22. Parker
Parker
The ride to the airport is mercifully short, but Leeland makes it seem infinitely longer.
He’s recounting the dinner with Paul for the third time in two days. It's almost like I'm on the witness stand and he's waiting for a minute detail to change so he can hone in on that.
At least I kept him away from the actual meeting. He insisted on staying in town until it was done "in case I needed him," and we spent the entire afternoon after my shift yesterday poring over every word.
“Had a call with Paul this morning,” he says, like he’s talking about the weather.
My eyes flick over to him. “Why?”
“Just tying up loose ends. Making sure your ducks are in a row. I wanted to help smooth things along.”
“Smooth things?” I echo, suspicion already blooming. "Everything was fine, Dad. I told you that. Why would you do that?"
“Son.” He sighs. “You’re smart, but green. This whole situation is delicate. One bad step and the board will call it all into question. So I asked Paul for a debrief, that's all.”
“Jesus, Dad. You can’t?—”
“Relax. I didn’t say anything you haven’t already told me. But if there’s something hinky in the wording of that will, don’t you think we should know now instead of six months from now when it blows up in your face?”
I clench the steering wheel tighter. “You went behind my back.”
“I went around your back.” He smiles like that’s any different. “There’s a difference. I’m protecting the family. I’d think you, of all people, would appreciate that.”
I pull into the drop-off lane with my jaw tight.
“Stay out of it, Dad. I'm asking you to stop with all of this.”
“I can’t,” he says simply. “Not when your name’s tied to mine. You know that.”
The door shuts.
And like that, he’s gone, striding into the terminal like he owns the place, Starbucks in hand and not a single doubt in his step.
I don’t move. Instead, I sit there, hands on the wheel, watching the crowd swell and shift until he disappears.
I can’t let myself drop my guard.
Her words echo in my head. Adair let me in last night. Not all the way. Not fully. But enough.
Enough to kiss me like she meant it, letting go of our argument on the way in to meet Paul, the stress of our performance meetings, hell, even the first misunderstanding with Rose.
And then the phone rang. One stupid, mistimed call during a very inopportune time and one voice from my past, and now everything’s completely fucked.
She doesn’t know Rose was calling about her. Nor does she know that I asked for help behind the scenes because I believe in her line. Because I wanted to do something good, something that didn’t have strings, something that was focused on what she built.
But now she thinks there’s something between me and Rose and that I’ve been lying. Whatever tiny piece of trust she gave me, whatever sliver of vulnerability she offered up in that moment, is gone.
Don ’ t let your guard down.
Too late. She did.
And I don’t know how to get it back up without pushing her even further away.
The words ping in my head like a ricochet as I pull away from the curb, merging back into traffic.
The drive to the hospital is longer than usual, though it’s only a few miles. I turn on the radio, flipping through stations until I land on something low and instrumental. My thoughts are too loud for lyrics right now.
It’s been a helluva few days. I'm still not sure what to make of Paul. Leeland's cryptic warning that Paul has doubts almost comes out of nowhere. I mean, sure, the meeting could have been a little smoother, but I don't think it was a disaster.
And Paul even said it was nice to see a couple in love. What am I missing?
The hospital looms ahead, its familiar structure a strange comfort. As I park and make my way inside, I can’t shake the thought that my life was simpler before this inheritance.
Back then, I had my job, my routines, my steady, predictable world. Now, everything is spinning out of control. Adair, the inheritance, even my relationship with my dad, who normally stays in my periphery, is full of more tension than usual .
I swipe my ID badge and step into the ER, the scent of antiseptic and the chaos of activity immediately grounding me.
My shift is steady, if not uneventful. A sprained wrist from a basketball game, a senior with a nasty ear infection, a man who insists his stubbed toe is broken.
For a few hours, I’m able to push everything else to the back of my mind. Here, I know what I’m doing. Here, I’m not second-guessing every decision or wondering if I’m being watched by a lawyer sent to judge my worthiness.
But the quiet moments, the lulls between patients, bring it all back.
By the time my shift ends, I’m exhausted. I change out of my scrubs and make my way back to the parking garage. The late afternoon air is cool against my skin, but it's no relief.
I sit in the car for a moment. The thought of going home to my empty condo next door to her feels unbearable.
Two days and still no word from Adair.
I haven’t called her either. Not because I don’t know what to say—I do. I know how it’ll sound. Like an excuse. Like I’m scrambling after getting caught.
I sent one text. It was half-assed and vague, the kind of message you send when you’re not sure if you’re welcome anymore. She didn’t respond. I don’t blame her.
I haven’t called Rose, either. What would I say?
Hey, sorry. Remember that favor I asked? Turns out the woman I wanted you to help and I were mid-hookup when you chimed in with your little Parky-poo routine.
And since I never told her about you, or why you were calling, she thinks we ’ re fucking, too.
Oh, and bonus twist? She ’ s my temporary wife because my crazy Uncle Roger, you remember him? He left behind a riddle wrapped in a secret estate that ’ s turned my entire life into a slow-motion explosion.
Nope. That would go over like a lead balloon. Super believable.
There’s no version of any of this that doesn’t sound too convenient. Or plain unhinged.
She heard Rose’s voice, filled in the blanks, and came to her own conclusion.
Wrong math. But I didn’t stop her.
So now I’ve got two problems. One I care about.
And one who calls me Parky-poo.
And somehow, I’ve managed to piss off both.
I drop the phone in my lap and wipe my hand over my face.
As soon as I do, my phone buzzes again. I grab it quickly, hoping it's her. Disappointingly, the screen flashes the name Gunner. I click to answer on the car’s Bluetooth.
“Hey, Gunner,” I say, keeping my tone light despite the fatigue settling into my bones.
“Parker.” Gunner’s booming voice greets me. “You got a minute?”
“Sure, I’m off my shift and getting ready to go home,” I reply as I pull out of my parking space.
“I’m following up on our last conversation,” he says, clearing his throat.
My mind fires straight to the cafeteria when he floated the idea of me going for the soon-to-be-vacant assistant general surgeon slot. The one I never followed up on.
“I wanted to see if you’d be interested in assisting our chief of surgery, Dr. Kowalski, tomorrow morning. Routine procedure, but he thought it’d be good to have you scrub in with him. ”
A working interview.
Shit.
I haven’t even had time to think about what I want to do after all of this is over.
My spine straightens on instinct, like my body’s trying to decide for me. Heat rolls under my collar, and my pulse picks up, pounding through my wrists.
Dr. Kowalski doesn’t waste his time on basic cases. He’s the guy we call when things go sideways. He's at the top of the food chain.
“Ahh,” I say, feigning a cough. “That would be amazing. Thank you for thinking of me.”
A jolt fires through my chest, like a live wire snapping under my ribs. That familiar, jittery hum that only hits when there’s a scalpel in my future and pressure on the line buzzes through me.
“Seven a.m. sharp. Open cholecystectomy. Should be quick.”
Quick for him, maybe. For me, it’s a test I didn’t see coming. And maybe the first step toward something I’m not sure I want.
The tightness in my chest lessens as I get ready for this.
An open cholecystectomy is straightforward, in theory.
It's the surgical removal of the gallbladder through an abdominal incision. It’s what you do when the laparoscopic route isn’t an option due to too much inflammation or possible complications.
I’ve assisted on a few. I did more during my general surgery fellowship than residency.
ER was the original plan. I matched into a strong program at Tulane, thrived in trauma, and loved the pace. But when a last-minute fellowship spot opened there at the end of my residency, I went for it. Figured if I had the chance to sharpen a scalpel and open someone up, I should take it.
By the time I wrapped the year fellowship, I had credentials in both. Surgery felt like the next step, but I wasn't opposed to doing either.
When I got into the job search, nowhere I wanted to live was hiring for general surgery.
Palm Beach made for a good temporary stop. A solid ER gig, until the right OR position opened somewhere else.
And now there’s a chance to get back in without moving at all. I should be all in. But for some reason, it gives me pause.
But that doesn't mean I can’t scrub in for surgery.
"Between you and me, Kowalski’s been asking about you a lot.”
“Is that so?” I shift in my seat, trying to ignore the sudden pressure blooming in my chest. “Nothing serious, I hope.”
“Just the usual,” he says. “He's asked about your fellowship and asked for your transcripts. He knows how you handle pressure based on your work in the ER. If you’re planning to stick around, that is. He's looking for someone for the long term.”
I nod, even though he can’t see it. Dreaming about this job is one thing. Realizing you might be standing on the edge of it? That’s a different beast altogether.
“Well, that's promising,” I say, keeping my tone steady.
We go over the logistics of the case, patient history, OR setup, and what Kowalski might expect from me. Gunner’s voice is calm and confident. He's encouraging in a way I didn’t realize I needed.
By the time we hang up, I’m parked outside my condo. The soft porch light casts a glow across the walk. My pulse is still ticking a little faster than normal. It's hanging out somewhere between anticipation and dread.
I look around to see if I can spot Adair's car. It's not in her normal spot, but that could be because someone has a shiny black Hummer parked there.
Doing this case tomorrow could be the start of something solid. A shot at an OR role without having to uproot my entire life again. Why wouldn't I keep working once this inheritance comes through? I'm too young to retire.
After years of bouncing between residency and fellowship, waiting for the right job in the right city, maybe I’ve finally landed in it without even realizing it.
I scroll through my messages. Nothing from Adair.
Her silence is louder than any voicemail. It’s not the absence of texts, it’s the absence of her. Her quick comebacks, her laugh, the way she says my name when she’s half-mocking, half-soft.
Inside, I drop my keys and grab a glass of water. My condo is quiet in that way that makes it obvious she’s not here.
No footsteps. No TV. No sarcastic voice through the wall.
And yeah, I can’t help it.
I wonder where she is.
I take a long sip, trying to shake it off. But I know how this goes. I’ll end up pacing, checking the window like an idiot every time a car drives by.
I need air. Movement. Distance from these four walls.
So I change and lace up my shoes.
And head out before I can talk myself out of it.