Chapter 15
Adrian
Amelia leaves, her face flushed, and something like relief or disappointment coils in my chest.
What the fuck was that?
Keith walks in as I follow, he’s completely oblivious to the earlier electricity in the room.
I force myself to walk to the sofa and sit, casually leaning back, trying to catch my breath and give my heart a chance to stop hammering against my ribs.
As if I wasn’t close to kissing the woman who’s been writing about me in the community paper.
“You guys have made really great progress with the fundraiser stuff.” Keith’s gaze sweeps over the supplies piled on the table.
I nod, trying to look calm, but my mind is spinning. She was going to let me kiss her. Her eyes closed, and she leaned in too, with lips slightly parted.
Fuck. Stop. Don’t think about that.
But I can’t stop. As much as I tell myself the memory of her face so close to mine, the way her breath caught when I whispered about dinner, the warmth of her arm against mine all evening, it’s stuck on repeat.
Even on the porch moments ago, I wanted to reach for her again.
You’re an idiot, Adrian.
She’s a journalist. She writes about me.
Whatever she’s playing, getting involved with her is the last thing I need right now.
I’m already trying to prove myself to this town while my past haunts me.
I can’t afford to give people more ammunition.
Especially not when I’m finally starting to feel like I might belong somewhere.
But when she glanced at me, there was something vulnerable in her expression that made my chest tighten. Like she’s as confused about what almost happened as I am.
“She’s sweet, right? Good to see you making friends.”
Friends. Right. That’s what we’re calling it.
I run a hand through my hair, trying to shake off the lingering awareness of how she felt beside me right here tonight. This is complicated in ways I didn’t expect when I agreed to help with the fundraiser.
Now I worry what that means when we next meet up at the bar. Will I feel that same magnetic draw that had me leaning toward her? What if I was reading the signs wrong? Does she just see me as a story? Am I just a chase to her because she wants to publish a new page-turning article?
Keep your shit together. It’s just a bar with a friend.
But even as I think about it, I know I’m lying to myself.
I review Mrs. Wynter’s chart outside Room 101.
Seventy-two years old, admitted with chest pain and shortness of breath.
Her EKG shows some irregularities, but nothing immediately life-threatening.
What concerns me more is the confusion she’s been having.
The classic signs of delirium that could indicate a UTI or medication interaction.
“Dr. Pierce.” Dr. Young’s voice cuts through the quiet ward. He’s been the chief of medicine here for twenty years, and he’s clearly used to being obeyed without question.
I peer up from the chart. “Yes, sir?”
“Mrs. Wynter in 101. I want you to discharge her by this afternoon. She’s stable, taking up a bed we need for the accident victims coming in from the highway.”
I stare at him with my mouth hanging open, certain I’ve misheard. “Sir, I think she needs further investigation. She’s showing signs of cognitive impairment that weren’t present on admission. Her family is concerned. I’d like to run a few more tests—”
“She’s seventy-two, Dr. Pierce. Confusion comes with the territory.” He’s already walking away, our conversation clearly over.
“Dr. Young, wait.” I follow him down the hallway, keeping my voice low. “With respect, sir, this isn’t normal aging. Her son says she was completely fine yesterday. Something’s changed.”
He stops walking and turns, his expression hardening. “Dr. Pierce, are you questioning my judgment?”
The question hangs in the air like a challenge.
I’m aware of the nurses at the station pretending not to listen, of the way the hallway seems to have gone quieter.
This is exactly the kind of moment I’ve been dreading since I arrived here.
Where I must choose between keeping my head down or doing what’s right.
“I’m questioning the discharge order, yes. I think Mrs. Wynter needs at least another twenty-four hours of observation.”
Dr. Young’s jaw tightens. “Dr. Pierce, let me be clear. In this hospital, senior physicians make the decisions. You’re not here to override twenty-one years of experience with your big city ideas.”
Big city ideas.
The reminder that I’m the outsider, and I don’t fit in here. Maybe never will.
“This isn’t about where I trained, sir. It’s about patient care. Her mental status change could indicate—”
“Nothing more than an old woman being in an unfamiliar environment. Discharge her. That’s the order.”
He walks away, leaving me standing in the hallway with Mrs. Wynter’s chart firmly in my arms. Through the window of Room 101, I can see her son holding her hand. It reminds me of doing the same with my dad’s.
I take a deep breath and walk back to the nurses’ station. “Can you prep Mrs. Wynter for a urinalysis and complete metabolic panel? I want to rule out infection or electrolyte imbalances before discharge.”
Jess looks uncertain. “Dr. Young said—”
“I’ll take responsibility for the orders.”
I sign the chart, knowing I won’t be able to live with myself if I do otherwise.
Two hours later, the lab results are in, and I’m reviewing the numbers when my pager buzzes. Mrs. Wynter’s room, urgent.
I hurry down the hall with Jess to find her son standing beside the bed, looking panicked.
“She just collapsed trying to get up for the bathroom.”
Mrs. Wynter is trying to speak, but her speech is slurred and her eyes are unfocused.
I start her on IV antibiotics and fluids immediately, then page Dr. Young.
He arrives ten minutes later, his expression thunderous. “I thought I made myself clear—”
“Mrs. Wynter has a severe UTI with early sepsis,” I interrupt, handing him the lab results. “Her confusion wasn’t age-related. It was infection-induced.”
His jaw working, he scans the numbers. The wait for him to speak is uncomfortably long.
He hands the results back to me. “How long have you been giving her antibiotics?”
“About five minutes. I also started her on IV fluids to address the dehydration.”
“Dr. Pierce, walk with me.”
We step into the hallway, away from the patient’s room. Dr. Young stops near the nurses’ station, running a hand through his dark hair. Is my career over? Am I about to be dismissed again?
“You were right. I should’ve listened to your concerns. Not based assumptions about your assessments on your history. That was wrong of me. What you did could’ve saved her life.”
I nod, surprised by his apology. “Thank you.”
We shake hands, and I watch him disappear around the corner, happy Mrs. Wynter is going to be okay.