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I wait for the school bell to signal the end of another long, grueling day.

You know the type. One of those filled with runny noses, dramatic tears, and more than one suspicious puddle.

Today, it was throw-up in the library and a scraped elbow during recess that required not just a bandage but three glittery stickers and two grape lollipops to settle the storm.

The last bell finally shrieks its goodbye, and I exhale, slumping back against my squeaky chair in the nurse’s office.

My feet ache.

My back twinges.

But at least the day is over.

I don’t hate the job.

Honestly, it’s not so far off from what I thought I’d be doing with my life.

Nursing kids through schoolyard catastrophes isn’t glamorous, but it’s meaningful in its own tiny way.

Comforting them, listening to their stories— even the ones about monster cats and lunchroom betrayal —it matters.

Still, when I think about the four years of med school, my parents helped pay for, and the endless overnight shifts at Mercy Hospital during my residency— the hours I pushed myself to the edge trying to prove I belonged there —I want to scream.

Or cry.

Or maybe both.

But I don’t.

I never do.

How could I?

How can I sit here and feel sorry for myself when everything that happened— every single damn detour that’s led me here —is entirely my fault?

“Stupid, Casey,” I mutter under my breath as I gather my things, shoving notebooks, a half-eaten protein bar, and my work tablet into the oversized canvas tote I use as a purse.

The light spring jacket I wore this morning snags on the chair’s armrest, and I yank it free with more force than necessary.

“You could’ve had it all,” I continue.

I’d been on my way. I mean, hello, I was almost a doctor .

No, I didn’t envision myself as some future famous neurosurgeon, but I really did want to help people.

Isn’t that why most people chose medicine?

My parents are both scholars. Very busy academic types.

They love me, don’t get me wrong, but they aren’t overly emotional.

Still, I imagine they were glad when I took myself and all my drama far away from their home.

I really shouldn’t complain.

At least I had a soft place to land with my Gramps, after all the hullabaloo of getting out of town when things got terrible.

He’s in the local senior home now, and his memory is going. But I love that old man dearly, and I visit him every week like clockwork.

I miss Mom and Dad, but contact has to be minimal for now. That’s what the lawyers told me. And it’s okay. Really, I just want them safe.

How did my life get so twisted?

At least there is some good news. I mean, the school year is winding down.

Just two more weeks of sticky fingers and Band-Aids, and then I’ve got the summer to figure out my next move.

Or at least pretend I’m figuring something out while I drink coffee on my tiny balcony and watch Netflix in pajama pants.

But this weekend? This weekend, I actually have plans.

The unofficial start of summer is here, and I’ve been invited to something that doesn’t involve boxed wine and my cat judging me from the windowsill.

Avery— one of the only friends I’ve managed to make in this sleepy corner of New Jersey —used to work with me.

That is, before she went and married an actual cowboy.

Yeah. A cowboy. In New Jersey. And he’s hot.

I didn’t believe her either until he showed up and she left this place.

We stay in touch, and I rib her about being married to the Marlboro man. She responds by sending me the silliest messages just to make me laugh.

Even voice notes where he calls her darlin’ , like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Her wedding was a few months ago, and it was incredible. I never had such a great time, and I thought maybe it was the start of something, maybe a new romance, for me.

That is to say, I met someone that night. Someone who I thought might be the one .

But he never contacted me after. Suffice it to say it was rather disappointing. Like most of my attempts at romance.

At least he didn’t get me mixed up in some criminal enterprise and force me to run from my home.

Geez, the bar is low from my point of view, huh?

Anyway, she invited me out to the ranch where she lives now— the Motley Crewd, which is apparently some kind of working ranch/family commune/run-by-hot-men situation —and I said yes before she even finished the sentence.

I mean, maybe Zeke will be there, but likely he won’t be hanging around Avery’s house.

I imagine he’s just some player with more women than he knows what to do with. Guy who looks like that? Yeah. Definitely.

And honestly, I’m not worried. I mean, I’m not in his league. I doubt very much he’ll even remember me.

But a weekend with food, music, games, and the christening of a brand-new in-ground pool built by the owner for the whole staff and their families? Count me in.

I don’t even own a swimsuit that fits right anymore, but I don’t care.

For one weekend, I get to leave the town, the school, the memories, and the guilt behind.

I get to pretend I’m not an ex medical student turned school nurse with no plan and no place that really feels like home on the run from her psychotic ex.

Maybe I’ll swim.

Maybe I’ll have a drink.

Maybe I’ll dance barefoot in the grass under fairy lights with strangers who don't know a damn thing about me.

Hell, maybe I’ll finally breathe.

That’s the plan, anyway.

And I’m holding onto it like it’s the only thing keeping me from unraveling.