Surgery is a hard specialty, Princess.
Imagine being nine months pregnant and trying to stand at the operating table.
It would be difficult to operate with a neutral mindset when your postpartum hormones are raging.
It’d be embarrassing to cry in front of a patient and their family because you’re missing your newborn baby.
If there was a book of sexist comments a woman could hear in a male-dominated field, I’d likely have heard every one of them. And sadly, mostly from my own father.
“Well, honey, if he’s such a good friend of your dad’s, I’d keep my distance. How have things with your dad been, by the way? Have you guys been able to spend some time together?”
The printer finally releases my paper and I breathe a sigh of relief. I snatch it from the tray as soon as it’s ready, fold both sheets, and tuck them into the front pocket of my jacket. “Hah, right. He took me to dinner the first day I was back in the city, but since that night, the only time I see him is when we pass each other in the halls.” The child inside me had held out false hope that we could establish some sort of relationship. Something that didn’t end when I was a teenager and forced to move hundreds of miles away. But the moment we didn’t live in the same house, sitting down at dinners together, or sleeping under the same roof, our relationship basically disintegrated.
I pull the folded sheets from my pocket as I swiftly make my way down the hall toward patient rooms, scanning for Dr. Andrews.
I probably could have gone without a printed schedule, seeing as I haven’t left the hospital since I arrived yesterday at five in the morning. I was teamed up with another resident last night for on-call, Martin, and quickly learned that he could have been my adoptive brother. We forced each other to stay awake overnight by making copious amounts of coffee and letting the other catch a nap here and there during the slow moments. It was one of the better nights I’ve had since coming here, and I was able to see my patients twice on the overnight shift. I’ve already reviewed morning labs and vitals, but I still practice my speech for Dr. Andrews in my head. Two of them are follow-ups from yesterday: one a bowel obstruction with perforation, the other to repair a bleeding ulcer. Both procedures were incredible to witness.
My mom sighs heavily on the other end. “I’m sorry, honey. In all honesty, that’s what I was expecting from your dad, but I had hoped for your sake he would try a little harder.”
A thick, itchy ball of cotton fills my throat, and I try to swallow it down. “It’s alright,” I say a little quieter. “Can't change someone who doesn’t want to change.”
My work phone rings at my side; I mumble a quick goodbye to my mom, promising to call her soon before hanging up my cell and reaching for my other phone.
“Dr. Keeton.”
“Andrews. You here?”
His voice sounds flat over the line, but the deep, grumbly nature still has my chest fluttering. “Just passing through the doors, I can see you at—”
Through the small, plexiglass window, I see his head swivel in my direction. The moment I’m within sight, he hangs up the phone abruptly.
“Morning,” I say, trying to keep my voice annoyingly upbeat. “It’ssogood to see you, too. Can you believe this weather?”
He squints at me, questioning my cheery motives as he brings the paper coffee cup he’s holding to his lips for a sip.
“Consult is waiting.”
He turns to move down the hall, and I let myself stay a step behind him at first, admiring his broad shoulders and the way his scrubs can barely contain the muscle. My eyes travel down his back to his incredible ass and thick thighs. He suddenly stops and spins around so swiftly I nearly slam into his chest.
“What?” he barks
“I … what?” I stammer.
“You’re lingering, why?”
I’d rather jump off the roof of this building without a parachute than tell him I was lingering so I could check out his ass, so I throw myself to the wolves.
“Oh, I … just forgot which room we were going to. Sorry.”
He stares at me for a moment, his gaze sort of softening from bitterly crabby to his regular morning crabby, before he spins on his heel.
I rush to keep up with him, my two steps to his one as he nods once at the papers in my hand—my sign to rattle off the morning report.
“How was your weekend?” I offer instead, and he swings his head toward me with his brows furrowed together.
“What?”
I bite the inside of my cheek to temper a smile. “I don’t know how many ways you can interpret that question, Dr. Andrews. Did you enjoy your weekend? What did you do?”
