Page 6 of The Wrong Husband (The Davenports #6)

Phoenix

I take a step forward, scan the street, then stop. Once again, there’s no one. But the hair on the back of my neck prickles. That now familiar feeling of being watched is back.

I take in the parked cars, including the VW van I passed earlier.

I look across the street. Other than the cars, and the lights on in my neighbor’s house, there’s nothing to be seen.

It’s probably heightened vigilance. A response to the stress I face daily in the ER… Add to that, the situation with Drew, and yeah, it’s probably my amygdala firing overtime after too many sleepless shifts and too much cortisol.

My mind isn’t betraying me. It’s just overcompensating. That’s all.

I shake my head and turn toward my place. No one’s following me. Maybe, I’m so exhausted that my mind is playing tricks on me.

Still, I hasten my pace and only let myself relax when I’m behind the locked doors of my house. I can tell it’s empty.

The door to the guest room is slightly ajar. Drew must have left it that way. Thankfully, he’s away on his shift. I’m glad he’s not home. I’m not ready for another confrontation with him.

I head into my bedroom. A quick shower later, I heat up a microwave dinner, catch half a movie, and am in bed by 9:30 p.m.

I broke up with Drew, but my routine hasn’t varied. Nothing feels different. This is why I told him we were barely a couple. Whether I’m with him or not, there’s no discernable change to my life. Except for the guilt I carry around in my heart.

I fall into a troubled sleep, punctuated by dreams of someone watching me. I’m awake before my alarm goes off. I don’t feel very refreshed. By 6:30 a.m., I’m showered and dressed.

Carrying my backpack, I head into the kitchen to get a coffee and come to a stop.

Drew sits at the tiny breakfast nook. He’s hunched over a glass of water, staring into its depths.

He prefers to use the back door to come and go. He also parks his bicycle near the back of the house, where he can access a bike path to the hospital.

I've accepted it the way I've accepted the scratchy blanket he added to our—I guess, mine again—bed. Without complaint. Without emotion.

Maybe, it's because he’s my superior in the hospital, and I've allowed that to influence my behavior toward him at home.

The one thing I was adamant about—we didn’t publicize our relationship . I didn’t want anyone thinking I was getting special treatment at work.

I walk over to the other side of the breakfast counter. He looks up—his face expressionless, his eyes heavy with exhaustion.

Something tugs at my chest. Maybe pity. Maybe guilt.

I don’t love him. I never have. But after nearly a year together, of which we lived together for nine of them, part of me feels responsible, for him.

This was my house. I found it, made it mine. Then he moved in and made it his too.

I didn’t want that.

I knew from the start, he wasn’t the man I’d spend my life with. But he was so sure, so convinced, that I went along.

Now, I want him to move on, but he’s struggling. I can see it in the slump of his shoulders; in the way he clings to this place. I get it—change is hard, especially when you’re leaving what you’ve come to call home.

In some ways, this is my fault. If I’d told him no, back then—if I’d set that boundary—we wouldn’t be here. And because of that, I want to see him land on his feet.

But wanting the best for him doesn’t change the truth: we’re over.

I have to make sure he understands that too. For his sake. For mine .

Keeping him here is only postponing the inevitable. He needs to leave. And if I don’t tell him now—if I keep skirting around it—we’ll both stay trapped in something that’s already dead.

I take a breath that barely makes it past my ribs. My hands are clammy. My heart’s pounding so loudly, I swear, he can hear it.

Still—I square my shoulders, count to three under my breath, and push the words out before they can claw their way back down my throat.

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out.” My voice shakes.

I wrap my arms about my waist to support myself.

“I know what I said came as a shock. Perhaps, I should’ve said it sooner. But I kept putting it off because… I didn’t want to hurt you.”

I meet his eyes, even though it makes my stomach flip. “You’re upset now; I get that. But I think you’ll be happier without me, in the long run.”

He doesn’t say a word. Just picks up his glass and takes a slow, measured sip, eyes locked on mine—expression blank, but sharp enough to cut. The silence isn’t passive. It’s pointed. Designed to make me squirm. Ugh! That’s classic Drew.

He doesn’t need to raise his voice or argue. Just sits there, looking wounded and disappointed, like I’ve let him down in some unforgivable way. But I’m not going to let him get to me.

I force myself to keep going, even though my throat’s tight, and my legs are trembling.

I have to. Otherwise, I’ll cave. And I can’t do that—not this time.

“Given we’re no longer together…” My voice dips. I swallow and try again. “I think you should move out.”

My pulse is a freight train. My lungs can’t seem to fill. I feel dizzy. Like I might throw up.

But I said it. The first real step toward disentangling our lives.

The one I should have taken months ago.

His lips curl into a sneer. “You’re so anxious to get me out of your life; you don’t care what happens to me.”

Oh God. I hate these confrontations. I wish I could run out of here and not have to complete this conversation, but I’ve started it.

It’s best I see it through. You can do this.

Don’t be a weakling. You’re an ER doctor.

You’ve faced far worse crises. Somehow, saving someone’s life feels so much easier than trying to salvage my own.

“That’s not true.” I tap my chest three times, taking comfort in the familiarity of the technique I use to get my emotions under control. “I do care about you. Just not in a way that I want to spend my life with you.”

His eyes narrow, then the fight seems to go out of him. His lips turn down. “You break up with me suddenly. Now, you want me to leave the place I’ve come to call home?”

He looks so pathetic, I feel my resolve waver. I’m such a bleeding heart. I kept putting off breaking up with him… And see where that got me?

Trapped in this house I used to love—this place that was supposed to be mine, my sanctuary. But now, I can’t breathe here. Not with Drew still under the same roof.

It’s my fault for letting it go on this long. For not speaking up. For avoiding the confrontation.

Go on…give him an ultimatum. You owe it to yourself.

I manage to paste on a smile that I’m sure makes my face look sickly. “You don’t have to do so today… But maybe…within the next month?” I lock my fingers together. “Once you find a new place?”

He sets his jaw.

Oh no, he’s going to ask for more time. I don’t want that, now that we’re officially broken up. Seeing him around the house…is stressful. Not to mention, uncomfortable.

When Drew settles for nodding, relief fills me.

“Right then.” I nod briskly. “I’m off.”

If only he were gone by the time I return home. Clearly, that’s not going to happen. Still, I can hope, right?

Deciding to forego the coffee, I spin around and walk out the door.

My mind is so preoccupied with our encounter that I forget to look out for the white van, or for anyone watching me.

Before I know it, I’m at the locker room in the hospital. I deposit my stuff and change into a fresh pair of scrubs. Damn, I forgot to buy new work shoes. I slip on the ugly, oversized, borrowed clogs.

The hiss of the automatic doors gives way to the low murmur of voices, the steady blip of machines, the quiet chaos that always simmers just beneath the surface in the ER. I draw in a breath—sterile air, laced with antiseptic and adrenaline—and step through.

The triage station is buzzing. The whiteboard’s half-filled. I clock at least four patients waiting in chairs—one cradling an arm, another with blood trickling from a forehead gash.

“Dr. Hamilton.” A nurse nods and hands me a freshly printed triage sheet. “Cubicle two. Shortness of breath, chest pain.”

“Got it.” I take the page and pivot without breaking stride.

My clogs cuff across the linoleum as I draw back the curtain to the first cubicle. I really do need to buy a new pair of sneakers. I push the thought aside and focus on the patient.

He’s a man in his sixties, pale, sweating who meets my gaze with a haunted sort of panic. “Feels like someone’s sitting on my rib cage.” He swallows.

“Let’s get that sorted.” I grip his wrist gently, feel his rapid, shallow pulse.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see my colleague Sunita, appear with the portable ECG trolley. She moves with her usual competence, but her shoulders are slumped.

There’s a tension in the way she tapes the leads, in the way she bites the inside of her cheek between movements.

I file it away. First, I need to stabilize the patient. “Let’s run the ECG and get a troponin test. Stat.”

“On it,” Sunita murmurs, voice tight.

Minutes later, once the man is hooked up and monitored, I pull the curtain closed behind me and fall into step beside her.

“You, okay?” I ask, keeping my tone low, neutral.

She doesn’t answer immediately. We pass the meds trolley, the crash cart. Then she exhales, a long, shuddering breath. “I’m fine,” she says. Then— “No. I’m not. Sorry.”

We stop near the break room. Her hand clutches the strap of her lanyard like it’s the only thing keeping her grounded.

“My mum’s getting worse,” she says in a rush. “The caregiver quit, and the agency quoted me double for a replacement. If the ER shuts down—if they don’t reassign us—I’m screwed.”

“They can’t just shut down the ER,” I say with an edge of desperation because I want to believe that’s true, though the hollow in the pit of my stomach tells me anything is possible during these times of price increases and budget cuts.

I shove that thought away and nod. “This community depends on it. Look at how swamped we are.”

I wave my hand in the air.