me busy. I had to help out on a different floor,” he says, seemingly disappointed.

  “That makes sense. Welcome back.”

  He shakes his head and smiles. “You didn’t call me.”

  “I thought you said to call if I felt bad,” I respond.

  Shaking his head, he chastises, “I said go straight to the emergency room if you feel bad and to call me if you needed anything else.”

  “Right,” I tell him, because that’s exactly what he said.

  “I’m glad you’re okay. How are you feeling?” he asks.

  I look around the room, mulling the question over before bringing my attention back to him. “I’m okay,” I answer.

  Nodding, he absently plays with the hair on the back of his head before speaking again. “Good. You’re nearing the end.”

  “That’s what you guys tell me.”

  He stares at me intently for a moment. “Do you think it’ll be okay if I stopped by during lunch?” he asks shyly.

  Grinning, I say, “Do you want to be friends with me or something?”

  “Something like that. You’re like the only one my age around here.”

  “Oh, so you’re saying if it weren’t because we’re around the same age, you wouldn’t bother talking to me?”

  His face reddening, he says, “Not at all.”

  “Where do you normally have lunch?”

  “Cafeteria

  “How about I meet you there?” I don’t feel like staying in this room the whole time.

  “I’m not sure you can leave the room,” he says. “But I can ask.”

  Excited at the prospect of leaving this room, I add, “It’d be nice to walk around a little.”

  “Okay, I’ll be back around noon—when I go on break. Best case scenario, we’ll head over to the cafeteria together. Worst case scenario, you’ll have to endure my presence in your room for a little longer as I chow down on a turkey sandwich.”

  “The horror!” I respond in mock outrage.

  “I think you’re warming to my presence.”

  “I wouldn’t say all that,” I deadpan.

  “True. You didn’t bother using the number I took such a long time writing down after your mom asked,” he says, and I laugh louder than I intended to at the reminder of my mom’s shamelessness.

  I think he wanted me to call him—text him at least—and that makes me smile. “Maybe I’ll consider sending you a text this time.”

  “Maybe you will,” he says. “And maybe I’ll consider having lunch elsewhere,” he jokes.

  “That’s fine by me,” I retort. “It’s not like I was the one asking.” He walks out of the door, his laughter echoing down the hall.

  I look around the room, trying to find something to do. When my eyes land on the TV, I grab the remote connected to the bed and turn the channels until I find an episode of Gilmore Girls I’ve watched a million times before. Settling in with the blanket covering me, I give Rory and her drama my full attention.

  Opening my eyes, I realize I fell asleep…and I’m still at the hospital. At least all the medical devices have been detached from my body, and, in a way, I feel free.

  “Oh, you’re up,” my mom says, walking into the room with a cup of coffee in hand and a smile on her face.

  “How long have you been here for?” I ask. She’s been getting better at not spending every single second of the day here. She may even start working part-time soon—if I can convince her to, that is.

  “Only, like, an hour. I came in when you were already asleep. I watched some TV. I even read some gossip magazine in the waiting room—”

  “I don’t want to know which celebrity did what stupid thing, Mom,” I tell her, knowing if I give her the chance, she’ll spend the next two hours chatting away.

  “Fine, I’ll keep it to myself… for now!”

  “How long do I have to stay this time?” I ask, hoping it’s not three days.

  She closes the distance and pushes a strand of hair away from my face. “Dr. Roman said maybe two days this time,” she says eagerly.

  “Two days sounds better than three,” Jesse says, coming to stand just inside the room.

  “Mom, you remember Jesse,” I tell her by way of reintroduction.

  Turning to him, she says, “How could I forget?” But when she turns back to me, she winks.

  “I just wanted to let you know you’re good to hang at the cafeteria for a little while.”

  “You’re going to the cafeteria?” Mom asks uncertainly.

  I nod. “I’m having lunch with Jesse.”

  Her eyes light up, and she looks from him to me a few times.

  Crap.

  “Not like that!” I yell.

  “Not like what?” she asks, pretending not to know what I’m objecting to.

  “Jesse just stopped by earlier and offered to have lunch with me,” I tell her.

  She looks at him. “Did he, now?”

  Jesse begins nervously tugging at his hair again. “I just thought Zoe would enjoy looking at a different set of walls,” he reasons.

  My mother smiles. “Such a thoughtful young man,” she tells him. “So, what are you waiting for?”

  “Do you want to go now or—wait? I’m okay either way,” he replies, stumbling over his words. If this is how he acts around my mom, I can only imagine how nervous he’d be meeting my dad. Not that he has to—not that he ever will.

  “Now’s okay,” my mom answers before I can. I give her a sidelong look, and she lifts her shoulder as if asking ‘what?’ Shaking my head, I slowly start lifting myself up from the bed, surprised when Jesse appears at my side a moment later.

  Helping me, he asks, “You sure you want to get up?”

  I see the concern in his eyes but nod. “Yeah. I took a nap and everything. I need a break from this room.” I take his hand and allow him to help me get up. The moment we touch, I feel a comforting feeling spread through my body. I almost pull out of his grasp but think better of it. The last thing I want to do is fall face down on the floor—I think that’d be more embarrassing than my mom asking Jesse for his number.

  “You good?” he asks when my feet touch the floor.

  I nod. “Thanks.” I let go of his hand and immediately miss the feeling from earlier.

  “You’re welcome to join us, ma’am,” he says to my mother.

  “I’ll be okay,” she replies with a mischievous gleam in her eye. “I’ve got a few errands to run. You two have fun.”

  She leaves the room, and I look at Jesse and shrug. “Shall we?”

  He nods. Out in the hallway, he clears his throat. “She scares me,” he says.

  “Who, my mom?” I ask, looking behind me as if she were there.

  He nods. “Yeah.”

  “She’s harmless. She loves romance…hasn’t got a filter though.”

  “Good to know,” he says with a smile as we arrive at the cafeteria. He leads me to one
of the tables closest to the door.

  I take a seat, enjoying how normal this is. “She swears we’ve got a romance story waiting to be written.” I don’t know why I tell him that. Not only is it embarrassing, but it’ll likely make things awkward and uncomfortable.

  “I—”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve assured her there’s nothing going on,” I respond, and he nods absentmindedly before walking over to the refrigerator. He hurries back to the table with a plastic bag in his hands and sits down. Opening it, he pulls out a zip-locked bag with a sandwich, chips, a green apple and a bottle of orange juice.

  “Does your mom pack your lunches?” I ask, breaking the silence we’ve been sitting in for what feels like hours but has probably only been a few seconds.

  He looks up at me. “Why do you ask?”

  “Just seems really…healthy.”

  He opens the zip-locked bag and pulls out the sandwich. “We’ve got to watch what we eat—football rules and all.” I nod like I know exactly where he’s coming from.

  He brings the sandwich to his mouth for a bite but stops. “Do you want half?”

  “You’re asking me now?” I reply.

  “Sorry. I didn’t leave my house thinking I was going to have lunch with you. I didn’t pack you anything.”

  “It’s okay. I’m not hungry anyway. Chemo takes away my appetite.”

  He smiles apologetically. “Sorry.” He digs further into the bag. “How about an apple?” he asks.

  “I don’t really want any food.”

  “You said okay to coming to lunch with me. The least you can do is eat,” he says, and I know he wants me to say yes to something so he can feel okay about eating too.

  “You asked me, but whatever. I’ll take the apple.” He rolls the apple from his side of the table to mine. I grab it and take a bite.

  “An apple a day keeps the doctor away,” he says with a rich laugh.

  “Should have told me that earlier,” I joke in response.

  We spend the rest of his break talking about Bragan University and life in general. He tells me about how hard it’s been to be an intern and then to show up at football practice and pretend he’s not exhausted. I tell him more about Maria and some of the other patients on this floor. He asks me a few things about myself—like my favorite type of music and what I wanted to be when I grew up. The conversation flows smoothly—like two old friends catching up on all the things that have changed in each other’s lives. When his break is up, he gives me his hand once again and guides me to my room.

  “If you ever need a break from your room let me know,” he says as we walk back.

  “You going to give up your lunch breaks and spend them with me now?” I ask half-jokingly.

  He slows his steps before responding, “I’d still eat, but you can sit in the cafeteria with me. It was nice getting to know more about you. I’ll continue to bring you an apple if you join me,” he says with a boyish smile, and I laugh.

  “I never thought I’d see the day where someone bribes me with an apple.”

  He lifts an eyebrow. “I never thought I’d do that either, but hey, there’s a first time for everything.”

  We stand outside of my door, neither one of us ready to end whatever this is. “I’ll join you again tomorrow, if that’s okay,” I reply cautiously.

  “Of course that’s okay. I was the one who asked,” he says, following me inside the room.

  I walk straight to my bed and, with little effort, take a seat. “It’s nice of you to offer. Laying on the same bed for too many hours gets exhausting.”

  “I can’t even imagine,” he says, looking around the room.

  His pager goes off, breaking him from his thoughts, he looks down at it before speaking. “I’ve gotta go. If I can, I’ll stop by later to check on how you’re doing. Otherwise, I’ll see you tomorrow for lunch.”

  “Don’t forget my apple,” I remind him.

  “I wouldn’t dare,” he replies before walking out of the room.

  9

  Bonding

  Jesse

  It’s been a month since this internship started, and I’m surprised to find that I don’t have to force myself to drive in the direction of the hospital anymore. I think Zoe has played a big part in that; being friends with her has made this place a little more bearable.

  I knock gently on her open door, grinning when her face lights up.

  “Ready to eat?” she asks, swinging her legs off the side of the bed.

  I take her arm, steadying her. “Always,” I say with a smile.

  “You’re starting to spend more time here than I do,” she jokes.

  “You did leave me here to fend for myself for days at a time,” I reply. I’m glad she’s gotten the chance to go home instead of being confined to this hospital, but I do miss seeing her whenever I want to.

  “Are you admitting you’re weak and need my help to get through this life?” she mocks.

  I wink at her. “I’d never admit weakness.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes, then.” She laughs, and I join her.

  “How are you doing?”

  “I’m doing well. Doctor Roman says things are looking good,” she says, putting the word ‘good’ in air quotes.

  We reach the cafeteria, and I rest my hand on the small of her back, ushering her through as I hold the door for us.

  “You don’t believe it?” I ask, breaking the contact. Damn, that had felt right.

  She glances at me over her shoulder, her eyes blazing for a moment. “I’ll believe it when I’m done,” she says, and I can tell she means it. She’s a realist, but I know part of her wants to hope for more.

  “You’re almost done.”

  “Things could still go wrong,” she whispers, taking a seat at our usual table.

  I look at her—really look at her—before I speak. “Things can always go wrong.” Isn’t that the truth? I think bitterly. “But they could also go right.”

  “When did you become such an optimist? That’s not something I signed up for when I decided to be friends with you,” she says, changing the subject.

  I shrug. “Honestly, I don’t know. And wait—are you saying we’re friends now?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Well, I’m going to get my lunch. When I get back, you can try that answer again.”

  Taking out my lunch, I turn back to the table to find her watching me.

  “So?” I ask, sitting opposite her. “Are we friends or not?”

  She folds her arms over her chest. “I guess,” she says with theatrical reluctance.

  I can feel the shit-eating grin stretching across my face. “Do you know what this feels like?” She shakes her head. “When the cool kid—the one you wanted to be friends with for a long time—finally says hello to you,” I tell her, and she rolls her eyes. I grab an apple from the lunch bag and hand it to her.

  She takes a bite. “Are you saying I’m the cool kid you’ve looked up to your entire life?”

  “Yes. Everyone here thinks you’re the coolest.” I know she doesn’t believe it, but she’s loved here—by the nurses, the other patients, and by the visitors. Even her sarcasm is something people admire. I’ve seen the way Dr. Roman talks about her, how Fiona smiles whenever she tells us a story about Zoe, and even personally when I’ve walked by Maria’s room to find them all laughing at something Zoe has said or done. When I see her face redden, I add, “I had to figure out what people saw in you for myself.”

  “And what’s the verdict?” she asks.

  “You’re okay, Evans.”

  She’s more than okay. She’s amazing.

  “What is it with guys and last names?” she asks.

  “Last names are reserved for friends,” I respond. “None of my friends actually call me by my first name.”

  “Alright, then, Falcon. How’s your day been?” she asks.

  “Well, I ran around and got coffee—”

  “As interns do,” she adds, and I smil
e.

  I take a bite of the string cheese I grabbed from inside my lunch bag. “And then I shadowed Dr. Roman for a while.”

  “That sounds like a lot of learning,”

  “I did learn a little, but there’s so much more I don’t know.” The work this hospital does with its lack of resources is admirable and worthy of emulation.

  “What else?” she pushes, and I smile, happy she’s interested in knowing more about me.

  “I made Maria laugh by pretending to be a magician.”

  “A magician?” she asks, her eyes widening.

  “Yes, Jesse the Good Magician came out to play for a little.”

  “Why are you always the ‘good’ something?”

  “Because I’m cool like that.” I shake my head like she should know this and add, “The point is, I wanted to be a magician when I grew up, and today I had the perfect opportunity to showcase my talents.”

  “I’m so mad I missed that,” she says with a chuckle. “What made you change your mind?”

  I laugh. “I grew up. Then I wanted to be a professional football player.”

  “So that’s why you play football, then? You want to do it professionally and have a career in medicine as a backup?”

  “I don’t want to play football professionally. Even if I did, it’s almost impossible for kickers to get drafted.”

  “And the impossibility of it is what’s stopping you? I thought you were an optimist!” she exclaims.

  “I am an optimist.” Most of the time.

  “When did you decide you wanted to be a doctor?”

  I was waiting for this question. I suck in a breath, praying she won’t ask any follow-up questions. “High school.”

  “Why?”

  “Just circumstances.” It’s a weak response—a half-answer— because I don’t want to discuss the topic of my motivation. Not right now. Not yet.

  “Okay,” she answers, and I can tell she suspects there’s more to the story.