Chapter 17 The Protocol
The Protocol
PRESTON
Three Months Later
The psychiatric wing of St. Jude’s Hospital smells different than the rest of the building. The ER smells like bleach and panic. Surgery smells like ozone and God complex.
Psychiatry smells like lavender and aggressive negotiation.
I am standing at the nurses' station, wearing a Tom Ford suit, but I have traded the Oxfords for limited-edition sneakers. It is my new uniform. Accessible, yet aspirational.
“Dr. York,” the insurance representative says over the phone. He sounds tired. “I cannot authorize a therapy dog for a patient with short-term insurance. It is not ‘medically necessary.’”
“Listen to me, Gary,” I say, leaning back in my ergonomic chair. “I am looking at your company’s quarterly earnings. They are very impressive. It would be a shame if someone mentioned to the Wall Street Journal that you are denying comfort to a grandmother who is essentially a national treasure.”
“She’s not a national treasure,” Gary sighs. “She’s a retired librarian.”
“Librarians are the guardians of civilization, Gary. Do you hate civilization? Do you hate books?”
I catch my reflection in the glass partition. I look tired. I look busy. I look happy.
“Fine,” Gary cracks. “We’ll authorize the dog. But only for three sessions.”
“Pleasure doing business with you, Gary. Say hi to your wife for me. The one who works at the gallery? I bought a painting there last week. Lovely woman.”
I hang up.
The head nurse, Brenda, looks at me. She shakes her head.
“You are terrifying,” she says.
“I am a Liaison,” I correct. “I facilitate solutions. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a lunch date with the establishment.”
I grab my chart—I still have a chart, though it mostly contains doodles and lunch orders—and head for the elevator.
I am not a Board Member. I am not an Intern. I am something new. Max calls it “Special Projects.” The HR department calls it “Patient Advocacy Director.”
I call it “Robin Hood with a Budget.”
I take the elevator down to the cafeteria. The noise hits me instantly—the clatter of trays, the hum of gossip.
I spot them immediately. The Royal Court of St. Jude’s.
They are sitting at the round table near the window.
Maxwell is eating a salad that looks like it was measured with a ruler. He is also reading a tablet with intense concentration. Jax is destroying a double cheeseburger, looking happily exhausted.
And next to them, peeling an orange with surgical precision, is Luke.
I walk over. I slide into the empty chair next to Luke. I steal a wedge of his orange before my butt even hits the plastic.
“Hey,” Luke says, smiling. He doesn't look up, but he pushes the rest of the orange toward me.
“The dog is approved,” I announce. “Mrs. Higgins gets her golden retriever.”
“You bullied the insurance company again,” Max sighs, not looking up from his tablet.
“I leveraged them, Max. There is a difference.”
“How is Alistair taking the news?” Jax asks, stealing a fry from his own tray.
“He’s spinning it,” I say. “Sloane put out a press release this morning. Apparently, my resignation from the Board wasn't a ‘scandalous exit.’ It was a ‘strategic deployment.’ The headline is ‘Heir to York Empire Chooses Front Lines Over Corner Office.’”
“Strategic deployment,” Luke snorts. “You ran down several flights of stairs.”
“Alistair says it makes me look ‘rugged,’” I say. “He’s currently trying to get Vanity Fair to do a profile on my sneakers.”
“At least he’s not suing anyone,” Jax says. “And the hospital is solvent. It’s almost… boring.”
“It’s efficient,” Max corrects, scrolling through a spreadsheet. “Speaking of efficiency, Jax, I’ve been reviewing our shared assets.”
Jax pauses mid-chew. “Oh no. Here we go. What did I buy? Was it the motorcycle? I told you, the Ducati was an investment.”
“The motorcycle is a death trap, but it’s depreciating within acceptable limits,” Max says dismissively. “No, I’m looking at our tax liability. It’s suboptimal. We’re filing as single entities because we never formalized the domestic partnership beyond the hospital HR paperwork.”
“Okay?” Jax says slowly. “And?”
Max taps the screen. “I’ve run the numbers. If we were to execute a legal marriage contract, we would save approximately twelve percent on the estate taxes. Plus, it would streamline the medical proxy forms and allow us to consolidate the real estate portfolio.”
The table goes silent.
I stop chewing my orange. Luke freezes.
Jax stares at Max. He puts his cheeseburger down.
“Max,” Jax says. “Are you talking about taxes? Or are you… asking me something?”
“I’m stating facts,” Max says, finally looking up. His blue eyes are perfectly calm, but there is a tiny, frantic tick in his jaw. “We live together. We work together. You tolerate Alistair. I tolerate your taste in music. It is a stable merger. Logically, we should ratify it.”
Max adjusts his glasses.
“I have an opening in my schedule next Tuesday at 4:00 PM. We could go to the courthouse. Sign the license. Merge the genotypes. Unless you have a conflict?”
Jax gapes at him.
“Did you…” Jax starts to laugh, a look of pure disbelief spreading across his face. “Did you just propose to me via spreadsheet?”
“It’s a cost-benefit analysis,” Max defends, his ears turning pink. “It’s romantic in a fiscal sense.”
“You want to marry me,” Jax says, leaning in, a wicked grin forming. “You want to make me an honest man, Ice King.”
“I want to save twelve percent!” Max snaps, flustered. “And… perhaps… ensure you are legally bound to me so you can’t leave when I get annoying.”
Jax softens. The look on his face is so tender it almost hurts to watch.
“Max,” Jax whispers. “You idiot.”
He opens his mouth to answer.
BEEP-BEEP-BEEP.
The sound shatters the moment.
It isn't just one pager. It’s all four of them. Max’s, Jax’s, Luke’s, and my phone.
Then the PA system crackles to life.
“Code Orange to the Main Lobby. Code Orange to the Main Lobby.”
Max flinches. The romantic tension vanishes, replaced instantly by the Surgeon.
“Code Orange?” Max frowns. “That’s… hazardous material?”
“Or a chemical spill,” Jax says, standing up, the proposal left hanging in the air like a suspended chord. “We have to go.”
“Wait,” Luke says, tilting his head. “Code Orange… Lobby… It’s Bromley.”
We all look at each other.
Mr. Bromley. Our frequent flier.
“He was discharged yesterday,” I say. “Psych cleared him, I spoke to him personally even.”
“He’s back,” Luke says, standing up. “I can feel it in my bones.”
Max looks at Jax. “We will discuss the… merger… later.”
“Oh, you bet your pretty ass we will,” Jax winks. “Let’s go.”
We run.
We hit the lobby in record time. A small crowd has gathered near the grand staircase—the one with the ornate, wrought-iron banister that Alistair donated in the 90s.
Security is there. Mama Ortiz is there.
And in the centre of the crowd is Mr. Bromley.
He is not swallowing anything this time.
He is stuck.
Specifically, his head is stuck between the bars of the banister. He is kneeling on the marble floor, looking sheepish.
“Mr. Bromley,” Max sighs, walking up to the railing. “How?”
“I dropped my lucky quarter,” Bromley explains, his voice echoing slightly in the metal trap. “I went after it. Physics happened. Also, I think I may be allergic to iron.”
“We need the fire department,” a security guard says, revving a saw. “We have to cut the bars.”
“Absolutely not!” I intervene, stepping forward. “That iron is nineteenth-century French scrollwork. If you cut it, my father will feel it in his soul. He will come down here and lecture us about metallurgy for three hours.”
“He’s stuck, Preston,” Jax says, crossing his arms. “Unless you have a magic wand.”
“I don't have a wand,” I say, taking off my suit jacket and handing it to Luke. “But I have a protocol.”
I look at Luke.
“Lube,” I order.
“Lube?” Luke asks.
“Surgical lubricant. Gallons of it. And a shoehorn.”
Luke grins. He turns to the nurse. “Get the man some lube.”
Five minutes later, Mr. Bromley’s head is coated in a thick layer of medical-grade jelly. I am kneeling on one side. Luke is kneeling on the other.
“Okay, Mr. Bromley,” I say, gripping his slippery ears. “On three. You are going to exhale, and we are going to pull. Do not panic. Think thin thoughts.”
“I’m thinking about gazelles,” Bromley says.
“Good man. Luke? Ready?”
Luke nods. He grips Bromley’s shoulders.
“One. Two. Three!”
We pull. Bromley groans. There is a wet shlunk sound.
And then, pop.
Mr. Bromley slides free. He tumbles backward into Luke’s arms. He is covered in slime. Luke is covered in slime.
The lobby erupts in applause.
“The quarter!” Bromley yells. “I see it!”
He lunges for the coin on the floor.
“NO!” Max, Jax, Luke, and I shout in unison.
Jax grabs Bromley by the back of his sweater and hoists him up.
“That’s it,” Jax says. “You’re admitted. Observation. No banisters. No coins. No objects smaller than a toaster.”
Jax marches Bromley toward the elevators. Max follows, shaking his head and pulling out his tablet—presumably to check the depreciation of the banister, or perhaps to reschedule his wedding slot.
That leaves Luke, me, and Mama Ortiz standing in the lobby.
Luke and I are sitting on the floor. We are covered in medical-grade jelly. My Tom Ford pants are ruined. Again.
Mama Ortiz stands over us. She looks at the banister. She looks at the lube on the floor. She looks at us.
She sighs. It is a heavy, dramatic sound that echoes in the cavernous space.
“You two look like glazed donuts,” she observes.
“We saved the patient, Mama,” Luke says, wiping a smear of jelly from his cheek. “And the ironwork.”
“Mmm-hmm.” She crosses her arms, tapping her foot. “You saved the patient. Good. Now save your mother’s sanity.”
She points a finger at Luke.
“The other one,” she says, gesturing toward the elevator where Max disappeared. “He is finally marrying the Cowboy. I heard about the spreadsheet. It is unromantic, but it is progress.”
I snort. “The Cowboy?”
“Dr. O’Connell,” she clarifies. “He walks like he is wearing spurs. Anyway, they are settling down.”
She leans down, getting into Luke’s personal space.
“So, Lucas. Now that you have secured the ‘Liaison’…” She eyes my ruined suit with critical approval. “…and he seems willing to ruin expensive fabrics for you, I have expectations.”
“Mama, please,” Luke groans, his ears turning pink. “Not here. Not in the lobby.”
“Where else? You never answer your phone, and you changed the locks on your apartment for some reason.” She straightens up, adjusting her scrub cap.
“I am not getting any younger, mijo. I want grandbabies. Or at least a wedding where the cake doesn't taste like cardboard. I have a dress I’ve been saving since 1998. It has sequins. It needs an audience.”
She looks at me.
“You,” she says.
“Yes, Ma’am?” I sit up straighter.
“You have good genes. And good teeth. Don’t waste them. If you break his heart, I will hide your body in the MRI machine. But if you give me grandbabies? I will make you arroz con leche every Sunday for the rest of your life.”
“That is… a very compelling offer,” I say honestly.
“Good.” She pats Luke’s sticky cheek. “Clean this mess up. You look like a slip-and-fall lawsuit waiting to happen.”
She turns and marches toward the elevators, muttering about sequins and venues.
Luke and I are left alone in the silence of the lobby.
Luke puts his head in his hands. “I am going to die. I am actually going to die of mortification.”
“She offered me arroz con leche,” I point out, nudging his knee with mine. “That’s a binding verbal contract, Luke. Legally, I think we’re engaged now.”
Luke looks up. He starts to laugh. It’s a warm, free sound that bounces off the marble walls.
“You saved the banister,” Luke says, shaking his head.
“I saved the patient,” I correct. “The banister was a bonus. The pudding is the goal.”
Luke wipes his cheek, smearing the jelly further. He looks at me with that same intensity he had in the ER, amidst the blood and the chaos.
“You know,” Luke says softly. “According to the employee handbook, dating a Board Member is a conflict of interest.”
“I’m not a Board Member,” I remind him, reaching out to wipe a glob of lube off his chin. “I’m just a Liaison.”
“A Liaison,” Luke tests the word. “So, no conflict?”
“None,” I say. “Just interest.”
“High interest,” Luke agrees.
He leans forward. He kisses me. It is sticky. It is messy. We are sitting on the floor of a hospital lobby in front of thirty people, including a very judgmental nun near the gift shop.
I don't care.
I pull back.
“Thai food?” I ask.
“Thai food,” Luke nods. “But we have to shower first. You’re a hazard.”
“I’ll race you to the shower.”
Luke stands up and offers me his hand.
“You’re on, York.”
I take his hand. We walk toward the exit, leaving the banister, the Boardroom, and the expectations behind us.
The PA system chimes again. Max is paging Jax. Probably to discuss the venue.
I smile.
I have a new protocol now.
Protocol: Love.
And the prognosis is excellent.