He waved me off. “Don’t mention it. You’ve done the heavy lifting on this. Now it’s my turn. And I still owe you for that week of back-to-back transplants when you covered for Galbraith.” He rapped his knuckles on my desk. “But allow me to offer someadvice on this personal relationship with the resident. Don’t show up at this year’s holiday parties together and give the vultures a reason to feed on you. Give it some time. Let him get his bearings here.”
“Noted,” I said with a wry laugh. “And thank you for that colorful visual.”
Right then, when I felt like I had a toehold on my life for the first time in a hot minute, my door burst open again and with it came Dr. O’Rourke. “It wasn’t me,” he cried, slapping a hand to his chest. “I didn’t do it, I swear!”
While Hartshorn and I gaped at him, Stremmel walked in eating an apple. He shrugged likemy guess is as good as yours.
“What didn’t you do?” Hartshorn asked.
“I didn’t tell Cossapino—or anyone else,” O’Rourke said.
All eyes swiveled toward me. As if I wasn’t living through this alongside them. “Well. Thank you for that.”
“I wouldn’t do that to you,” O’Rourke went on. “Or my boy Hazlette.”
“He wouldn’t,” Stremmel said. “He’s an asshole, but not a dickhead.”
O’Rourke turned a squishy grin on him. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said about me.”
“Hazlette, is it?” Hartshorn eyed me. He didn’t need to say it, but I could tell he was relieved I wasn’t plucking one of the baby-faced twentysomethings. “If these two have already claimed him, maybe he doesn’t need much time to get his bearings after all.”
They showed themselves to the door while the weight of this day settled around me. On the one hand, I was relieved to have it all out in the open and have loads of support for it too. On the other, the entire surgical wing got to hear the most dreadful version of things from Cossapino. Anyone who wasn’t there was going to get ugly, garbled renditions of the truth.
Although it was nice to hand Cossapino his ass and then watch Emmerling do it all over again. Hopefully that part made it into the rumor mill’s accounts.
I dropped my arms to my desk and put my head down for a moment, focusing only on breathing. My heart rate evened out after a few minutes and I knew from the buzzing of my phone that I had to get back on schedule. When I lifted my head, I noticed a small box from my favorite cupcake bakery tucked beside a photo of me and Meri in Vancouver.
I pulled the box closer, revealing a folded note. I was smiling before I opened it.
Call me anytime.
Twenty-Seven
Henry
General Surgery Rotation:
Day 3, Week 3
I could getmyself to and from the hospital half asleep. I knew this because I’d stumbled home after plenty of eighteen-hour days with little more than muscle memory to lead the way. It helped that my commute was pretty much a straight shot down Charles Street and less than ten minutes on foot.
But tonight was different.
Almost thirty minutes different.
I missed the cue to cross at the light. I turned down the wrong side street and didn’t realize it until I found myself in an alley I didn’t recognize. I had to stoptwicejust to breathe slowly. I couldn’t put my finger on what had changed, although the splitting headache cutting most of my thoughts off at the knees probably had something to do with that.
I barely drank at karaoke so I couldn’t blame it on that. I was too busy being bowled over by Tori’s announcement that she was dating Dr. Copeland to do anything more than nurse onebeer. The whole thing came as a shock—but also a strange sort of relief. Finally, I had someone who understood the bullshit of hospital politics from this angle. Someone who knew what it was like to be with a woman who had a lot on the line.
By the time I made it up three grueling flights of stairs to my apartment, all I could do was slide down the door and sit while everything seemed to spin and strobe around me. Cold sweat ran down my back and it set off a shiver that turned and twisted my guts.
How I managed to get myself off the floor and into the bathroom before gagging up the contents of my stomach I would never know, but I was thankful it happened.
I wasn’t sure how long I spent on the floor, my head resting on the edge of the tub while I tried to negotiate a peace deal with my belly, but I knew moving—even a little bit—would be the worst choice in the world.
This point was proven when Mason banged the front door shut, which seemed to rattle the building down to its foundation, and my entire being lurched forward for yet another round.
He called out, “I’m back,” and I was positive I’d been hit with a sledgehammer.
