4. Chapter 4
Chapter 4
Walker
“ H ow are you feeling about the holiday today?” the hospital therapist, Dr. Kinkaid, asks.
His thick head of gray hair is bent over his notepad as he reviews our notes from previous sessions. They all probably say something along the lines of:
He failed at the one thing the majority of people succeed at. How tragic.
“What holiday?”
I glance at the massive clock on the wall like it will tell me the date.
It doesn’t.
We’ve done this dog and pony show every week for months, and it always goes the same way. He asks how I’m doing before we dive deep into whatever he wants to discuss, and eventually, we end with small talk.
Apparently, today we’re changing things up and going straight for the small talk.
Dr. Kinkaid looks up from his notes with a serious expression. “Valentine’s Day.”
I groan audibly, not entirely sure why I came this afternoon other than the fact that the appointment was scheduled. This question has nothing to do with therapy, he’s just trying to fill the time in order to bill the hospital for services that are no longer necessary.
To be fair, they were necessary at first. When I walked into this office one morning after a night on call, I wasn’t really sure how I got here. All I knew was that I had reached the point where I was short-circuiting, and I needed someone to flip the switch to make me run properly again.
And it worked.
We’ve talked through pretty much everything from my childhood trauma, to my feelings about the divorce. I determined what my non-negotiables were in relationships, how to communicate more effectively, and a whole slew of other coping mechanisms that helped me get my shit together and feel normal again. But at this point, I’m not sure why I’m still here—I’m fine, and this feels like a waste of both of our time.
“I think it’s a day for card companies, chocolate makers, and sex shops to sell more of their products to couples who aren’t really in love.”
“I see,” he muses, jotting something down on his pad. “Have you ever enjoyed the holiday? Or do you just feel that way now?”
I wrack my brain, trying to think of a time when I celebrated anything at all.
“I don’t do holidays,” I state simply, not fully answering his question.
“Why is that?”
A dull throb starts to pulse behind my eye—for someone who provides counseling to healthcare workers, he really is very dense.
“My time isn’t my own.”
Surgical residency doesn’t allow for a life outside of the hospital, let alone time off to enjoy fabricated days that promote consumer spending. Almost every Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Fourth of July for the past four and a half years was spent at work. Then, you have the countless birthdays, baptisms, and date nights that were also missed because of my choice to become an orthopedic surgeon. It all adds up, and sometimes I genuinely question if the personal sacrifices were worth it.
Dr. Kinkaid puts his pen down and looks at me thoughtfully. “You’re almost done with your residency, are you not?”
“A few months to go.”
He nods and leans forward, staring me straight in the eyes. “And when do you intend to start living your life again, Dr. Chastain?”
The question hits me like an unprotected punch to the gut.
I don’t know how to live my life.
I’ve spent the past thirty-one years in pursuit of one thing—proving everyone wrong. I went to the best college in Georgia for free and graduated top of my class while swimming competitively. I didn’t party. I didn’t drink. I lost out on what most people consider the best years of their life all for the chance to become a doctor.
Then, when I got to medical school, I kept climbing. I studied nonstop. I networked. I grinded my ass to get accepted into one of the most competitive specialties in the country at my top choice hospital. And when I reached that goal, I did it all over again with residency. I took extra cases. I mentored. I did everything I could to get offered the fellowship of my dreams.
Every waking second of my life has been spent working toward achieving the same goal.
So what do I do once I finally reach it?
I genuinely don’t know.
Sure, I still have my fellowship to go, but it’s the cushiest year in all of medicine. There’s no call requirement, and all you do is absorb everything you can about your specialty. Fellowship is essentially like slamming on the brakes after finishing a five year long NASCAR race—you’re a winner because you survived the worst years of your life, but then you look around and realize that there’s nobody to party with.
So why would I be excited to live my life again?
I never started living it.
But before I can reply with a smartass comment, my pager goes off.
“Sorry, gotta run,” I say, standing from the too-firm couch in a rush.
Dr. Kinkaid removes his glasses, eyeing me with concern. “Same time next week?”
“Uh, sure,” I lie, already on the way out of the room.
I won’t be coming back.
“Dr. Chastain?”
I glance back at him with my hand on the door, ready to make my escape.
“Happy Valentine’s Day. I hope that one day you will allow yourself to celebrate again.”
** *
O n top of the divorce, the past two months have been fucking miserable. In orthopedics, we spend the first half of our chief year on trauma, teaching the interns and taking call. It’s supposed to hone our leadership skills and provide us with additional responsibility, though I honestly have no idea if I was a good example at all because the sheer exhaustion of it was miserable.
But I’d still rather be drained, than bored as hell like I am now because we spend the second half of the year on elective time. We basically prepare for our fellowships by scrubbing in on interesting cases, finishing up any research that we were working on, and studying for our board exams at the end of June. In theory, it’s supposed to give a nice cushion in between residency and fellowship so that we can tie up any loose ends, but there’s one major problem—I don’t have any loose ends to tie up.
My research has already been published in a journal. I’ve been yelled at multiple times for exceeding my hours on elective cases. And there’s only so much studying I can do before my eyes start to glaze over. For the first time in my life, my schedule is normal. And while that would be exciting to anyone else, it’s my worst nightmare.
Which is why I’m currently running to ER triage to answer Beau’s vague page that said:
Need a set of hands in bay 1. Code 8008135 .
I have no fucking idea what the numbers mean, but the big idiot probably can’t type with his huge fingers.
When I arrive at the trauma bay, I pause and look around. The area is empty, and it doesn’t seem like anything has come through, but maybe he mistyped the location?
I decide to do a quick sweep of the floor before heading back to my office. As I pass by triage, I spot Beau leaning over the edge of the circular desk with a goofy smile plastered on his face. He’s flirting with his girlfriend, and whatever he said must have been wildly inappropriate because her pale cheeks flush a bright pink, and she lovingly slaps him on the arm.
“Buff,” I snap, purposely using the nickname he hates as I walk up behind him. “Where the fuck did the trauma go, and why aren’t you there?”
He turns to me, squishing his fluffy eyebrows together. “Huh?”
I blink at him for a moment, the absurdity of the situation momentarily rendering me speechless. My adrenaline had been pumping, fueled by genuine excitement to do my job and finally feel useful. But now the realization hits me—there actually isn’t anything to do at all.
“You paged me to triage bay one,” I state, unable to help the irritation threading through my tone.
“Why would I page you? You’re not even on call anymore. Plus, the new guy is way nicer and doesn’t give me stupid-ass nicknames.” He smirks, knowing that his comment will piss me off.
It does.
I snag the pager out of my navy scrub pants and flash the message in his smug face. “Who the fuck sent me this then? A ghost? Because it came from your number.”
As he reads the screen, his expression morphs from confusion to realization, and then, annoyingly, to amusement. His hearty laugh echoes through the empty triage area, leaving me standing there feeling like an idiot because I don’t understand the joke.
“Code boobies. Damn, that’s a good one,” Beau manages between breaths. He turns to Claire. “You know anything about this, pretty girl?”
Her icy blue eyes twinkle with delight. “Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t.”
I tune him out as he replies with some deviant comment about what he plans to do to her tonight as payback.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Morgan trying her hardest to stealthily sneak up behind Beau with something clutched in her hand. Since I know for a fact that nurses don’t carry pagers, I can only assume that she swiped Beau’s and is now attempting to return it while he’s distracted. Under normal circumstances, she might go unnoticed and succeed. But I’m here, and whether I like it or not, I notice everything about her.
I notice the way her small dimples kiss the edge of her full lips when she smiles or laughs. I notice the way I make her nervous, how her breath quickens and her skin flushes around her ears when I’m close. But most of all, I notice the way she responds to me—and no matter how hard I try, I can’t help but respond back.
Lunging forward, I snag her arm before she can reach Beau’s back pocket. “Whatcha got there?”
Her eyes shine mischievously as they meet mine, then drop to my hand tightly wrapped around her forearm, as if she feels what’s happening between us just as much as I do. It’s almost like a current of energy is flowing from her skin to mine, sparking to life pieces of me I thought were long dead. It happened the night of the New Year’s Eve party. It happened two weeks ago when she made me lift her up to hang the damn decorations in the ER. It’s happening now, and I want to hate it . . . but I don’t.
“I was just returning something,” she replies with a sly smile.
Releasing her arm, I hold my hand out for the pager in a bullshit attempt at maintaining some semblance of distance between us. Her gaze sharpens in challenge as she places it in my palm, purposely brushing her fingers against mine, almost like she’s baiting me with her touch because she knows that I can’t resist her.
Beau grabs his pager and spins to face Morgan. “I can’t even be mad. That was fucking hilarious.”
She winks at me before turning to bump her knuckles against his massive ones. “You like the message? Some of my best work.”
“Hell yeah, I did. What’s wrong, Morg?” he asks, frowning down at her with amusement. “Your titties feeling a little lonely today? No Valentine to show them some love?”
My eyes inadvertently drop to her chest.
While it’s not the first thing I noticed about her, she really does have a nice rack. They’re perky and plump—the kind of tits that most women pay thousands of dollars for. The kind of tits that I have the sudden desire to sink my teeth into.
“I have plenty of Valentines,” she jokes, rolling her emerald green eyes. “Just none that are worthy of my time at the moment. Why would I want to see someone again after a pump and dump? It truly baffles me.”
“Pump and dump?” I hear myself ask.
Morgan turns her attention to me, her brow cocks like she can’t believe that I don’t know what she’s talking about. “Yeah, you know, when a guy gives you a few mediocre pumps before he blows his load, and then confidently asks if you came.”
I grit my teeth, digesting her words.
That was the last thing I was expecting to come out of her mouth, and it sends a surprising prickle of irritation down my spine. Not because she’s hooking up with men, but because she isn’t being satisfied by them. Because they’re using her for instant gratification and not reciprocating. I know I’ve only slept with one woman in my miserable life, but even I know that sex is a two-way street.
“Yeah, Walker-boo-boo, how could you not know what a pump and dump is?” Beau taunts, clearly intent on getting under my skin today.
I scoff, shooting him a nasty glare. “I’m going to pump and dump in your nasty-ass protein shakes if you keep calling me that.”
“What about me, Walker-boo-boo?” Morgan chimes. Her tone is playful, but her expression is defiant. “What are you going to do if I call you that?”
I hear Beau and Claire snicker, but my eyes stay locked on Morgan as a reel of depraved fantasies plays through my mind in answer to her question. She makes me want to tap in to parts of myself that I didn’t even know existed until recently.I want to tease her. I want to test her. I want to tie her up and torment her for making me feel this way.
But I don’t say any of that. I simply bend low and whisper in her ear, “Oh little devil, you don’t want to know what I’d like to do to you.”