After I’d forced Nash to take the delicious leftover macaroni he’d cooked for us home with him, we hugged by the door and he left, hurrying down to the street in the pouring rain. I watched him for a few seconds. He was such a gift. I’d met him at the Saint-Luc hospital where he’d been working in the ER. That night, I’d been at a pool party—some stupid s*x party I’d regretted going to and had not participated in—and while leaving the party prematurely, I’d stepped on a thick shard of glass in the driveway, thick enough to pierce through my sneaker. My so-called friends had bandaged me up with a sock and promptly dropped me off at the emergency room.
Nash Reirdan, the attending nurse that night, had been patient, calm and funny, a striking opposite to the serious female doctor assigned to
