4. Greer
Greer
I think there’s bile in my hair.
I’m not really sure. I got paged to look at a liver during a trauma to see if it was salvageable, and when I leaned in—everything went wrong.
Trauma isn’t my thing, fortunately—I think I’ve had enough of that for a lifetime.
But that didn’t change the fact that organs perforated, blood sprayed, and things ended up in my hair that didn’t belong there because I hadn’t bothered to tuck my ponytail under my scrub cap.
I had no one to blame but myself for that one. I’d spent approximately one hour in my own bed last night before getting a page that there was a match for one of my patients who desperately, desperately needed a new pancreas and kidneys.
That took about seven hours, and I was overtired and somewhat delusional, if the low-hanging ponytail and the fact I invited a football player I’ve only met once to do rounds with me were any indication.
He was good with the patients—I’ll give him that. I imagine he’s probably good with people in general. A smile like that, eyes that are wholly focused on you, so you know he’s listening.
Only one of my patients, Jer, was a football fan, and it turned out he cheered for a team in Philadelphia, so it was sort of a moot point in terms of the grand reputation rebuild I proposed it to be when I was running off three hours of combined sleep. But Beckett sat with him, and they talked stats and rumours and all sorts of things I don’t care about and don’t plan to care about while I finished my rounds.
I left him there when I got the page about the lacerated liver.
I could have showered here, but I have an entire twenty-four hours off, pending no organs suddenly becoming available, and I wanted out of the hospital as soon as possible. My sister gave me one of those wax sticks for your hair to keep in my bag so I could “look good” during long hours here. It’s come in handy a total of zero times, but today I wet a brush, slicked the whole thing back, and tried to pull off a bubble braid so maybe no one would notice.
I’m not entirely sure it had the desired effect, and I didn’t drive today so someone somewhere is going to be subject to medical waste when they sit beside me on the subway, but the people of the Toronto Transit Commission have definitely seen worse.
The night air hits me when the revolving door finally opens, and I tip my head back, inhaling. I don’t always mind when I get stuck here longer than I should, but tonight, I just need my own space and I really, really want to go home.
But Beckett Davis stands there just beyond the curb, one leg kicked up against a white truck, hat on backwards, hair curling against the nape of his neck, and one of the lampposts shining down on him like it’s a fucking runway.
“Hey, I just wanted to say thank you for today.” He’s smiling at me and it’s one of those stupid, moony smiles I bet people melt for: full lips framing lovely teeth, and one dimple popping in his cheek. His eyes—an otherworldly green—drop to my chest, but then he grins again. “Cool shirt.”
“What?” I pluck the worn cotton between my fingertips and look down. I don’t even remember what I’m wearing. An ancient, worn cotton shirt my sister gave me that says “Dorsia,” the name of a fake restaurant from my favourite movie, in faded lettering. “Oh. Yeah. I’m sorry, were you waiting here for me?”
“No, I was hanging out with Jer. We were watching some old highlights. The nurses kicked me out about five minutes ago.” He pushes off the truck and cocks his head. “Can I take you for dinner or for a drink? It’s the polite thing to do.”
Those are just words. Just something a sort of acquaintance might offer to another as thanks for helping them out. But they aren’t, not really. At least not to me.
They’re also things you do with someone you might be trying to date. My heart beats in my chest, but not really filling itself to its full potential or capacity because it exists in this little cage I’ve drawn around it.
I don’t date. But I don’t know Beckett Davis enough to tell him that. I cross my arms over my chest, protection and deflection all at once. “Maybe you shouldn’t worry about being polite and do what you actually want to do.”
He huffs a laugh, taking his hat off and running his hands through his hair like I’m an exasperating piece of work. I am, but he keeps grinning at me anyway. “I actually want to get some food. I’m starving. And I’d be happy to take you, too.”
My nostrils flare. I just want to go home and go to sleep—but he’s looking at me, and he reminds me a bit of a lost puppy. The heart that’s constantly bleeding, according to my sister, twinges in my chest, and I roll my eyes. “Fine. Can we go somewhere dark so no one notices when I fall asleep at the table?”
Beckett’s grin splits across his face, and that stupid dimple pops. He points his thumb over his shoulder towards the truck. “Perfect. It’ll reduce my chances of getting a drink thrown at me.”
I narrow my eyes. No one can possibly care about one missed kick that much. “People don’t actually throw drinks at you?”
“Not yet, but last week someone did make contact with a Timbit.” He raises his palms and smiles at me before turning and opening the passenger door.
“Oh, that’s a shame. Not Canada’s favourite donut hole. What flavour?”
“Birthday cake.” He gives me a resigned nod I think he thinks is a joke, before jerking his chin towards the pristine leather seat.
One of my brows rises. I’m not sure it’s entirely wise to be hopping in a stranger’s truck, even if he is some sort of celebrity. But I tip my head to the side, and his eyes go from these shining emeralds to something that looks sort of muted and sad.
His brother and the other residents think I’m mean, but my sister says I actually feel too much.
“What a waste, that’s the best kind.” I offer him a rare, soft smile, moving past him to hop up into the truck.
“That’s what I said.” Beckett’s smile widens and he holds out his hand for me, and against my better judgement, I take it. I don’t know anything about football—but these seem more like the type of hands that should be catching footballs, not wasted fluttering at his sides while he lines up a kick.
Wide, calloused palms, with veins traipsing the back of them.
I always worry about my hands—they’re dry, covered in chapped skin, and my nails are filed down to the quick. In the winter, they’re red and practically raw from the bitter Toronto cold and the sheer amount of antiseptic they’re exposed to.
But Beckett says nothing, offering me another grin, but this one seems soft—like he’s thankful, quietly so, like I might be doing him a favour by spending time with him.
He closes the door on me, and I catch a glimpse of my slicked-back hair in the passenger’s side mirror. I’m not sure how much of a favour it could possibly be when one of us may or may not be covered in medical waste.
The bar is dark—some hole in the wall pub on a side street close to the east end I’d never seen before. I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep if I tried.
Not only is someone obnoxiously tuning a guitar on a poorly lit stage five feet to my left, but Beckett Davis talks. A lot.
It’s not a bad thing, necessarily.
It’s just a lot more conversation than I’m used to.
My father isn’t a talkative person, at least not with me. My sister knows me enough to know that sometimes I prefer to sit in silence. My two best friends, Willa and Kate, don’t live in town, and most of our conversations consist of text messages or voice notes that I can send when I do feel like replicating a conversation.
But Beckett really likes to chat. So much so that he didn’t leave a ton of room for me to say a lot on the way over here.
He didn’t seem to mind—happy to recount his afternoon sitting with Jer, watching old highlights and SportsCentre coverage, huddled over a small iPhone screen, telling me how surprised he was to have enjoyed his afternoon in an otherwise sterile, unforgiving place.
He tossed the occasional question my way, asking how far I lived from the hospital, how long a typical shift was, and whether I ever saw anything weird because sometimes I took the subway home in the middle of the night instead of driving.
The answer was yes, but he barely left me enough time to answer before he was asking me if I ever did reformer Pilates.
On anyone else, it might have seemed rude. But his fingers gripped the steering wheel, and he couldn’t stop tapping his thumb against the leather. It seemed sort of like he was excited to have someone to talk to. It would have been cute, if it didn’t seem so sad.
He hasn’t said much since we got here, flipping his hat forward so the beak cast a shadow, eyes darting around like he was worried someone might pop out from behind a wall and tell him they hate him before proceeding to throw a drink in his face.
But he visibly relaxed when he slid into the cracked vinyl booth in the corner. And it looked like the weight of the world melted off his shoulders when the server came along with nothing but a kind smile on her face to take our drink orders.
He looks positively alight when she brings them back, practically ignoring us when she drops off the perspiring glasses of beer and peeling plastic menus.
“So how was your day?” Beckett asks, taking a sip of beer. Drops of condensation fall from the glass and splash across the worn wood table.
“Fine,” I answer, scanning over the menu before I look back up at him. “I have bile in my hair.”
He grins, dimple illuminating in his cheek. “Sexy.”
It’s a beautiful smile, and it’s a beautiful dimple.
Most people don’t know this—but a dimple is actually the result of a muscle in your cheek splitting in two.
It’s not a failure of the muscle that makes it that way, just a random act of biology during development.
But it makes me feel a bit like I’m split in two—heart sitting neatly in its cage where it’s safe, but perking up and watching Beckett from behind those bars, my cheeks burning with a flush I hope he can’t see, and my brain screaming to life with warning.
And that makes me a bit of a failure, because I don’t date.
“Good thing this isn’t a date.” I arch an eyebrow, dropping the menu in exchange for my own drink.
“Just one new friend, taking the other out for a thank-you drink.” He holds his glass up in cheers before setting it down, green eyes tracking over the menu. He taps an index finger on something I can’t see. “Do you think the steak is any good?”
“No.”
A laugh catches in his throat, and his eyes light up. “I have my doubts, too. But I need the protein.”
“For all your reformer Pilates?” I ask, voice dry.
“Yeah, for that.” He studies me for a second before clearing his throat. “I meant what I said earlier. Thank you. I don’t love hospitals. We spent a lot of time in them as kids. Our sister ... she had childhood cancer. Leukemia. She was diagnosed when she was six and it went on for almost a decade.”
I exhale, biting down on my lips. I hate stories like this. They’re beautiful and inspiring, but there’s something about a child being shaped in such a specific way that leads them down a path as an adult they might never have followed—but I don’t say that. Instead, I whisper, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. I mean, it’s what made Nathaniel become a doctor. But you know that.” Beckett shrugs, taking another sip of beer.
My lips pucker and my eyebrows knit. “Why? Why would I know that?”
He swallows, looking confused. “You’re both doctors. You sort of work together. You guys don’t ... I don’t know, share your reasons for pursuing such a noble occupation?”
I laugh now, incredulous. “Do you think that’s what we do in the break room? Sit around in a circle and share our hopes and dreams and our inspirations?”
He pulls his head back. “Why not? It’s what we do during training camp.”
I give him a flat look. “Really?”
“Nah.” He grins, dropping his head against the vinyl of the booth and propping one hand up under his head. He leaves the other on the table, his fingers drumming against the worn wood in time with the music. “Seriously. What made you want to be a surgeon?”
A path that I was shaped and moulded for, that I might never have followed otherwise.
But I don’t tell him that either. I wrinkle my nose instead. “I was shockingly good at the game Operation as a child.”
“Alright, Dr. Roberts, you can keep your secrets.” Beckett appraises me for a minute, hand still cupping the back of his head. All that does is highlight the sharp edges of muscle in his arm, the curve of his bicep, the jut of a defined tricep, and all those cords and veins drawing a map to those hands.
He’s looking at me, and he doesn’t know me, but I feel a bit like he might—like we might have more in common than we ever would have dreamed.
“I’m sorry football fans weren’t plentiful on the post-op recovery floor today,” I deflect.
“It’s okay. It was a pleasant surprise. I’m supposed to be going to pediatrics and oncology because of Nathaniel but...” He rubs his jaw before throwing me a rueful, sad sort of smile. “You probably have a higher IQ than everyone in this room combined, so I’m sure you can infer why that wouldn’t be my favourite place to hang out.”
“Is your sister okay?” I ask, tipping my head.
Beckett nods, smiling softly. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and flashes the screen at me. The photo illuminates, revealing Beckett and Dr. Davis, each with an arm slung around the shoulders of a beautiful brunette, smiling over a cake littered with burning candles. “Sarah’s good. She turned twenty-six this year. She’s been in remission for about a decade. Her immune system is a bit fucked, but for the most part, she’s okay.”
“You have the same eyes.” I flick my gaze up to him, another tiny smile pulling at the corners of my mouth. It’s ironic, my love for happy endings, seeing as I can’t help but lament the path that led to the one my family got. But I hope that maybe, his was unencumbered. “I’m glad she’s okay.”
“Me too.” He flips the phone towards him, and his lips twitch in the ghost of a smile as he stares at the picture before pocketing his phone.
He loves his sister, just like I love mine.
And mine might be right. I might feel things a bit too much. I know what it’s like to be forced to live or exist somewhere that hurts you, and I might have made that choice willingly, but he didn’t.
Even though I certainly don’t have time to shepherd Beckett around the hospital, I offer anyway.
“You could come back, if you wanted.” I drop my head against the vinyl booth, taking a sip of my beer. “Unfortunately, Jer will probably be discharged tomorrow, but I’ll have a whole new cadre of patients for you to try and woo back over to your side later this week.”
“Yeah?” Beckett’s eyebrows come together, and he leans forward, dropping his palms to the table. “Alright. I might take you up on that. Law of averages, right? One of my fans is bound to end up on your table.”
I tilt my head. “I’m not sure that’s how that works, but sure. We’ll go with that. Just give me until the end of the week, if you’re going to keep coming back. I’ll see if I can clear it with my chief.”
He nods, grinning again. “Your chief. Is that like your coach?”
“No.” I snort into my beer. I think I’m overtired. It’s not even funny, but my cheeks start to burn with a smile.
“Ah, well.” He shrugs. “My coach wants to supervise one of my regular practices Wednesday, so the time moved. Not something he usually shows up to, so later this week works for me.”
I’m about to ask a question because it’s not out of willful ignorance or an attempt to be so above something popular that I don’t know anything about football, I just don’t have a lot of time.
But our server comes back, smiling expectantly.
Beckett looks back down at the menu, drumming his fingers before tapping it. “Fuck it, I’m getting the steak.”
He looks back up at me, and he winks, like he doesn’t realize he’s probably one of the most beautiful people someone has ever seen in real life.
The server looks to me, pen poised over her notebook.
I hadn’t really looked at the menu. I press my head into the booth and wave my hand around. “I guess I’ll have the steak, too.”
Beckett holds up his palm. “Here’s to protein.”
I roll my eyes, but I meet his hand with mine. “To protein.”
He smiles at me, and it feels real—like his muscles twitched upwards in spite of themselves. Like his brain sent all his neurons firing to tell him that this was a nice, safe, happy moment. That he could relax.
I smile back, and that feels real, too.