Chapter 9 #2
Finch stares at the cup. “A varnish?”
“Archival quality,” I promise.
Finch takes the cup. He swallows the pills.
“Thank you,” he whispers. “Finally. An artist.”
I walk out of the room. Dr. Evans follows me, his jaw hanging open.
“How did you know that?” Evans demands. “How did you know about the... the Lapis whatever?”
“I spent a summer in London avoiding my mother,” I shrug. “I practically lived at the National Gallery. Gainsborough is basic, Evans. If he starts ranting about the chiaroscuro in a Caravaggio, call me. That gets complex.”
I check the next chart.
“Who’s next? Please tell me it’s someone obsessed with 19th-century French architecture. I have a lot of opinions on Haussmann.”
LUKE
Preston is excellent in Psychiatrics. And it is annoying.
Two days after he began his duties there, I’m doing rounds on the seventh floor, and I stop outside the day room.
Preston is sitting at a table with Mrs. Higgins, a patient who has refused to speak to anyone for three days. She’s currently knitting aggressively.
“I understand completely,” Preston is saying, his voice low and soothing. “My mother also believes that silence is the ultimate power move. She once went a full week speaking only in French just to irritate my father, who only speaks English and ‘Finance.’”
Mrs. Higgins’s needles pause. She looks up. “French?”
“Fluently. Mostly insults,” Preston nods. “It’s very effective. But the problem with the silent treatment, Mrs. Higgins, is that eventually, people stop listening to the silence. They just enjoy the quiet.”
Mrs. Higgins frowns. She considers this. “So I should…?”
“Make noise,” Preston suggests cheerfully. “Complain. Demand better Jell-O. Or, tell Dr. Silva here what’s bothering you so we can adjust your meds and get you home to your cat.”
Mrs. Higgins turns to me. “My tea is cold,” she snaps. “And the pills make me dizzy.”
“I’ll fix the tea,” Preston promises, standing up. “Dr. Silva will fix the pills.”
He walks past me, winking. “See? No scalpels required. Just emotional leverage.”
I stare after him. I spent an hour trying to get her to talk. He did it in five minutes with a story about his mother.
“Show off,” I mutter, but I’m smiling.
I finish my rounds and head toward the nurses' station to chart. The floor is quiet, the afternoon lull settling in.
I turn the corner and freeze.
Preston is there. But he’s not alone.
He is backed up against the medication cart. Standing in front of him, boxing him in with a clipboard and an aura of absolute authority, is Rosa Ortiz.
My mother.
I dive behind a linen cart. I know I’m a grown man. I know I’m the Chief Resident. But when Mama Ortiz goes into "protective mode," the only survival strategy is concealment.
“...Dr. York,” my mother is saying. Her voice isn't loud. It’s that terrifyingly quiet tone she uses when a resident prescribes the wrong dosage.
“Nurse Ortiz,” Preston replies. His voice is steady, but I can see his knuckles gripping the counter behind him. He looks like a deer in headlights, if the deer was wearing Ralph Lauren.
“You’re doing good work in Psych,” she says. “Mrs. Higgins ate her lunch. That was you.”
“I just… listened to her,” Preston says.
“Mm-hmm.” My mother steps closer. She adjusts the pen in her pocket. “You’re charming. You have the ‘gift of gab,’ as they say. You can talk a dog off a meat wagon.”
“I… thank you?”
“Don’t thank me yet.” She looks him up and down, her dark eyes sharp. “I have eyes, Preston York. I see things. I see how you walk around this hospital. I see how you look at the patients.”
She pauses for effect.
“And I see how you look at my son.”
Preston stops breathing. I stop breathing. The linen cart stops breathing.
“I—” Preston starts, his voice cracking slightly. He clears his throat. “I have the utmost professional respect for Dr. Silva.”
“Professional respect,” my mom repeats. She laughs, a short, dry sound. “Is that what we’re calling it? Is that why you bought him seventy dollars worth of sushi in the middle of the night? Is that why you follow him around like a lost puppy with a stethoscope?”
Preston’s face turns a shade of red that clashes horribly with his blue scrubs. “The sushi was… a morale expense.”
My mom steps into his personal space. She reaches out and straightens his ID badge.
“Listen to me, mijo,” she says, her voice dropping to a whisper that carries perfectly to my hiding spot. “Lucas is strong. He is smart. He worked hard to get where he is. He didn't have a paved road; he built the road himself, brick by brick.”
“I know,” Preston whispers.
“You are a York,” she continues. “You have money. You have power. You can leave this job tomorrow and go live on a yacht. Lucas cannot. This is his life. This is his heart.”
She pats his chest, right over his heart. It looks like a pat, but I know it feels like a threat.
“If you are playing a game,” she says, her eyes locking onto his. “If this is just a fun little rebellion against your brother… walk away. Go play somewhere else.”
Preston stares at her. The snark is gone. The deflection is gone.
“It’s not a game,” Preston says. His voice is quiet, but it doesn't waver. “I’m not playing, Rosa. I promise.”
My mom studies him. She searches his face for a long, agonizing ten seconds. It’s the same look she gives me when I say I’m ‘fine’ after a thirty-hour shift. She is an X-ray machine in sensible shoes.
Finally, she leans back. The tension breaks.
“Okay,” she says briskly. “We need you in Room 712. Mr. Bromley is back. He got the Magic 8-Ball stuck in the bed rail.”
Preston blinks, looking like he just survived a firing squad. “I… yes. Right away.”
“And Preston?”
He freezes. “Yes, Ma’am?”
She smiles. It’s a small, terrifying, but genuine smile. “Next time you order sushi, get me the spicy tuna. Lucas has no taste, but I do.”
She turns and walks away, her shoes squeaking on the linoleum.
I wait until she’s gone before I step out from behind the linen cart. Preston is still leaning against the medication cart, clutching his chest.
“I need a crash cart,” he wheezes. “I’m in V-fib. Restart my heart.”
I walk over to him, fighting the urge to laugh. “You handled that well.”
Preston whips his head toward me. “You were watching? You coward! You left me to die!”
“You don’t intervene with Mama Ortiz,” I explain, moving closer until I’m leaning against the counter right next to him. “It’s a force of nature. You just have to weather the storm.”
Preston exhales, running a hand through his hair. The movement rucks up his sleeve, exposing his wrist. I catch myself staring at it.
“She knows,” Preston murmurs, turning his body toward me. He doesn't step back. In fact, he shifts closer, invading my personal space. “She knows everything. She demanded spicy tuna.”
“That’s her seal of approval,” I say, keeping my voice low. “If she didn’t like you, she wouldn’t have asked for food.”
Preston looks at me. His blue eyes are dark, intense. “She thinks I’m playing a game.”
“Are you?” I ask.
Preston pushes off the counter. He takes a step forward, forcing me to tilt my head back slightly. He reaches out, his fingers grazing the stethoscope around my neck, straightening it just like my mother straightened his badge.
The touch burns through my scrub top.
“I lied to her, you know,” Preston says softly.
My heart hammers against my ribs. “About the sushi?”
“About the respect being professional.” His fingers linger on the tubing, close to my collarbone.
He drops his voice to a whisper that makes the hair on my arms stand up.
“There is nothing professional about the way I respect you, Dr. Silva. There is nothing professional about how much I want to do this.”
I swallow hard. “Do wha—”
Preston doesn’t wait for me to finish. He surges forward, his hand tangling into the back of my hair, and crashes his mouth onto mine.
It’s not a polite kiss. It’s not tentative. It’s desperate. It tastes like adrenaline and coffee and pent-up frustration. I make a noise in the back of my throat, half-surprise, half-surrender, and grab the front of his scrubs, pulling him closer.
Preston groans against my mouth, his other hand gripping my hip, pinning me against the medication cart.
For three seconds, my entire world narrows down to the heat of his body and the slide of his lips against mine.
It’s reckless. It’s insane. It’s the best thing that’s happened to me in this building.
“Dr. York! Dr. Silva!”
The voice hits us like a bucket of ice water.
We spring apart violently. I slam my elbow into the cart; Preston stumbles back, looking wild-eyed, his lips swollen and red.
Nurse Brenda comes skidding around the corner, looking frantic. She stops, staring at us. I’m panting. Preston is adjusting his scrub top with trembling hands.
“What?” I bark, my voice cracking.
“Mr. Bromley!” Brenda gasps, looking traumatized. “He got the Magic 8-Ball out again. But he insists he needs to internalize the wisdom.”
Preston wipes his mouth, trying to regain his composure. “So? Don't let him swallow it.”
“He’s not trying to swallow it, Doctor,” Brenda says, her face pale. “He says it’s too big for his throat. He asked for a gallon of lube and he’s currently in the downward dog position.”
Preston stares at her. I stare at her.
“He’s going to…” Preston gestures vaguely towards his backside. “With the ball? The baseball-sized ball?”
“He says the outlook is ‘Bottoms Up,’” Brenda whispers.
Preston closes his eyes. He lets out a long, ragged breath. He looks wrecked. He looks beautiful. And he looks absolutely horrified.
“I hate this place,” Preston whispers. “I hate people. I want to go back to the heart surgery. The heart was less… invasive.”
“You love it,” I correct him, my heart still racing a mile a minute, though the mood has definitely shifted from romance to crisis management.
Preston opens his eyes. He looks at Nurse Brenda, then turns his gaze slowly back to me. He lifts a hand, thumb brushing his own lower lip where I just bit him.
“To be continued, Dr. Silva,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “After I prevent a rectally inserted fortune-telling device.”
He winks—a dark, promising wink that sends a fresh wave of heat down my spine—and turns to follow Brenda.
“Coming, Brenda! Tell Mr. Bromley if that ball goes in, the answer is definitely ‘Ask Again Later’ because we are not fishing it out!”
I watch him go, leaning back against the cart because my legs don’t feel entirely steady.
“To be continued,” I whisper to the empty hallway.
And for the first time in my career, I really hope the sequel comes soon.
PRESTON
I walk into the Residents’ Lounge after trying and failing to find Luke to resume our to be continued scene, desperate for caffeine and silence to sort my head out.
I stop.
The lounge is usually a depressing cave filled with mismatched chairs, a stain on the rug that looks like Rorschach’s nightmare, and the smell of stale popcorn.
Today, however, the lounge smells of... palo santo?
And it is empty.
The couch is gone. The table is gone. The lockers have been draped in beige linen.
Standing in the centre of the room is a man wearing a kimono and holding a copper tuning fork. He strikes the fork against his knee. HMMMMMM.
“The resonance is still blocked,” he whispers to the wall. “It is the sorrow of the drywall.”
“Excuse me,” I say, stepping inside. “Where is the couch? I need to sit on the couch. My legs have ceased to function.”
The man turns. He looks at me with eyes that are far too wide.
“The couch was holding trauma,” he says. “We released it.”
“Released it where?”
“To the hallway. It was disrupting the flow of Qi.”
I close my eyes. I know this smell. I know this vocabulary.
“Mother sent you,” I state.
“Catherine feels the energy in this sector is hostile,” the man confirms. “I am Sven. I am a Vibrational Architect. I am here to align your chakras with the HVAC system.”
“My chakras are fine, Sven. My mother is insane. Please bring the couch back. The residents need to sleep on it.”
“Sleep is a crutch for the unaligned,” Sven says dismissively. He walks over to the kitchenette.
He stops in front of the La Marzocco Linea Mini. My Linea Mini.
He frowns. He holds the tuning fork up to the steam wand.
“This,” Sven says, pointing a trembling finger at the machine. “This is a vortex of chaotic energy. It vibrates at a frequency of anxiety. It must be cleansed.”
He reaches for a bundle of sage. He reaches for a lighter.
“Sven,” I warn, stepping forward. “If you light that sage in a hospital, the sprinklers will go off. And if the sprinklers go off, the MRI machine shorts out. And if the MRI machine shorts out, Dr. Silva will kill me. And he won’t use a tuning fork. He will use a scalpel.”
“The machine is evil!” Sven shouts. “It screams!”
“It steams!” I shout back. “Step away from the espresso maker!”
“What in the name of San Juan is happening in here?”
We both freeze.
Mama Ortiz stands in the doorway. She is holding her lunch bag. She looks at the beige drapes. She looks at the missing couch. She looks at Sven, who is brandishing a smoking sage bundle.
Her eyes narrow.
“Where is my chair?” she asks. Her voice is dangerously quiet. “The one with the squeaky wheel. The one I sit in to eat my soup.”
“The squeak was a cry for help,” Sven explains foolishly. “I banished it.”
Mama Ortiz drops her lunch bag. It hits the floor with a heavy thud.
“You banished my chair?” she repeats.
She takes a step forward. She is five-foot-two. Sven is six-foot-three. Sven looks terrified.
“I… I can retrieve it,” Sven stammers, backing up against the counter. “I can… re-integrate the furniture.”
“You have three minutes,” Mama Ortiz says. She checks her watch. “If my chair is not back in this corner, and if this… brujería smoke is not gone… I will call security. And I will tell them you are trying to steal the narcotics.”
“That’s a lie!” Sven gasps.
“I am the Charge Nurse,” Mama Ortiz smiles. It is a shark smile. “They will believe me. Go.”
Sven runs. He actually runs, his kimono flapping behind him like a cape of failure.
I watch him go. I look at Mama Ortiz.
“My mother,” I explain. “She thought the Feng Shui was off.”
Mama Ortiz walks over to the espresso maker. She pats it affectionately.
“Your mother has too much time,” she says. “But she has good taste in drama. Now, make me a coffee. I have to go threaten a man in a kimono.”
“Yes, Mama.”
I start the grinder.
“And Preston?”
“Yes?”
“Tell your mother if she sends another wizard to my floor, I will send her a bill. For ’Emotional Damages.’”
“I’ll put it on the company card,” I promise.
She nods, satisfied. She picks up her soup.
“Good boy.”