8. Parker
Parker
The ER bustles with the usual controlled chaos as I step through the double doors and into the stream of nurses, doctors, and the various beeps and buzzes of equipment. Morning shifts are always full of energy and sheer exhaustion.
“Morning, Doc Matthews,” Nurse Tía greets me with a harried smile as she rushes by with a tray of supplies balanced in her capable hands. She’s a veteran around here and highly respected.
“Morning, Tía. Coffee doing its job today?”
She snorts, her eyes finding their way to the ceiling behind her horn-rimmed glasses. “Barely. I’m three cups in and still a zombie.”
“Maybe that’s a sign you should try Red Bull,” I tease, falling into step beside her as we walk toward the nurse’s station.
“Blasphemy,” she says with mock horror. “Don’t let anyone around here hear you say that.” She casts a glance at me, and her expression softens. “You look chipper today, though. Got a little spring in your step. Something going on?”
I open my mouth to brush it off, but I catch myself. The more people who know about my thing with Adair, the better, if we are going to sell the marriage as real. I’m still not used to calling her my wife.
“Actually, um, yes. It’s new. We’re keeping it quiet for now, but it’s serious.”
Tía’s eyes light up. “A new love interest? Serious? I want all the details!”
“I’m still a little shy about it, but yeah. It’s good.” I shrug, and though I try to keep my expression neutral, a smile breaks through.
“Oh, you’re not getting off that easy,” she says with a playful nudge.
“I’ll get it out of him,” Janie adds from the desk, grinning. “The whole ER’s dying to know who tamed our Hot Doc.”
I’m still chuckling when Nurse Janie, one of the younger nurses, chimes in from behind the counter, glancing up from her computer. “Parker, the untouchable, workaholic doctor, is settling down with the ‘ol ball and chain? You've only been here six months. You didn't give any of us a fair shake.”
“Hey!” I protest, but Janie’s grin tells me she’s enjoying this too much to care.
She shrugs, feigning innocence. “Just saying, I think the whole ER’s been curious why you were single in the first place.”
I shake my head, laughing as the teasing continues. This kind of banter is what keeps us sane. The ER’s chaos is constant, loud, unpredictable, and often emotional. We crack jokes to keep from cracking under pressure.
After finishing my residency and a surgical fellowship in New Orleans, I wasn’t planning to stay in the ER long-term. But this Palm Beach job came up, and I needed a reset.
I did my fellowship in general surgery. I put in the hours.
The dream hasn’t changed—it’s on pause. I don’t want to live shift-to-shift forever.
I want to build something lasting. Earn my spot in the OR somewhere and get back to the part of medicine that made me fall in love with it in the first place.
Right now, though, the ER is where I am. And these people, this team, they’ve got my back. Even if they’re merciless with the ribbing.
My pager buzzes against my hip.
“Duty calls,” I say, checking the screen. “Looks like I’ve got a patient waiting.”
I make my way to the exam room where the patient is sitting. He's got one pant leg rolled up, revealing a nasty scrape on his knee. His arm’s already bandaged, but the bloodstains on his shirt suggest it was a pretty rough fall.
According to his chart, he lives in the local assisted living facility and has been having trouble with his balance lately.
“Mr. Harris,” I greet him warmly, holding out a hand. “Good to see you. Though I wish it were somewhere else, maybe a coffee shop instead of the ER?” I speak loudly and enunciate my words carefully.
He chuckles and his face lights up with a mixture of humor and resignation. “I'd much prefer that, too, Doctor.”
“Let's try to do that next time,” I tease as I settle onto a stool and roll toward him, taking a closer look at the scrape on his knee. “What happened today?”
“Well,” he begins, shaking his head, “I was out for a walk, around the park like usual, but I saw this squirrel dart across the path. I swear it looked right at me, Doc. Next thing I knew, I was down on the ground, talking to the pavement.”
“Those squirrels are ruthless,” I say with mock seriousness. “They see a nice gentleman like you and think, ‘Here’s our chance.’”
Mr. Harris laughs, a real belly laugh, and the sound is warm and full. “Edie would’ve told me to keep my eyes on my feet. She never let me hear the end of it when I tripped over something.”
“Sounds like she kept you on your toes.”
“Oh, she did.” His laughter fades into a soft, sad smile. “Married fifty years, you know? Can’t shake habits that deep. Sometimes I still hear her voice, telling me to sit up straight or reminding me to take my blood pressure meds.”
I nod, giving him time to share whatever he wants. Sometimes, these talks are as much a part of the healing process as anything else I could do with bandages and stitches.
"I think our loved ones who go before us are our guardian angels," I say, thinking about my own mom. "I know my mom keeps me straight."
“Amen to that. Have you ever been married, Doc?”
I pause long enough to make it real. “Well, I just got married, as a matter of fact.”
His brows lift with interest. “Well, I’ll be damned. She must be something.”
“She is,” I say, and I’m not even lying, even if she isn’t my wife in the sense he’s thinking.
This isn’t love-at-first-sight or fifty years of Sunday morning coffee and inside jokes. It’s logistics. Legal documents. A six-month illusion with real consequences.
Mr. Harris chuckles again. “Well, I envy you that new love. Wives see the good in you, no matter how much you try to convince them otherwise. I'm happy for you, young man.”
The conversation shifts into quieter memories of Edie, and I listen, feeling the weight of his loss in every word.
It’s humbling watching someone still so connected to a love they’ve lost. Part of me wonders what that would be like, if love really could be so all-encompassing that it’d last even beyond death.
Eventually, I finish dressing the wounds and stand up to make some notes on his chart.
“All done here, Mr. Harris. But promise me you’ll keep an eye out for those sneaky squirrels next time.”
“Will do, Doc. Thanks.” He reaches out and gives my hand a firm shake, holding it for a moment. “Take care of that wife of yours, Doctor. She's the best part of your life, hands down.”
I nod, and he offers me a small smile before he’s wheeled back out to the assisted living facility’s van. I watch him go, feeling strangely unsettled.
The words stick.
In my mind, I see her barefoot in her living room, curled up with a glass of wine, sharp as hell and already under my skin.
Six months isn’t that long.
Suddenly, out of the blue, it isn't long enough.
Back in the break room, I pour myself a quick cup of coffee and wrap my hands around the hot paper cup. Before I can take a sip, my phone beeps in my pocket.
I pull it out to see my dad’s name.
The last time we spoke was the morning Roger died. His voice was clipped and clinical, delivering the news like he was updating a court docket. No pause. No condolences. Just, “ Thought you ’ d want to know, seeing how close you two were. ”
I haven’t spoken to him since. And I wasn’t planning to, especially not now, not with the will in motion and the six-month marriage clause already in effect.
The last thing I need is Leeland Matthews sniffing around something he wasn’t invited to.
Despite everything telling me to ignore the call, I answer. I can’t avoid him for six months. Hopefully I can give him enough to keep him at arm’s length.
“Hey, Dad.”
“How are you, son?”
He never calls me by my name. Just son. Like it’s a title. A role. A leash.
There’s a pause. Then he says, measured and dry, “I wanted to touch base about Roger's inheritance.”
And there it is.
Fuck. He knows.
I clear my throat, but I’m at a loss for words. I’m exactly where he wants me.
“It’s a significant estate, as you're aware,” he adds, like we’re talking about someone else's quarterly portfolio.
My stomach twists. I keep my tone neutral.
“I wasn’t aware that was public knowledge,” I say, carefully. Not too sharp or accusingly. But I want to know how he found out, and so quickly. “The estate attorney said everything was being handled privately.”
“It is,” he says, like that should comfort me. “But after hearing of Roger’s passing, I did some research.”
I shake my head, trying not to explode. Of course. I should’ve known he’d dig. I want to ask him how, but I don't care to listen to his bullshit.
"Gotha." Looks like I've walked myself right into my biggest nightmare.
“Clever of him to file it out-of-state,” Leeland continues. “If it hadn’t been for that land, I may never have thought to look there. I helped him with a title issue years back.”
Roger was smart, but it would have taken a miracle for him to keep it hidden from Leeland.
“Turns out,” he says. “My brother left it all to you.”
No shit, Sherlock, I want to say. But I don't want to antagonize. I'll let him think he's got all the answers, for the most part.
"The attorney called me. I was as surprised as anyone."
He sniffed it out like a bloodhound. He probably thought Roger had no will and thought he could stake a claim on that land in Vermont. And now that he knows it was all left to me, he’s regrouping.
“You’re aware of the main condition, I assume?” he asks, like he’s testing me. “Leave it to Roger to make it more complicated than it needs to be.”
I grab the back of my neck and pull it, trying to work out the stress that’s building. “Of course. The attorney went through everything with me.”
“And I trust you’ve taken the clause seriously.”
There it is. I should dodge and shut it down. But I don’t. I fall back into old patterns and revert to a twelve-year-old trying to pass inspection.
“I’m taking care of it, Dad.”
“Oh?”
“My girlfriend and I eloped, as it turns out. Quietly.” The words are out before I can stop them. “This whole thing helped us realize it was time.”
“You didn't tell me you had a girlfriend. Who’s the lucky woman?”
“Her name’s Adair Carpenter. She owns a wellness space here in Palm Beach. She runs it herself. She’s smart, grounded. She’s good for me.”
For a personal touch, I add, “You'll love her.” Saying these words to my father makes me shudder. I want to keep them as far away from each other as possible.
He makes a noise, maybe approval. Maybe filing the data point. “Interesting. Sounds like a wonderful partner for you.”
“Sure,” I say flatly. I'm sure his use of the word "partner" isn't by accident. I don't take the bait.
“I’ll come down next week,” he says, like it’s already decided. “It's been too long. Plus, I’d like to meet my son's wife.”
The punch lands low and slow.
“Dad, we’re still getting our feet under us. Maybe wait until we do something more formal. A reception. Or?—”
“I won’t stay long,” he cuts in. “But a visit is in order, with everything going on.”
And like that, I’m boxed in.
“Alright,” I say. “We’ll make it work.”
When the call ends, I sit there, my heart pounding and an ache deep in my stomach. My coffee's now cold as my internal temperature rises. The lie isn’t hypothetical anymore.
If it wasn't already, it’s a performance now.