Two
Beckett
S adie storms out of the room, leaving me standing here after her brother called in a big favor. A door slams.
“Great,” I mutter.
I like living alone. The quiet. The space.
I grew up in a busy household with four brothers and a sister.
I enjoy things being different these days.
I enjoy things being exactly the way I want them.
But now Sadie’s here, sleeping in my guest room, and I’m pretty sure that means a tornado has been unleashed in my house.
I already know I’m going to regret saying yes.
But it wasn’t like I could turn her down, and I definitely can’t turn Caleb down.
I run a hand through my messy hair and glance at the mirror. I look terrible. Good . Maybe she’ll realize how annoying this whole situation is. I’m not doing this for her. I’m doing it for her brother. And Caleb better know how much he owes me for this.
My stomach growls. I need more coffee. Badly. I start the espresso maker and prepare a double shot. I don’t want to deal with Sadie’s troubles or her excuses. But I can’t stop thinking about her.
Last night, she looked so sad—like a puppy left out in the rain.
She said she had nowhere else to go, and that made me feel like a jerk for even thinking about saying no.
But how long is she staying? A couple of days?
A few weeks? I don’t have time for this.
Caleb wants me to be sure Alex is out of the picture. I’m not even sure what that means.
The smell of coffee fills the kitchen, but it doesn’t help. When my drink is ready, I take a quick sip—too fast. I burn my tongue. At least the pain helps me wake up.
Then I hear a door creak behind me. She’s back. This should be fun.
Sadie walks into the kitchen, yawning. Her hair’s a mess, her eyes still sleepy. She’s changed into jeans and the T-shirt she arrived in last night.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I wouldn’t be here if I had somewhere else to go.”
“What happened to all your friends?” I grumble, keeping my eyes on my coffee.
She rubs her eyes and frowns. “My best friend lives at the hospital, and most everyone else I know would tell Alex where I am. Frankly, I’d prefer not to see or talk to him again.”
I stand, ready to defend her. “Did he hurt you?”
She rolls her eyes. “Hilarious.”
I don’t laugh. I just wait, hoping she’ll tell me what’s going on. Growing up, Alex’s older brother, Simon, was behind me a year in school. He was a bully then, and I can’t imagine he and Alex aren’t still the same.
“No. He never touched me.” She clears her throat. “Anyway, I’ve got stuff to do today. Errands and things. ”
Errands. Sure. I almost believe her. “What kind of errands?” I ask.
She pauses. I can tell she’s making something up. “Just stuff I need to handle. Do you think I could borrow your Jeep? I’ll fill it with gas. I promise.”
I was planning to drive it to work, but it’s supposed to be nice today. I guess I can take the Porsche. My jaw tightens, but I don’t have a good reason to say no. Not one that doesn’t make me sound like a total asshole.
“Fine. Just don’t crash it.”
She grins, and it’s the first time she’s looked even a little happy since she arrived last night. “Thanks, Beckett.”
I let out a grunt. “What about work? Do you have a job?”
Sadie’s smile disappears. “I’m trying. It’s just… I was working at Della’s Coffee Hut, but then…”
“But then what?” I push.
“The bank took the hut. So now…I’m kind of unemployed.”
I want to feel like I was right, like I’ve known since we were little she’d end up a mess. But instead, something in me softens. She looks so tired and sad. I want to make it better, almost as much as I want to make her go away.
She pulls at the hem of her shirt, and I notice how old and worn it is. She looks just as worn down. “I’ll figure it out,” she says. “I’ll get a job and be out of your way soon.”
I want to believe her. But this can’t be that easy to solve. And even if I don’t want to admit it, I care. We grew up together, for God’s sake. And now she has hardly any family left.
I reach into my pocket and toss the Jeep’s fob to her. “Don’t scratch it,” I say, trying to sound annoyed. Like I don’t care. Like she’s not getting to me.
“I won’t,” she says softly. I can tell she thinks I’m not as tough as I pretend to be. And maybe she’s right.
“I’ve got a long day at the hospital,” I tell her as I pick up my bag and head for the door. I need to leave before things get too chummy here. “There’s a spare house key on the hook by the phone. Don’t trash the place.”
“Like I would,” she calls after me. Her voice is playful, but I hear something else too. Relief. She really did need somewhere safe to go.
I shut the door behind me and get into the car. That’s when I realize I forgot my coffee. Too late now. I’m not going back in there.
I drive to the hospital, hoping work will help me forget about this. But I can’t shake the feeling that this is just the beginning. Sadie is going to turn everything upside down.
I walk through the hospital’s main doors, and right away, the smell of cleaner hits me. It’s sharp, but it’s familiar. It reminds me why I’m here. Just like every day, I carry a lot on my shoulders. I’m the lead cardiothoracic surgeon at Paradise General Hospital and the best in the valley.
I get to the locker room and change out of my regular clothes and put on scrubs—the soft, clean uniform that helps me feel ready.
Then I grab my white coat. It feels like a superhero cape.
I stuff the pockets with pens, a notepad, and gloves.
Swinging my stethoscope over my head, I’m set for the day.
My office is across the street, but I’m here at the hospital today.
The hallway is busy. Nurses walk quickly past me, laughing and chatting.
I hear patients talking, machines beeping in the background, and phones ringing.
It’s loud, but it’s the heartbeat of the hospital.
I nod and smile at a few people I know. Even though I’m tired, I’m glad to be here. This is where I belong.
My first stop is Rosemary Kennedy. She was born with a septal defect—a hole in her heart.
It was repaired when she was an infant, but her heart has always been weak and is slowly giving up on her.
She’s on the transplant list, and she’s fighting, but I need to find a way to get her a heart soon.
Every day we wait, I get more and more nervous.
When I reach her door, I stop. I always do this. It’s my little moment to breathe and get ready. I can’t show her how worried I am. I take a deep breath, letting it fill my lungs and calm my nerves. Then I knock.
“Come in, Dr. Beckett!” she calls.
I smile and walk in. She’s been living in the hospital for over a year, yet she’s almost always cheerful. Her room is cozy and colorful, the walls covered with drawings and postcards. It doesn’t feel like a hospital room. It feels like home.
In the midst of it all, wrapped in blankets, is Rosemary. Her eyes light up when she sees me. “Hey, you’re late!” she teases.
“Traffic,” I say, trying to sound casual, though I feel my cheeks turn red. “You know how it is.”
She raises an eyebrow. “I can tell when you’re lying. I bet it was a woman who made you late.”
I laugh a little and shrug. If only she knew which woman. Soon enough, she probably will. “I hate being so transparent.”
She looks down at some papers in her lap.
“What are you working on?” I ask, hoping to change the subject.
“Bucket list,” she says. “I’m doing all the research now so I’ll be ready to hit the road once I have a new heart. I cut out pictures and put them here in my planner. The first stop? Paris! I want to see the Eiffel Tower and eat every pastry I can find.”
“Paris sounds amazing,” I say, feeling a spark of hope. “You’ll get there. I know it.”
Just then, my pager buzzes. I look at it and sigh. “I have to go. The emergency department needs me,” I tell her, frowning.
“Don’t worry about me,” she says, still smiling. “I’ll be here tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that. Go save someone’s life!”
“I’ll come check on you later,” I tell her. “We’ll talk more about Paris then. ”
I leave her room and head down the hallway. I push open the door to the emergency department and spot my older brother, Greyson. “Whatcha got?” I ask.
He tells me about his patient. “Kurt Cole’s a fifty-six-year-old male who was bussed in this morning with chest pains. His BP is one-sixty over ninety-five. His EKG shows Q waves in leads II, III, and aVF, and the cardiac enzymes show very high troponin, but they’re falling.”
I skim the notes in his records. “Looks like he needs a bypass.”
“I thought you might say that.” Greyson nods. “We’ve got theater four prepping for you.”
“Thanks. And his family?”
“They’re with him in bay one.”
I head off to meet Kurt Cole and explain to him and his family what my plan is. They’re worried, but this is a routine surgery for me.
After that, I walk up to the operating room and begin my scrub as the team moves Mr. Cole into position. I hold my arms up and Margo Martindale, my head surgical nurse, is ready with gloves.
“Okay, Mr. Cole, we’re going to get you taken care of,” I tell him as I enter the room. “As I told your family, this is a four- to six-hour surgery. Do you have any questions before we put you under?”
“I want to be at my daughter’s wedding in June.”
“I’ll do my best to make it happen.”
I wink at Dana Camp, my anesthesiologist, so she can start her process. She injects into his IV. “Mr. Cole, start counting down from one hundred.”
He lasts to ninety-five, and he’s out. She’s an expert with the endotracheal tube, and he’s soon placed on the ventilator.
“Okay, team, let’s get started,” I tell them, checking that everything is in place.
Margo turns the music on, and Depeche Mode’s Music for the Masses fills the room .
I do this surgery often, but every patient is different. Every case matters. I go over his history in my head—test results, scans, and reports all flash through my mind. I take a deep breath and focus.
“Scalpel,” I say, and my assistant places it in my hand.
The surgery begins. My hands move with care and practice. With every cut, I remember the reason I became a surgeon. It’s not just about fixing hearts. It’s about giving people a chance at life.
We move him onto a bypass machine so I can stop his heart and repair the damage. There are three clogged arteries.
The surgery is long. I guide the graft and make sure it connects just right to the aorta and the blocked artery.
As we work, a few things go wrong—some bleeding, a couple of problems that need quick thinking.
But my team works together like a well-oiled machine.
We stay calm. We fix what needs fixing. Every second brings us closer to saving a life.
Finally, it’s time to see if our efforts paid off. “Okay, ladies and gentleman, let’s see how we did.”
Dana turns off the bypass machine, and we all hold our breath. The room goes quiet. So quiet, it’s like time has stopped. I press my hands to the patient’s heart. It’s cool. I close my eyes and take a breath. This is the moment that counts. Come on. You can do this. Don’t give up on me now.
Then I feel it—a little twitch. A pulse.
“There it is,” I say, smiling. “Come on, buddy.”
I rub the heart gently, helping it along. Slowly, the rhythm gets stronger. The monitors beep faster, steadier. It’s working. We did it.
My team lets out quiet cheers, smiling behind their masks. “Great job, everyone,” I say, feeling a wave of relief. “Let’s close him up.”
We finish the surgery and get the patient ready for recovery. His heart is beating. He should be able to go to his daughter’s wedding. I feel ten feet tall every time I do this. That’s why I do this job, why I keep going even when it’s hard .
I pull off my bloody gown and mask and step out into the waiting room. His family looks exhausted. I try to smile early when it’s positive. “Kurt did great,” I tell them.
The resulting celebration drowns out everything we did, but that doesn’t matter. They’ll hear it again. His wife pulls me into a big hug, followed by his daughter and several others.
“Okay, he’ll be in the ICU all night, and we’ll give his body some time to rest, so he probably won’t be conscious for a few days.”
“When can I see him?” his wife asks.
“It could be a while.”
“I’ll be here,” she says.
I thank them for being such great supports, encourage them to take care of themselves, and answer a few more questions before stepping away.
I do a bit of follow up with other patients, but I don’t have a lot of energy left after all those hours in the OR.
After tackling a small pile of paperwork, I give up and head for home.
When I walk through my front door that evening, the first thing I notice?
The living room is a disaster. Immediately everything feels off.
There’s a takeout bag with ketchup on it.
A glass rests on its side, and I can only hope it’s water spilled on my glass-top table and not something else.
Dishes fill the sink, and there’s a pile of shoes inside the doorway.
My head starts to ache. Dear God, she’s been here less than twenty-four hours. I knew it would be a tornado. Where is she? I look all around the house and finally spot her in a tiny yellow bikini out by the pool. Sweet Jesus, I am not going to be able to do this.