Another Path

I regret every decision that led to this moment. Every class, every caffeine-fueled cram session, every night I sobbed into my pillow, whispering, “It’ll be worth it.”

Spoiler alert : it wasn’t.

I mouth “Sorry” to the guy whose face is draining of color.

Blood—hot, sticky, disgusting blood—spurts from his arm like a busted hydrant. I’m his nurse. Well, nurse-in-training. I try to look calm, like everything is well at hand, but inside I’m screaming. I slap down more gauze, sweat gluing my bangs to my forehead. I bite my lip hard enough to taste copper and scan the room, praying no one’s witnessing my embarrassing display of incompetence.

I bend his elbow, desperate to slow the bleeding. Nothing. Blood keeps coming. Please, for the love of all that’s holy, just stop bleeding! One more screwup and I’m done for—even this desperate hospital will cut me loose.

My eyes flick to Martha, my trainer, who’s labeling vials like she could do it in her sleep. She glances over, one eyebrow raised. I try to block her view of the slumped over man with my tiny body.

“Is there a problem over there?” Her voice drips with annoyance.

Just tell her. “Nope! All good!” My voice cracks.

My patient stares at me, expression somewhere between horrified and confused.

“You’re right as rain,” I assure him, nodding at Martha, silently begging him not to rat me out. When she turns away, I whisper, “Are you like on blood thinners or something? Ibuprofen, maybe?”

His hazel eyes widen and he whisper-yells, “What’s going on?”

What’s going on, sir, is that I, Tabitha Matthews, am about to get fired before lunch. Also, I never wanted to be a nurse. Thanks to budget cuts, the hospital ditched phlebotomists, so now we nurses draw blood. Twice a week. And I hate blood.

Just the sight of his abused arm and the metallic tang in the air makes my stomach churn. Goodbye, Frosted Flakes. Hello, public humiliation, unemployment, and a possible medical malpractice lawsuit.

I look down. Blood drips onto the pristine linoleum, splattering my new white Hokas. My patient’s patience is running out, all because I never had the guts to tell my pushy mother one word: NO.

Eventually, the man snaps. “I think this girl needs some help. I’m bleeding pretty bad!”

I close my eyes. There it is.

“Unbelievable,” Martha grumbles. I’m cooked.

She storms over, shoving me aside so hard I nearly topple into a curtain divider. I yelp, almost slipping on blood. By the time I recover, two nurses have joined Martha, frantically pressing gauze to the man’s arm.

Two hours later, I'm in the HR office—a broom closet with eggshell-painted walls. I stare at the window as Bella, my recruiter, shuts the door. She’s two years younger than me and only gave me this job because my mom babysat her as a kid. I know what she’ll say before she even opens her perfectly pink glossed lips.

“Choose another path.”

Like it’s that easy. Like I haven’t poured everything into nursing—years of study, loans, living with my parents.

My son starts second grade soon. The other kids will ask, “What does your mommy do?” I want him to say his mommy helps people. She definitely does not leave people worse off than when they came in. He deserves a mom he can be proud of, not a loser living at home with her parents.

The problem is, I hate nursing. But, try telling my mother that. The woman shoved nursing program leaflets at me and demanded I pick one. It was like a royal decree. It was either obey or face raising a son right out of high-school on my own.

My stomach rolls as Bella slides a manila folder across the table. Termination paperwork. COBRA forms. It feels like acid is eating its way through me. Why is it so hard to breathe? They’ve probably been planning to fire me for weeks—this is just the final straw.

Everything else Bella says blurs together. I imagine my parents’ faces when I tell them I’ve been fired again. I shuffle to the elevator, clutching my folder like a zombie. Its mirrored wall shows a woman with tired brown eyes and a messy bun, in scrubs she can’t afford. She looks like an imposter. She wants to rip the uniform off and stop pretending—to herself, to everyone.

But I can’t. I have to keep trying to get better. My son depends on me. And then there are the bills. Always the bills. Stacks on stacks on stacks of bills.

The hot summer air smacks me in the face as I leave the icy, air-conditioned building for the hell of barely scraping by.

At the bike rack, I unlatch my cherry red Schwinn. As I swing my leg over, the sun-baked metal sears my ankle. The weatherman warned it’d hit 104 degrees, but I don’t have a car and the buses here are as reliable as a promise from my ex. On the plus side, at least my legs have never looked better, waist never so snatched. I’ll need the refund for those new size 5 scrubs I ordered from Amazon. Every penny counts.

I pedal home, heart heavy, eyes stinging, taking the long way to avoid the neighbors who always wave. I veer onto a path lined with tall hedges. Suddenly, a male voice shouts, “Watch out!”

I turn, too late.

There’s a screech, a WHAM, a SMASH.

A tall, brown-haired guy on a yellow bike barrels into me. His handlebars jab my ribs, his sweat slaps my face, and I fly off my bike, skidding across the scalding pavement. My palms scream as they hit the sizzling ground. My assailant just tips over, still on the sidewalk. An old man with salt-and-pepper hair, holding a golden doodle, stares, mouth agape.

For a moment, I see my son Michael’s face the first time he fell off his bike—wailing so loud he could’ve woke the dead. I envy his emotional freedom.

My lower lip wobbles as I stare at my once-pristine blue scrubs, now torn, crimson blood spreading across the fabric above the knee. Maybe this is karma for what I do to my patients.

The old man scowls at the biker. “Jesus, son, why are you going so fast? Watch where you’re going!”

Apparently, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Like Michael, I tilt my head back and scream. Loud. People start gathering. I press my hands to my face, feel hot, sticky blood, and scream louder, like I’m being butchered right there on the street. The biker looks ready to evaporate.

The old man snaps, “The hell you doing, man? Help her!”

“R-right.” The biker bends and awkwardly pats my shoulder. “Y-you okay?”

I keep screaming, shameless as the crowd thickens.

“Please,” he says, kneeling to meet my eyes. “Let me help you up.”

Murmurs ripple around us.

“What’s going on?”

“Someone call 911?”

The biker’s sweating bullets, eyes darting from me to the crowd. He looks so lost I almost feel bad for him. I tone my wailing down to a pitiful moan. Apparently my pride got fired today too.

“Can you walk?” he asks, voice urgent, face reddening. “Should I call someone? An ambulance?”

“No!” I bark. God, please, not that hospital. “Just—help me up.”

Pain shoots through my ankle as he lifts me. My front bike wheel is bent beyond repair.

“The sidewalk ain’t a racetrack, son!” shouts an elderly woman in a pink robe, hair still arranged in rollers.

The biker looks at his shoes, holding me steady. “Sorry. My place is just up the street. There’s a first aid kit and ice. I can patch you up there—if that’s okay?”

Why not? My day can’t get any worse. He can’t be a serial killer. I refuse to believe anyone’s luck is that tragic. I nod.

He helps me onto his bike, and we zoom down Main Street towards the business district. I’m mildly annoyed that, despite nearly killing me, his speed hasn’t dropped.

“Where are we going?” I ask, voice sharp.

The smell of frosting, butter, and fresh bread mingle in the air. “My bakery. It’s opening day.”

A crowd surrounds a bright blue shop, pastries and cakes glittering in the window. I panic at my bloody, disheveled state. Even his blue T-shirt is streaked with blood from my palms. People stare. He ushers me around the side, into a small office plastered with family photos.

“I’m Henry, by the way,” he says, digging out a first aid kit from a drawer in a battered wooden desk.

“Tabitha.”

“I’m really sorry, Tabitha.” He sighs. “This day’s a mess. My brother’s missing, my cake decorator quit, and my sister is about to murder me.”

I give him a sympathetic smile as he grabs gauze pads and alcohol.

"I'll be right back."

While he’s gone, I spot a painting: the silhouette of a man staring down two paths, words lined across the sky—my favorite Robert Frost poem. My eyes land on the last few lines:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

Henry comes back with a bowl of water and some towels. He picks me up and gently sets me on the table, then cleans my scraped knee and palms. He wipes the blood from my face, and his touch is so gentle I can’t help but forgive him—or get lost in those intense hazel eyes.

For a baker, he’s kind of jacked—broad shoulders, strong arms, and rock hard abs. I'd felt them while pressed against him on that bike. Also, he had a sweet smile. I predict the women of this town are about to face an uptick in toothaches…and heartaches.

“Is it okay if I leave you for a bit? My sister needs help in the kitchen. Holler if you need anything, okay?”

I nod, watching him go. I mummify my own hand in gauze, bored, until I wander down the hall and overhear an argument.

A raven-haired woman in a blue apron—Monica, I’m guessing—is fuming at Henry. “No. Everything is NOT fine, Henry! Jackson isn’t picking up his cell. You show up late looking as though you’ve murdered someone. And I’m left holding the bag. Typical! I can’t decorate all these cupcakes alone!”

He tries to calm her, but she’s near meltdown.

During one of my many unemployment stints, my mother forced me to bake gluten-free allergy-friendly cupcakes for Michael’s school picnic. They were a hit. I still remember the pride on Michael’s face.

“I can help,” I offer, holding up my Mickey Mouse–sized bandaged hand.

Monica eyes me. “Who are you?”

Henry grins. “My new assistant. Some idiot hit her with a bike, so she’s a bit out of commission.”

I bite back a smile.

“Just give me gloves, some piping bags, and I’ll decorate your cakes.”

Monica’s shoulders sag with relief. “Absolutely.” She mutters under her breath, something about poor communication.

Despite my injured hands, I get to work—roses, butterflies, bunnies, even Oreo ‘dirt’ cupcakes with piped carrots. For the first time in ages, I’m in my element.

“Nice!” Henry says, appearing behind me. “The kids will love these.”

My cheeks warm. It feels good to not be terrible at something.

“Thanks,” I say. “Could I really be your assistant?”

He blinks. “Yes! You’re hired! Only if you promise not to sue me.”

I giggle. For a second, I float on a cloud of powdered sugar and pumpkin-cinnamon frosting.

Monica’s voice pierces from outside the kitchen. “Gotta clear it with Jackson first!”

“He’s here?” Henry asks.

“Yes!” she answers, voice tinged with irritation.

Henry grabs one of my carrot cupcakes and ushers me out to the front of the store. It’s packed— half the neighborhood must be here. We wade through the crowd toward the corner, where a tall, imposing man stands, face as pale as his white button-down shirt.

Oh. Shit.

The resemblance is slight, but it’s there. Same hazel eyes and tall frame. Only his hair is the color of charcoal, unlike his brother’s chocolate brown waves.

When our eyes meet, I try to pull away from Henry, but he holds firm.

"Jackson! Where’ve you been?"

Jackson looks at me, then at his brother, then back to me again.

"What's this?" he asks, voice unreadable.

Henry hands Jackson my cupcake, which he takes with a bandaged arm.

Henry doesn’t seem to notice. "Here’s our newest member of the Bluebird Bakery family. She’s the new pastry decorator, Tabitha.” He quickly adds, “With your permission, of course."

My lips tighten to a thin line. Henry waits, his dimpled smile fading when Jackson doesn’t respond right away. "Bro... So are you going to say something? Is she hired or not?"

Not. My eyes drop to find my blood-splattered gym shoes. His blood. So much for hope.

"Yes! You’re hired," Jackson blurts out.

I raise my eyebrows, surprised. I let out a shaky laugh. "Uh… Really? I can have a job?"

"Yes, only..." He clears his throat, shooting me a meaningful look. Silent communication. He continues, "On one condition. You need to stop being a nurse."

I give him an impish grin and without missing a beat, “Deal! I was thinking of changing career paths anyway.”