Nods all around.
The chatter outside had died down, interns off to enjoy what was left of the day or, more likely, fretting about how they’d done. Garcia pulled up a sheet on his tablet, and then the math began—pens tapping, scores adding up. #12 and #19 were tied with perfect numbers, and my pulse ticked higher even as I strove for calm indifference.
Easier if it isn’t him. And yet…
God, I shouldn’t care.
Final tallies: #12 came in first by one point, #19 just behind. #5 and #3 were tied, with #22 rounding out the top five. The rest bled points in speed or sloppiness.
“Reveal time,” Garcia said, and I told myself I was completely unbiased, neutral, practically Switzerland. The first two names, #3 and #22, pinged no more than a distant sense of recognition. Then #5: Tessa Edwards.Pink hair, big smile.Nice. #19 was a Cam Nguyen I didn’t remember at all. And then…#12.
Finn Hayes.
My heart thumped once, stupidly. Pride, maybe—irrational, at odds with the stab of inevitable complication. Fuck. Tomorrow, I’d sit front and center while Finn presented, pretending I didn’t have his number saved in my phone underWalking Trouble. I’d ask him a scripted question, same as everyone, while the other interns watched.
Right now, he was ahead by only one point. A shaky lead. But if he won… Jesus Christ. Not only would he be part of discussions to prepare the twins’ surgery—no, he’d also step right into a three-month pediatric surgery rotation to complete the experience. So much for professional distance.
Neutral, Jesse. Cool, calm, collected.
Yeah—as if.
The carved wooden door of O’Rourke’s Irish Pub opened just as I was about to reach for it, spilling a pair of tipsy friends and classic rock onto the sidewalk. I let them pass, then walked into a comforting cloud of stale Bud Light and fryer grease, the tiles underneath my sneakers just the slightest hint sticky.
A perfect antidote to the hospital’s sterile hallways. In more ways than one.
TVs above the bar replayed a muted Mets game, the playlist bouncing from Bruce Springsteen to Taylor Swift. Over the past three years, this had become an off-duty sanctuary—no pagers, no scrubs, just sixteen beers on tap, bartenders who pouredheavy, and a solid number of regulars with opinions about which one’s the real Guinness.
I claimed the end stool and signaled Maeve for a Jameson, neat—not my standard fare on a Thursday night, but I’d earned it. The first sip burned clean on the way down, my shoulders loosening just enough to notice the tension they’d held. What a fuckingday.
The door opened again. I glanced over to spot Shane in a floral shirt bright enough to guide planes, backpack slung over one shoulder, scanning the room. When our eyes met, he grinned and beelined for me.
“Hey, man.” He dropped his backpack with a thud that suggested it held half a library, then straddled the neighboring stool. “You look like a particularly pensive storm cloud.”
I flagged Maeve for Shane’s usual pint, propped both elbows on the bar, and sighed. “Yeah, well. Turns out the universe likes irony even more than I do.”
“Sounds promising.” He bumped me with an elbow—gently, something inherently solid about him that had anchored me since our days of sharing a run-down apartment. I didn’t regret getting my own place, but sometimes I did miss coming home to someone who’d distract me with stories of elementary school chaos.
I waited until he was set with his pint, then toasted him with my whiskey. “So, remember that maybe-hooker I met last weekend?”
“Met?” Shane grinned. “Yeah, that’s one way of putting it. What was it—best mouth in the city, possibly the whole damn country?”
Yeah, I might have said that. I swirled my whiskey and exhaled. “Plot twist: I just graded his knot-tying technique.”
His eyes widened. “Whoa, wait. You’re shitting me.”
“Wish I were.”
To Shane’s credit, he tried. He really did—silent, lips twitching at the corners as he clenched his jaw against a guffaw, eyes twinkling like some fucking cartoon character.
I took a despondent sip of my Jameson. “It’s okay. Go ahead—laugh.”
He did, loud enough to make a few other patrons glance over. “I just,” he started, stopped, and let another laugh spill. “Jesus, Jesse. He’s one of your interns? Mezcal boy with the eyeliner and the incredible ass—direct quote?—”
“Indoor voice,” I interrupted, and Shane halted, then continued at a slightly lower volume.
“Well,him. He’s one of your boot-camp charges? How does that even happen?”
“Beats me.” I tipped my glass. “Professional backgrounds didn’t exactly come up the first time.”
