Chapter 2: Proposal

I wake the morning after my first shift with the sun already warm on my face. For a moment, I don’t know where I am. The light is different from the hospital’s fluorescent glare, softer, golden, filtering through my curtains in a way that makes the room feel safe. I stretch beneath the sheets, my body aching in unfamiliar places, and then I remember.

I did it.

The thought is so foreign it almost doesn’t feel like mine. I drove to the hospital, undressed, walked onto the floor, and treated patients without a single piece of clothing on my body. The world didn’t end. No one screamed. No one called security. No one, not even the patients, seemed particularly shocked.

I reach for my phone on the nightstand. 2:47 PM. I’ve slept longer than I have in months. No nightmares, no waking up gasping for air, no reaching for Mark’s empty side of the bed. Just sleep. Deep, dreamless, healing sleep.

I’m still naked. I fell asleep that way, too tired to find clothes. The sheets are soft against my skin, and for once, I don’t immediately reach for Mark’s side of the bed. I lie still, feeling the morning air on my bare shoulders, my chest, my legs. The sensation is strange and wonderful. I’ve slept naked before, of course, in the summer heat, when the Arizona nights were too warm for clothes. But this is different. This feels like a choice rather than a necessity.

I get up slowly, my muscles protesting the unfamiliar exertion of last night. I walk to the bathroom and catch my reflection in the mirror. The woman staring back is the same as always: dark circles, hollow cheeks, the sharp collarbones of someone who’s forgotten what it feels like to enjoy a meal. But something is different. Something in her eyes. A spark that’s been missing for over a year.

You look alive, I think. You actually look alive.

The shower is hot and soothing. I stand under the spray for longer than necessary, letting the water wash away the remnants of the night. My skin tingles with the memory of exposure to the cool air, the eyes of strangers, the strange, electric hum of being seen. I run my hands over my arms, my chest, my stomach, feeling the skin that had been so vulnerable just hours ago.

You did it.

I did it.

And now what?

I don’t have an answer. I don’t know what comes next. All I know is that I feel something I haven’t felt in a very long time. It’s not happiness that would be too strong a word. It’s more like ... presence. Like I’m finally inhabiting my own body instead of just going through the motions of being alive.

After my shower, I dress in comfortable clothes- jeans, a T-shirt, no scrubs in sight and make my way to the kitchen. I make coffee and stand at the counter, looking out the window at the desert. The sun is high, the sky a brilliant blue. The saguaro cacti in my neighbor’s yard cast long shadows across the dusty ground.

I think about last night. About Mr. Lindell’s wisdom, Nina’s sharp kindness, Mrs. Gable’s warmth, Mr. Pelham’s strange clarity. I think about the way the patients looked at me not with judgment or disgust, but with something like recognition.

They saw you.

Yes.

Really saw you.

Yes.

And you didn’t fall apart.

No. I didn’t.

I take a sip of my coffee and let the warmth spread through my chest. The truth is, I expected to fall apart. I expected the nudity to be a disaster, a humiliation, a confirmation of everything I feared about myself. Instead, it felt like coming home.

I finish my coffee and decide to step outside. I’ve been cooped up in this house for too long, hiding from the world. Today feels different. Today I want to feel the sun on my skin.

I walk to my small backyard without bothering to dress. The flagstones are warm under my bare feet, the desert sun hot on my shoulders. I’ve done this before, undressing in my own house, but today it feels different. Today, it feels more like choice than convenience. Today it feels like the start of something new.

I stand in the middle of my tiny garden, the saguaro cacti casting long shadows across the dusty ground. The air moves freely across my skin, and I feel something I haven’t felt in a year.

Peace.

I spent the morning in the garden. The tomato plants need watering, the herbs need pruning, the soil needs turning. I work with my hands, feeling the cool dirt between my fingers, the warm sun on my bare skin. I lose myself in the rhythm of the work, the simple physicality of tending to living things.

The neighbor who’d once been scandalized by my nudity doesn’t even look our way. Maybe he’s used to it. Maybe he’s realized that clothing is optional. Either way, I don’t care. I’m too busy feeling the sun on my skin.

By the time noon rolls around, I’m tired but satisfied. I go back inside, wash the dirt from my hands, and stand in front of the mirror again. The woman staring back looks less hollow than she did this morning. There’s color in her cheeks, light in her eyes. She looks like someone who’s just woken up from a long sleep.

This is who you are now.

This is who you choose to be.

I spend the rest of the day in a state of calm anticipation. I do laundry, clean the kitchen, and answer emails from my parents. They’re still in Ohio, still grieving, still trying to figure out how to go on without their daughter, their son-in-law, their grandchildren. I keep my responses brief and vague. I can’t tell them about the trial. I can barely understand it myself.

You should tell them.

I can’t.

Why not?

They wouldn’t understand.

Would you have understood, a month ago?

No.

So why should they?

I think about it. The voice in my head Mark’s voice isn’t wrong. I wouldn’t have understood the trial a month ago. I would have thought it was crazy, unprofessional, a violation of everything nursing stands for. But now I’ve seen the other side. I’ve felt the clarity. And I can’t unfeel it.

You’re different now.

Yes.

Is that okay?

I don’t know. But it’s happening.

By the time six PM rolls around, I’m ready. I’ve showered again, put on my “going home” armor, and driven to the hospital. The parking lot is familiar, the walk to the locker room automatic.

The locker room is empty when I arrive. I’m earlier than I expected. I sit on the bench, my scrubs folded beside me. The protocol says I don’t have to undress until my shift starts. But I want to. I need to.

I peel off the hoodie and sweatpants. The cool air hits my skin, familiar now. No goosebumps this time. No hesitation.

I look at myself in the mirror. The woman staring back is the same as yesterday, same body, same face, same scars. But something has changed. Her posture is different. Her shoulders are back. Her chin is lifted. She looks like someone who’s decided to stop hiding.