𝐃𝐎𝐂𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐒! | harry styles

𝐈

IT started with a phone call. Or, to be more precise, a multitude of phone calls.

Ethan and I had been dating for nearly two years when I received the first call. It was nothing more than a round of creepy, heavy breathing that was interrupted abruptly once the caller hung up the phone. I would have called them back, but the number was blocked.

The second call was much the same.

The third call was more interesting, partly because I discovered the caller was a man, but mainly because he was very, very angry man. And I was alone and caught off guard. And after all this time of suspecting it was some secret floozy Ethan was screwing, it turned out to be the secret floozy's jackass husband.

"Who is this?" he'd demanded angrily. "And why the fuck does my wife keep calling you?"

I bristled at his comment, refusing to give in first. "Hey, asswipe, you called me. Who is this?"

"Is this a fucking woman?"

"Who wants to know?"

"Who else is with you?"

"I'm not answering until you tell me who this is."

"Goddamn it!"

He hung up, only to call back an hour later once he'd calmed down. I nearly didn't answer, but of course I had my own suspicions and was ready to get it all out in the air. So I picked up the phone, internally preparing myself for another shouting match with this stranger, only to hear him apologize.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice agonized. "But I think my wife is cheating on me. I know that's terrible. But this number is all over our phone bill. Does anyone else live with you?"

Someone else did live with me – Ethan, my boyfriend, my lover. The man of the house while I was away at work twelve – sometimes fourteen – hours a day.

I still defended Ethan to this man, unwilling to admit to a stranger that I'd been so blind-sighted by another. In truth, we had so much in common that we probably could have been best friends. When I confronted Ethan, throwing false information and accusations at him, he buckled beneath the pressure. He caved and admitted to having screwed the floozy for nearly six months.

I'd never felt so foolish.

I'd also never been so helpless, suddenly out on my ass with no place to go. The house belonged to him, as did most everything inside of it. I was forced to stay with a friend for a month while I hunted for an apartment and eventually began searching among other hospitals in the area, in the state, and finally those hospitals hundreds of miles away.

I was drawn to my home state of Washington, and a talk with my father sealed the deal. He'd be thrilled to have me closer. This way, I could even come over for holidays, something I shamefully hadn't done in years.

I began applying at hospitals in Seattle the next day. As soon as I got an interview, I flew home to stay with my father, Carl, who lived in a small town about three hours away. He helped me find an apartment and Harborview Medical Center offered me a job on a medical unit.

This led me to here – standing in the middle of the hallway, pockets protruding with IV supplies, tubing, gauze and tape, my arms overflowing from the four cups of pills and the clipboard I'm desperately clinging onto. I'm wearing a jacket, a garment that has Cameron thrilled due to the extra pocket space.

"I'd get one of these if they didn't look so fucking girly," he says, admiring the depth and width of the extra pockets it offers. His voice is wistful. "Girls are so lucky."

"Hardly," I grumble.

"Come on, Pockets. Let's go start this IV."

And this is how I gain my new nickname.