“He hates me.”
“If that’s hate, I’d let him hate me all night long, and again in the morning.”
I turn to catch Martin’s eyes, wondering if there is a hint of truth behind his words. I’m not ready to admit to him, or to myself for that matter, that there have been a few times where I’ll catch Dr. Andrews looking at me … in a peculiar way. Like maybe he is curious about something. There are times we’ll be volleying insults back and forth, and when he goes to laugh, he’ll swipe a hand over his mouth, almost to wipe the smile away. Like the joke caught him off guard and he’s surprised each and every time that we get along.
And then there are times, like when he watched me braid my hair or when we talked about what real love should look like, that he looked at me in a way that made every part of my body flush.
“So did you hear that Dr. Anderson’s going to be performing a double transplant the day after tomorrow?”
My head swivels toward Martin, squinting to see if he’s serious or not. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was just dicking around to see if I’m listening.
“Are you for real? A double transplant? What type?”
He takes a slow, leisurely sip of his matcha, swiping a finger across his barely there mustache to wipe away invisible foam. “Word on the street is, it’s liver-kidney.”
Goosebumps break out along my arms. “Did you say ‘liver-kidney?’” While each transplant on its own is something we might see in our residency, someone needing both organs, and successfully qualifying for both at the same time, is rare. Too rare.
Martin smirks. “Mhm. People are saying Dr. Anderson has asked Dr. Andrews to assist, and they might pull in a chief resident. Nephrology will be there, too, so it’ll be a packed room.”
Dammit. My shoulders sag with the news. “So there’s no chance since I’m glued to Dr. Andrew’s hip that I’ll get to scrub in on that, hey?”
Martin nearly giggles at my pitiful hope. “Fat chance. Unless you’re ready to admit that there’s something going on between you and Dr. Andrews. The room will be packed with the necessary staff and residents who rank a hell of a lot higher than us. I highly doubt they’d let any of us even watch from the circulating station. Plus, those two working together is going to be pretty intense. If history repeats itself, instruments will be thrown and they’ll cuss each other out before the case is over.”
“There’s nothing going on between us, believe me. Dr. Grump definitely hasn’t developed a soft spot for me. Unless you count his scowls and one-word answers.” I puff out my chest to mimic Dr. Andrews’ muscular torso. “He walks around like a big grumpy bear, and half the time I’m so worried about making him mad that I fumble over my words—”
“Annaliese,” Martin hushes, reaching out to grab my forearm.
“It’s true. I fumble over my words and then he looks at me like I’ve offended him somehow. When really, I know what I’m talking about. I’m not the complete twat he seems to believe that I am.”
“I never said you were a twat. A little junior, maybe.”
My entire body freezes hearing the deep voice behind me. One that doesn’t belong to Martin or another one of our peers. It belongs to the one person who I wouldn’t have wanted to hear me talk about how grumpy he is.
I steel my shoulders, school my shock, and turn around to face Dr. Andrews. “I said youlookat me like I’m a little twat, not that you called me one.”
Martin snorts at my comment, and I quickly spin to give him a dirty look before turning back to Colt. “Sorry about that, we were just chatting over the schedule and—”
“I’ve told you before, Keeton. Gossip and paint your nails on your own time, we have work to do.”
He moves past me and Martin through the double swinging doors of the post-op unit. I blow out a heavy breath and turn once more toward my friend to see if he has any final words of advice. Instead, he leaves me with a hesitant smile and a half-hearted thumbs up.
I follow Dr. Andrews’ path through post-op, easily finding him among the sea of beds as he stands a head taller than most. Saddling up next to him, I watch over his forearm as he silently scrolls through the vitals monitor on our recent case.
My eyes scan his hands, admiring the thickness of his wrist and the corded muscle that makes up his forearm as it flexes with each miniscule movement. But when I move my eyes back down, I pause, noticing a series of faint scars on the inner wrist of his left hand. They run horizontal along his forearm, and my stomach clenches at the realization. My time working in the psych ward during med school was very eye-opening. As someone who thankfully hasn’t had severe issues with mental health, it was hard for me to see others who were so burdened by their pain that they’d inflict harm on themselves.
I’ve been depressed, sure. There have been days where I’m in such a funk I don’t want to shower or eat. I know what it’s like to beg your body to snap out of it. But I don’t know what it’s like to be in so much pain on the inside that you want to hurt your body on the outside.
I look from the white slashes up to Dr. Andrews’ face, wanting to reach up and swipe back the tousled hair that falls over his forehead when his head is tilted down. Guilt washes over me, knowing that while I piss and moan about him not going easy on me, I’m also loving working next to him.
Yeah, I have a crush on him, but it’s more than that. He’s brilliant and talented, and even though I’ve caught him gritting his teeth in annoyance at my abundance of questions, he still answers each and every one. He has a reputation for being cold and unfriendly. From what I’ve heard, most people think it’s due to arrogance. I had originally thought that as well, but I wonder now if the so-called arrogance is just a mask he wears to protect himself. The scars lining his wrist are old and worn, but I still feel that nauseous embarrassment burning my throat. He probably doesn’t care what I think about him, I get that. And while I don’t want to blurt out my feelings over a loudspeaker, I definitely don’t want him to think anything that isn’t true.
“I don’t mean to call you Dr. Grump in a mean way,” I blurt out.
His eyes flicker to me for a split second before returning back to the screen, his scrolling resumed. “I know what people say about me, Keeton. I’m not breakable.”
“Well I know that.” I chuckle awkwardly, begging to lighten the mood.
“Then drop it.” His words are clipped, a clear signal that he wants the conversation to be over.
