24. Parker
Parker
A light breeze rustles through the trees.
I pull into a space at the back of the hospital. I take a deep breath, trying to settle the nerves fluttering in my chest.
This isn’t another shift, it’s a chance to prove myself.
I’m determined to do everything right in the OR today. A cholecystectomy is a routine surgery, but I’m a little rusty. It’s been close to eight months since I’ve scrubbed in on a case.
I cut the engine and sit for a beat, letting the weight of it settle. This is what I’ve worked for. No matter how sideways life has gotten lately, surgery’s the one thing that still makes sense. Once I landed the General fellowship, I couldn’t shake the OR bug.
Inside the hospital, the third floor of Good Samaritan is its own ecosystem. It’s a calm contrast to the barely controlled chaos downstairs. No alarms. No shouting. Just focused movement and a different kind of tension in the air.
The elevator ride is slow, the kind that forces stillness. I watch the numbers light up one by one, a quiet countdown to go-time.
When the doors open, I step into the hallway as Del Jones turns the corner, a paper cup in one hand and a clipboard in the other. Del is the top cardiothoracic surgeon in Florida.
“Well, well, if it isn’t Palm Beach’s prodigal heartthrob,” she says, raising her brows. “Heard you got married recently. Congrats.”
Every time I hear this from someone new, it always throws me off.
"Yep. The love bug got me. Now it's marital bliss forever." Or, six months.
I'm an idiot. What in the hell? I don't even know what that means.
"You poaching a surgeon for the ER or visiting?”
“Actually, I'm joining Kowalski today,” I say, falling in step beside her. "Looking forward to getting back to the OR. It's been a while, and I'm looking forward to getting my hands dirty again."
“Nice.” She sips her coffee. “Don't let K scare you. His bark is bigger than his bite.”
I smirk. “I don't intend to earn either."
“Talk soon,” she says as she peels off. "Hope the case is a breeze."
“I appreciate it.” I wave and head toward the scrub room up ahead.
I keep walking. My footsteps echo softly against the polished tile. When I push through the door, the cooler air and focused quiet settle over me—this is the rhythm of the OR.
Kowalski is already prepping, scrubbing his hands at the sink. There's something unique about the sound of water running in the scrub room .
“Morning, Matthews,” he says without looking up.
“Good morning to you, Dr. Kowalski.” I hang up my coat and begin the process of scrubbing in.
“You ready?” he asks, finally glancing at me as I finish cleaning my hands.
“Absolutely,” I reply, the excitement in my chest bubbling up into my throat. It’s all I can do to keep my voice steady.
He nods, clearly satisfied with my answer, and we both turn our attention to the sterile field in front of us.
“You’ve seen this before,” Kowalski says, continuing to scrub. “A laparoscopic cholecystectomy. I don't have to tell you. Keep your mind sharp so we get clean, precise movements and focus.”
I nod, swallowing the slight tremor of excitement that runs through me. He’s right. This is a routine surgery. It’s simple enough, but since I've been out of it for a while, I need to make sure I'm on my toes.
We finish scrubbing and head toward the operating room. He opens the saloon door with his back, keeping his sterile hands raised for the nurse to put on his gloves.
The techs are already preparing the instruments, arranging everything with meticulous care.
The patient is positioned on the table, already under anesthesia.
I see the familiar sight of the anesthesiologist working with the IV lines, making sure everything is stable.
I take my place at Dr. Kowalski’s side, my hands folded behind my back, waiting for his instruction. This is his patient and his surgery.
The procedure starts with Kowalski guiding the laparoscope into the abdomen, the camera feeding us a magnified view of the patient’s internal organs. It’s all so methodical. Precise.
“First things first,” Kowalski says, his voice steady. “We need to locate the gallbladder. Once it’s in view, we’ll dissect. Watch the cystic duct. You don’t want to clip it.”
I nod, eyes glued to the monitor. The gallbladder’s tucked under the liver, right where it should be, but everything in here looks softer, more fluid than a textbook.
Just like in residency, he instructs, but not in a condescending way. I appreciate that he recognizes I've been out of the OR, but doesn't talk to me like I don't know what I'm doing. Or worse, completely ignore me.
“See it?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say.
“Let’s keep moving. We’re cutting the cystic artery next. Clip it tight, or we’ll have bleeding. That slows everything down.”
He demonstrates the clip, then moves his scalpel with precision, and then finally, a clean cut.
“Your turn.”
I steady the clamp in my hand and position it. A beat of hesitation—then I lock the clip in place.
“Perfect,” Kowalski says.
The pressure in my chest eases a little.
We keep going. Step by step, tissue by tissue. Kowalski guides me, but I’ve got the rhythm now. My hands remember. The tension drains as precision takes over.
And somewhere between the cautery and the clamp, I think of her.
Adair.
The way she curled into me last night, skin warm beneath my shirt, breath soft against my chest. No sex. Just sleep. Just trust. And somehow, that felt heavier than anything we’ve done before.
Holding her like that—no pressure, no pretending—was better than sex.
Well… almost .
But it meant something. She let me in, even a little. After everything.
I don’t know where we’re headed. Don’t know if we’ll make it past the six months, or if we’ll crash before then.
But for now, she’s letting me try.
“We’re almost there,” Kowalski says.
I pick up the suction, clearing the field while he extracts the gallbladder through the incision. The techs move around us like clockwork, packing up the instruments, prepping the site for closure.
“Nice work,” he says. “You’ve got good instincts, Matthews.”
“Thanks,” I say, adjusting my mask.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a shape in the observation window. Gunner watches from the theater. His arms are crossed, and his expression is unreadable.
When our eyes meet, he nods once. It's small and subtle, but it lands.
Maybe this is what Roger meant. Not about love. About building something. Solving the kind of puzzle that outlives you.
Kowalski closes the incisions while I hold retraction. Our movements are synced now and confident.
As we scrub out, Kowalski claps me on the shoulder. “You did great in there.”
“Appreciate it, Doc. Thanks for letting me tag along with you,” I say, and I mean it. "If you ever need someone to tag team with, I'm happy to jump in."
I dry my hands and glance back toward the OR—toward the room where I remembered who I am, what I’m capable of. It still feels right, like home.
But when I step into the hallway, it’s not the surgery that sticks with me. It’s last night, the quiet, the way she leaned into me like it wasn’t comfort, but trust .
This isn’t what I planned. She wasn’t what I planned. But maybe that’s the point.
Roger didn’t leave me all this to test my skills in the OR. He wanted to know if I could figure out what mattered outside of it. If I could see that the real risk isn’t failure, it’s going through life untouched.
Adair came out of nowhere. But maybe she’s the piece that finally makes the rest of it make sense.
Something tells me Roger knew that all along.
I adjust my chair, nursing the last few sips of my Diet Coke before I go back to the floor. I let myself indulge in one soft drink a week. Today deserves an extra celebration.
The cafeteria is busy this time of day. The lunch rush is in full swing. The sounds of trays being cleared away by the staff around me mix with the steady conversations and plunking down of full trays of food by other nurses or visitors.
I’m alone at my table, alone in my thoughts, and I’m okay with it.
The surgery this morning was a success. My hands were steady, I didn’t hesitate, and I felt like I belonged in that operating room. For the first time in a while, I see the future I’ve been working toward is within reach.
The adrenaline has worn off, but the satisfaction of a job well done lingers. Kowalski’s praise still echoes in my mind, a reminder that this is the path I’ve chosen.
I think about the patient, the simple gallbladder removal, and how even the smallest procedure matters in the long run. Every surgery, no matter how routine, has the potential to change someone’s life.
I’m beginning to enjoy the quiet, trying to center myself after the rush of the morning, when my phone buzzes on the table in front of me. The screen lights up with my dad’s name—Leeland Matthews.
Why, universe? Why?
“Hey, Dad,” I answer, already bracing myself for one of his rants.
“I’ve got some news,” my dad’s voice crackles through the phone, full of that hyper-caffeinated energy that usually means he’s been scheming for hours. I can practically hear his whiteboard markers clicking in the background.
“What now?” I ask, leaning back in my chair and rubbing my palm down my leg. My stomach’s full for once, but my gut’s already bracing for impact.
“It’s the will,” he says, voice dropping like this is some kind of top-secret operation. “I’ve been digging. And I think I found a backdoor.”
Here we go.
“I don’t need a backdoor, Dad,” I say, voice flat. “We’re married. That was the deal. What would be the point at this stage?”
“Temporarily,” he counters. “And that’s the keyword, son. Temporarily. There’s language in the clause that’s vague enough to open an exit. If you annul, you’re not breaking the agreement. You’re closing the loop. Quietly.”
I close my eyes. “You want me to annul my marriage?”
“I’m saying it’s clean. Strategic. The longer this stretches out, the more chances for feelings to change, for people to grow expectations. Who's to say she wouldn't try to take half of everything in a divorce? It protects your name, the estate, and your future from unnecessary exposure.”
“Exposure to what? Happiness?”
He doesn’t laugh. “You’re being glib. There’s press sniffing around.
You’re the surprise heir to close to a one billion dollar estate when you take into account the properties and his cash holdings.
You married someone out of nowhere. If this blows back, and the marriage is revealed to be a transactional?—”
“It wasn’t.”
“Stop with the nonsense,” he snaps. “Perception is what matters in our world. You want that hospital board seat? The prestigious surgery position? This fake wife thing is a ticking bomb. You think she’ll stick around the full six months? What happens when she gets bored? Or greedy?”
A slow burn climbs up my neck. “Dad, I'm done talking to you about this.”
“I know how people work,” he says. “And I know you. You’re already getting emotionally invested in something that was never meant to last.”
I latch onto the edge of the counter, knuckles pale. “Even if that were true, it’s not your call. Roger said what he wanted, and I intend to honor him and my word.”
“She walks away with a few hundred grand. You walk away with your credibility intact and less chance she tries to take you for all your worth. Avoid any potential harmful headlines and awkward questions, and end this. You don’t owe her a damn thing.”
“I gave her my word.”
“And that’s worth risking your entire future?”
I stare at the blank wall in front of me. This isn’t about money. It never was.
“I’m not rushing this,” I say with finality. “We have an agreement, and I trust her to do what she said. And I sure as hell want to do what I said.”
“So you’re going to drag this out?”
“No,” I say, calm now. “I’m not going to cut it short. I'm going to see it through, like I said I would. ”
There’s a pause. Just long enough for me to think he might back off.
Then he lands the blow.
“She’ll leave you broke, embarrassed, and completely alone. And if you think otherwise, you're dumber than I thought you were.”