APRIL

My hands shake as I walk out of the attendings' lounge on my first day, dressed in turquoise scrubs instead of the navy blue ones that I've grown so accustomed to at Grey Sloan. The job isn't new to me; that's not what I'm so nervous about. I'm actually excited to dive headfirst into trauma in a totally new area; to showcase my skills in a place where no one knows me. What's making me so nervous is that I'm jumpy around every corner, thinking that any second now I'm going to run into a very unsuspecting Jackson.

Moving hadn't been my idea originally, but once Matthew brought it up, it made perfect sense. We've been having trouble agreeing on anything lately, so the fact that we were on the same page about getting out of Seattle was surprising. We've been going through a rough patch in our marriage - a rough patch that is completely normal for two years in - and a change of scenery is something all the books suggest. A new place with new people and new routines.

I was the one who had suggested Chicago. In the forefront of my mind, the reason I chose this city was because of its premiere medicine and the teaching program at Northwestern Memorial. Teaching is their number one priority, just like at Grey Sloan. And those were the reasons I told Matthew, too. I didn't let myself admit, even to myself, that part of the reason I chose this city was because of who left Seattle first.

I miss my best friend, it's as simple as that. We left each other on such bad terms, and there's hardly a day that goes by where I don't think of that day and wish I could go back and give him a proper goodbye. He gave me so much, and as usual, I was unfair to him. When he first moved here, I would call him about once a week but not one time did he pick up the phone to listen to what I had to say. I can't say I really understand why, because I'm still confused over what happened at my wedding. I don't really see why he would have a reason to be so upset with me over something that he knew was coming.

So because of the eerie silence on his end, I'm worried how he'll react once he sees that I'm here. I tried to tell him that we were coming, but his number had changed when I tried to call him last. I hadn't tried for such a long time, so it wasn't really surprising. It was disheartening more than anything.

I get shown around the hospital by the Chief, whose name I conveniently forget. I ask around for Jackson after I finish my rounds, but only get pointed to the whiteboard where I look to see his name written for the first time in so long. It makes a warm sensation spread out like fingers over my chest, like fingers gripping tight over my heart and squeezing it.

Avery, J.

I never knew that six little letters could make me feel so much.

At the end of the day, I'm standing at the nurse's station with a hospital iPad in my hands trying to figure out the program that they use. It's different from the one we had at Grey Sloan, with a lot more folders, so I've been getting lost on it all day. There isn't anyone around to ask, so I'm just about to give up when I hear my name spoken from down the hall.

"April?"

I flip around so fast that my hair flies, because I'd recognize that voice anywhere. I can't help the smile that floods my face; I never expected that seeing him would make me feel this kind of powerful relief. Just the sight of him is a breath of fresh air, and he doesn't look the slightest bit different. It looks like it could've been just a single day since he left Seattle and I stormed out of his apartment. "Jackson," I whisper, and set the iPad down. I almost don't have control of my legs; they just start moving of their own accord and before I know it, I've covered half the distance of the hallway and am wrapped up in his arms in the tightest hug I've had in what seems like years. His hugs have always been my favorite; his arms have always felt like home.

He keeps a tight grip on me, squeezing my shoulders and then moving one hand up to my head to pet my hair, just like he always used to. I can't remember the last time I was this close to another human - not even Matthew. We're so close that I can hear the faint pounding of his heart and feel a slight tremor in his upper arms.

"You're here," he says, while my head is still resting on his chest. Hearing him speak makes tears spring to my eyes; his words are so heartfelt and I can hear the raw pain behind them without even having to see it written on his face.

We pull apart and I wipe the tears away, then bite my bottom lip. "I'm here," I say. "I've been looking for you all day."

He opens his mouth like he's going to say something, but closes it before any words can come out. A long moment of silence passes where his eyes dart everywhere and finally land on me again, and then seem to study me as we stand solemnly across from one another. I desperately want to know what he's thinking, because I don't even know where I would begin in trying to guess. The only thing I can tell for sure is that a million thoughts are running through his mind and he obviously can't find his way through them.

The only reason I know that is because I feel the same way. I have so much I want to say to him, and so much I want to hear. He's my best friend; he never stopped being my best friend. The greatest thing in the world for me right now is being so close to him.

Finally, he speaks. "It's late," he says. "I should get going. I've had a long day."

I'm jarred by his words. That isn't what I expected him to say. I had hoped he would be thirsty for answers from me, wondering why I came here and what I was planning on doing now that I've arrived. I hadn't expected him to look for an out mere moments after our reunification. My heart sinks to the pit of my stomach because of it. I hadn't wanted anything to change between us, but I guess I was naive in hoping that.

"I know," I say. "I saw your name up on the board for two surgeries. How'd they go?" My plan is to maybe get him talking about work, and then that conversation will morph into something else. I want to keep him here, in front of me and where I can see him, for as long as I possibly can. If he walks away, I know I'll just feel like I'm losing him all over again.

He takes one step backwards, and my eyes flick down to his feet. "I really need to get home," he says, and I feel sick to my stomach.

I want to beg him to stay, but I know that won't have a chance of working. I don't want him feeling sorry for me, either. "I was hoping we could talk," I say, putting the truth out there. "Matthew won't be here to pick me up for another hour - that's when I'm supposed to be done. Since I caught you, it seems like the perfect time now. Can't you stay?" I clasp my hands together and wring them compulsively.

"I can't," he says. "I… I have a lot of stuff to catch up on at home." He turns around to leave, and instantly after the words come out of his mouth I know they're lies. That's so unlike him to say. If he wanted to stay here and talk to me, he would. And he's made it quite obvious that that's the last thing he wants. Suddenly, I wonder if coming here was a mistake. Maybe we can never get back to what we once were before love got in the way.

"Talk to you soon, then, I guess," I say to his back. "It was good to see you, Jackson." The last part is the truth. The only thing is I wanted him to be happy to see me, too. And it's obvious that he wasn't, because he doesn't say another word as he walks away.

I'm waiting outside in the turnaround when Matthew pulls up. I walk slowly to the car and then collapse with a huff in the passenger's seat after throwing my stuff to the back. Routinely, he plants a kiss on my cheek and I lean my head towards him so he can reach. I let out a long sigh and lean my head back against the headrest, wanting nothing more than to sleep for a long, long time.

"Long first day?" he asks, clicking on the turn signal to get out of the parking lot.

I press my lips together. It's not the hospital I'm tired from at all. "Yeah," I say. "You?"

"Eh," he says, and I can picture him shrugging even with my eyes closed. "Wasn't too bad. Not much different. I expected a lot more gunshot wounds, though."

I open my eyes to a slit and throw him a sideways glance. "That's a little… that's kind of profiling, don't you think?" I ask.

"What? No," he says. "It's Chicago. It's different here. You gotta be aware of that."

"We've been here four days," I say. "I don't really see how you think you know anything about how things are here."

"I mean, from what I've heard," he explains, slowly like I might not understand. "In the news, all that stuff. People get shot here, babe. All the time. Every day, people are getting shot. And I didn't see a single one of them."

I inhale and exhale, closing my eyes again. "Hmm," I say, pretending to think about it.

"Surprised you didn't know about all the gun violence," he says. "Maybe you should read up on it."

"Maybe."

We're quiet for the rest of the ride home, and I don't end up falling asleep. When we pull up in the garage of our walk-up, I open my eyes and gather my things before stepping out of the car and into the house. There are still boxes strewn everywhere in varying stages of being unpacked, which makes me twitch. The neurotic part of my brain would love to stay up all night taking things out and organizing them to help this place look more like a home, but the exhausted part of me knows there is no way that that's happening. I'm on another long shift tomorrow, and I need to go to sleep if I'm going to make it through.

Matthew kicks the side of a wayward box as we make our way inside. I look at the side and see that it's marked 'kitchen - glasses' in my loopy handwriting, so I say, "Hey, be careful."

"They're mostly unpacked out of there anyway," he says. "You hungry?"

"There was just no reason to kick it," I mutter. "You didn't have to kick it. Just...pointless."

"Are you hungry?" he asks again, ignoring what I've said under my breath.

"No," I say, and start to make my way up the stairs as he flicks the kitchen light on to stand in front of the refrigerator.

"Oh," he says. "Well, I'm starving. I ate lunch forever ago. I'm gonna cook up something and then I'll be up."

"I'm getting in the shower, then going to sleep," I say. "We carpooling again tomorrow?"

"Of course," he says, pulling out ingredients. "Only makes sense."

"Okay," I call down, already at the top of the stairs. "Night."

I close the door to the bathroom and strip down as the water heats up in the shower. Once it's hot enough, I step inside and lean against the wall with my hands pressed to my face as the water slicks my hair down. My throat feels tight and my teeth are clenched together so hard that my jaw is trembling, and suddenly I feel so overcome with indescribable emotion that I don't know what to do with myself. I sink down to sit on the floor by the drain so the water pools around my feet, and rest my forehead against my knees. I stare at the floor through the gap in my legs and try to breathe as evenly as I can, and blink hard once my heart rate slows down. I don't know what's gotten into me. I don't know why I'm feeling this way. The best word I can think of to describe it is: trapped.

I take my time scrubbing the long day off of my skin, and put on some soft pajamas once I get out. When I open the bathroom door, I see Matthew lying in bed just staring up at the ceiling, assumably waiting for me.

"You didn't have to wait up," I say, running a brush through my wet hair.

"I wanted to," he says, propping himself up on one elbow.

"Oh," I say, setting the brush down on my nightstand and then crawling into bed on my side. Almost as soon as I touch the mattress, he gravitates towards me and winds one arm around my stomach to pull my body close to his. "What are you…?"

"I know you're tired..." he says into my neck. "But I was just thinking. We haven't really broken in this bed yet."

"We brought this bed from Seattle," I say, looking over at him.

"You know what I mean," he says. "Don't you think now the perfect time to start trying?"

"Trying?"

He sighs like he's so fed up with me. "For a baby," he says. "You never used to stop talking about it, remember that? We just moved into an awesome new place in an awesome new city, I have a great job that I can support us with once the baby's born-"

"I also have a great job," I say pointedly.

"Of course you do," he says, kissing my jaw. "Right now. But you wouldn't stay working after the baby's born." My silence forces him to question his thought process. "Would you?"

I furrow my eyebrows. "Of course I would," I say. "I always planned on being a working mother. Could you imagine me not practicing medicine? I couldn't." I shake my head. "I wouldn't want to. My life would be so… boring."

"No, it wouldn't," he says. "I could definitely see you as a housewife."

I scoff. "You're joking," I say.

"I'm not," he says, his tone turning serious. "That's what my mom did. Didn't ever have to work a day in her life, my dad took care of all that and she took care of me and my brothers. That's just how I always thought it would be for us, too."

I push away from him so I can look into his eyes. "Well, I just don't think that's going to work," I say. "That's all great for your mom, I'm happy for her that she enjoyed doing that. Some women do. But not me. I'm a surgeon, Matthew. It's what I do. It's what I know I can do well. I don't think you… I don't think I should be asked to give that up."

"No one's coming out and asking you to give it up."

"You pretty much just did."

He sighs again. "I didn't. We're just talking, it was a suggestion I made. It's not like I said you had to, or wrote it in stone or anything."

I turn over on my side so I face the wall instead of him. "Okay," I say tensely.

He mutters something under his breath that I can't quite hear. "Okay," he repeats, matching my tone. "Good talk."

"It's not really a talk when you're telling me what I should do," I say, pulling the covers up higher.

"That's not what happened," he says. "And I was going to see if you wanted to start trying tonight and make it special, but apparently you're not interested anymore."

"I'm tired," I say shortly. "I'm going to sleep."

The silence that follows lets me close my eyes, but hours pass before I'm able to do anything but stare ahead at the blank wall in front of me.

The morning is cold and quiet at home. I get up first, as usual, and go downstairs to make breakfast while Matthew is still sleeping. Out of routine, I make enough for two even though I don't really have the inclination to be kind towards him right now. He comes downstairs just as I'm setting his plate at the counter, and gives me a sleepy wave. I flash a terse smile in return, and he sits down and starts to eat. I'd been eating along the way as I cooked, so I'm already finished and can retreat back upstairs to get dressed.

"April, wait," he says, and I stop in my tracks without turning around. "I'm sorry about last night." I wait for him to say more, and after a long enough silence, he does. "I didn't mean to make it seem like I was trying to take control of your life."

I turn around and lean against the stair railing. He's swiveled around in his chair, looking at me with round, sorrowful eyes. "I know," I say. "You get these ideas in your head, and…" I tap my temple with one finger. "You can't get them out."

He sighs. "I know."

"You really have to work on that," I say.

"I know, I said I was sorry," he says, his tone sharpening just slightly. "I wanted this move to be good for us, and the only thing we've done so far is fight."

I raise my eyebrows. "It's hardly been five days," I remind him.

"I know, I'm just saying."

"You talk like we've been here for years already," I say. "You have to give stuff a chance. You never give things a chance."

"Oh, okay," he says sarcastically.

"What? What's that for?" I ask.

"You telling me I never give things a chance is just kind of funny," he says. "Seeing as you're the one who loves to shoot down my ideas right off the bat."

"Yeah, I do love to shoot down the kinds of ideas that have me staying home being a doting housewife while you're riding around in an ambulance all day," I spit. The angry heat in my stomach is tightening and finding its way up to my face and neck in the form of a violent blush. "I'm sorry, Matthew, but I'm not your mother. I'm not sure if that's what you'd rather have, or what. But I'm a surgeon, I save lives. Maybe if anyone is going to stay home and be a housewife, it should be you."

"It should be me?" he asks incredulously. "And if you're going to talk about my mom like that, we shouldn't even be getting into this. I thought you guys-"

"It's nothing against your mom, and you know that," I say. "And why do you say it like that? Would it be so horrible if you stayed home with the baby?"

He sputters for something to say, and I know I've cornered him. Instead of feeling satisfaction from essentially winning the fight, though, I feel sick. I don't like putting him in a corner like this, it's not kind, and it always seems to happen. But he always starts it and I always have to push back.

"I'm not saying it'd be horrible," he says. "I never said that. I just think you're undermining my job. I help people, too."

I throw up my hands. "I never undermined anything. I'm going to go get dressed, I'm gonna be late. I have surgery at 8." I hurry up the stairs, throw on some clothes and run a brush through my wavy hair. I do my best with a little makeup, but thanks to our argument I don't have a lot of time.

When I get to the stairs to head back down, he's heading up. "I don't need a ride," I say. "I'll drive myself."

"Fine," he says, passing me.

"See you tonight."

"Uh-huh."

I clench my fists and shove my feet into my shoes, then head out the door to get into my car that I haven't driven yet since we came here. Driving through the city, weaving through aggressive traffic and public transportation, is a little challenging but it's nothing I can't handle. Navigating my way to the hospital helps engage my brain in a way that helps me forget my disagreements with Matthew and instead helps me change gears into the surgery I'll be scrubbing in on this morning.

When I get to the hospital, I feel like I can let out a sigh of relief. Once I step inside the doors, I find myself wishing that I could find Jackson and talk about all of this with him, even though I know what he would probably say. It's probably smarter that we don't talk about it.

I change into my scrubs and pull my hair into a loose ponytail. When I come out of the attendings' lounge, I literally run right into Jackson and am knocked back by the force of our bodies hitting each other. I have to take a few steps back to steady myself, and he reaches out and grabs me so I don't fall over. "Jeez, I'm sorry," I say, and he lets go of me quickly.

"You okay?" he asks, and I want to be able to tell him the truth. That no, I'm not, and I really need someone to talk about this with. Back home, I'd probably talk to Arizona. But now, calling her about a fight I had with my husband seems stupid and childish. She has bigger things to worry about other than my marital strife. I know Jackson means physically, though, wondering if I'm hurt from how hard I bumped into him.

"Yeah," I say. "Thanks." I turn to look at the board and see that my surgery - an appy - is with someone with the last name 'Chance.' "Chance," I say, chuckling. "That's not a very comforting name for a surgeon." I look to my left, where Jackson had been standing, to see his reaction… but the spot is empty. "Talking to myself," I say under my breath. "Awesome."

After the appy, I sit down in the cafeteria by myself at an empty table and eat in silence until someone comes and sits with me. I look up and see a blonde man with brown eyes smiling at me as he sets his lunch down, wearing a lab coat that has the name 'Greg Collins' on it. I offer a smile back and then a small wave. "Hi," I say, tucking a bit of my hair behind my ear.

"Hey," he says, getting comfortable. "I'm Greg. You must be April, new head of trauma?"

I nod. Hearing my job title reminds me of how long I'd been waiting for the ER to get slammed, but nothing has happened so far. After I eat, I plan on going there and organizing things to my liking, and hope that some action happens while I'm in the midst of doing so.

"I'm in ortho," he says. "Bones. Breaking. Destruction. Metal saws. All that good stuff."

I snort softly. "I know what ortho is," I say.

"Right, right," he says, taking a sip of his drink. "So where'd you transfer from? What brings you to Chicago?"

"Seattle," I say. "Grey Sloan Memorial. I was head of trauma there, but I just wanted a-"

"Wait, Grey Sloan?" Greg asks, then his forehead creases as he thinks. "Why do I know that name?" He doesn't let me answer before he answers himself. "Wait, I know. Jackson Avery. He came from there, too. You gotta know him. You know him, right?"

I laugh sardonically. "Um, yeah."

"What a small world," Greg says. "So you came here because of him, or…?"

I shake my head quickly. "No, no, not…"

He raises his eyebrows suggestively. "Easy on the eyes, right?" He laughs. "I don't go that way. But I'm not blind. And he's got half the women in this god forsaken place fawning over him. At least he did when he first came here, I don't know if the hype's died down at this point. Wouldn't surprise me if it hasn't. The guy's a ladykiller and a rockstar with a scalpel."

I smile slightly. "I know," I say.

"Course you do. So, are you two friends? Have history together, or…? What's your story."

I clasp my hands together under the table and laugh to myself thinking at all of our unbelievable history together that this man is so blissfully unaware of. I can't help thinking back to what he said before, though, about every woman here wanting him. I don't want to admit it, but I think the tugging feeling in the pit of my stomach is jealousy making itself known. Jealousy and possessiveness, though I'm perfectly aware I have no reason to feel either of those things. I'm married. To Matthew.

"Our story…" I say, and debate on what to tell him. "We… we don't have one. Acquaintances at Grey Sloan, that's really all. I didn't come here because of him."

"You didn't?" He studies me, and I shake my head no. "Of course not. You came here because Northwestern Memorial is the best hospital in the midwest. And I'm sure you love hot, sticky summers and long, unbearable winters, and that's why you came here." He laughs at himself, and I join in.

"Yeah, that's why," I say.

"I knew it," he says. "So, does Avery know you're here? I have a consult with him later this afternoon. I could pass on a message, if you want."

"No, it's okay, we-"

"You probably are already all caught up," he says. "Be careful, those eyes'll get you. You might've been acquaintances before, but now…" He shrugs and wears a goofy smile. "Magic might be happening in The Windy City."

I laugh demurely, looking down at my mostly-unfinished lunch. "Well, I'm married," I say, flashing him my modest ring.

"Jesus, and I'm an ass," he says. "Forgive me for all this. I just saw you were sitting alone, and my mouth gets away from me, gets me into trouble all the time. Ask anyone. I just can't shut up."

"No, it's okay," I say with a smile. "Don't worry about it. But, well, I guess if you could just tell him that… that I say hi, and I'd love to talk to him soon." I gather up my things and push my chair away from the table. "I'd like that."

"I'll do that," Greg says. "It was nice to meet you, April."

"You, too," I say, then wave him goodbye and throw my trash away. I feel like I might've just made my first friend.

We get a few traumas in the ER during the course of the day, but nothing exponential or life-threatening. The only notable cases are a finger stuck in a water bottle, a second-degree curling iron burn, and a Skittle stuck up a toddler's nose. They were all fixable within minutes, and they didn't challenge my brain very much at all. The day passes by slowly, and I'm organizing shelves when I see the back of Jackson's head pass by, so I drop what I'm doing to hurry after him.

"Jackson," I call, but due to the few people milling about, I don't shout.

His shoulders tense, and I almost expect him to keep walking and ignore the fact that I spoke. But he stops and turns slowly, looking at me with a straight-faced expression.

"Hey," I breathe, trotting to catch up with him. "How are you? I talked to this guy today, Gr-"

"Greg Collins," he finishes for me, then sighs. "April, you gotta… you can't do that. He's got the biggest mouth in the entire hospital."

"Yeah, he said that," I giggle.

"It's not a good thing," Jackson says, eyebrows furrowing slightly.

"What?" I say. "It's not like I told him anything. Do you think I told him our whole life story or something?"

His body leans away from me. He wants to leave, but I won't let him. "We don't have a story anymore," he insists.

"I know that, I…" I cut myself off and start over. "Why won't you talk to me? Can't we just be friends?"

His lips press tighter together. He spends a long time looking at me, supposedly thinking of what to say. "We've said it before," he says. "We can't just be friends." He shakes his head. "I can't do that."

I touch his wrist, but he pulls away. "Can't we try?" I ask. "I came here because-"

"I don't want to know why you came here," he says sternly. "I don't. I…" His eyes search my face and come to land on my lips for a second longer than the rest. He shakes his head and gives up the rest of his sentence. "Just don't go telling Collins anything else."

"All I told him was to say hi to you, and that I want to talk to you."

"Yeah, and he told me that," he says. "He also took it upon himself to go into a full rant about fate and how I shouldn't ignore… you know what? It was all a bunch of shit, he has no idea what he's talking about half the time. The guy's nuts. Probably a bad choice of your first friend here."

I frown. "Why are you being so cold?" I ask. "I didn't do anything to you."

"You didn't?" he asks.

"No!" I insist, accidentally letting my voice raise. "I don't know why you hate me so much. I don't know what I did to you that made you so…" I leave my thought unfinished. "This doesn't seem like you. This isn't us. I don't know what happened to us."

He stares at me headily for a long time, like he has a lot to say but won't say it. And if I know anything about Jackson, there's no forcing him to do anything. "I don't hate you," he says finally.

"You don't?" I ask hopefully.

He shakes his head. "No," he says. "But I can't be around you." Then he grabs an iPad off the charging dock and walks away.

I watch him go, I can't help it. But I don't follow.

I'm not very late getting home tonight, and I can see that Matthew is already there judging by the lights on inside. I brace myself before unlocking the door, even though the last thing I want to do is continue our fight from earlier. I don't want to concede, because he's still very wrong, but fighting is so exhausting. Home is supposed to be a place of solace, not another battlefield.

He's in the kitchen when I come through the front door, so I take my time kicking off my shoes and making my way towards him. The house smells good; he's cooking, and it smells like chicken of some sort. "Hey," I call out, and set my shoulder bag down.

"Hi," he responds, and I walk into the kitchen to see him closing the oven.

"What are you making?" I ask, leaning with my elbows on the island.

"Chicken parm," he answers. "I figured you'd be hungry."

"I'm starving," I say. "Can't wait." We had chicken parm on our third date, and he knows how much I love it. He always cooks it when he wants to make up.

There's a short pause where both of us are probably wondering what the other is going to say next. "I don't wanna fight anymore," I say, lifting my eyes up to his.

"Me, neither," he says.

"We both said things we shouldn't have," I say. "Can we just…" I wave my hand in the air in a nonsensical manner. "I just wanna be done with it."

He nods slowly. "That sounds good to me."

"I mean… we'll have to discuss it again sooner or later."

"Just not right now."

"Yeah."

I nod and force a smile, feeling the urge to glaze things over to look pretty back to how they used to. We moved here to make improvements in our relationship, but if first impressions tell anything, moving here was not the solution.

"I missed you today," he says. "In the car. It was so quiet."

I chuckle. "I do like to talk."

"Yeah, you're a big old chatterbox," he says, and I laugh again and then stand up straight. I walk over to him and give him a hug, and he pats my back warmly. "I love you," he says.

I return the sentiment and mean it, then stare ahead with my cheek rested on his chest. After we finish dinner, we retire upstairs and have sex for the first time since moving here. It's only after I'm lying there on my back, feeling spent yet hollow, that I realize neither of us apologized.