I gave it.
The nurse squeezed my arm once before hurrying after the gurney.
“You did good,” she said.
I sat down in the waiting area for what felt like a minute and what was probably ten.
That was when I finally checked my phone.
Eight missed calls.
Three from Nick.
Two from the front desk.
Three from coworkers.
Time on the screen: 8:57 a.m.
My stomach dropped so fast it hurt.
I jumped up, looked once toward the emergency doors, then back at my phone.
Part of me wanted to stay.
Part of me knew I should at least explain.
But another part, the trained, obedient, terrified employee part, told me maybe I could still fix it.
Maybe if I got there fast enough, maybe if the clients were delayed, maybe if the world wasn’t as cruel as it often turned out to be.
I left.
And by the time I reached the office, you already know what was waiting for me.
Not understanding.
Not even anger mixed with concern.
Just punishment.
At home that afternoon, after Emily told me I had done the right thing, I tried to settle down.
I failed.
I paced the kitchen.
I checked our savings account twice.
I stared out the window at nothing.
Then I made the dumb decision men sometimes make when pain feels too big and we don’t know where to put it.
I started drinking before noon.
Not because I’m a heavy drinker.
I’m not.
Usually I’m the guy who has one beer at a cookout and then switches to iced tea because I’m driving the kids home.
But that day, I wanted the noise in my head gone.
The first glass took the edge off.
The second made me feel less humiliated.
The third made me sleepy enough that my anger turned soft and blurry around the edges.
I fell asleep on the couch in my work pants with the television muttering to itself and woke up later with a splitting headache and the taste of regret in my mouth.
Emily draped a blanket over me sometime while I slept.
