The Doctor’s Surprise Family

1. Claire

CHAPTER 1

CLAIRE

I never planned on asking Blake out.

It’s not that I’m shy, or I wouldn’t ask a guy out, but I had other things on my mind. Dr. Hargreaves, for one, at the front of the class, piling on reading like it was going out of style.

“I know it’s Thanksgiving, and you all have plans. But I’m doing you a favor— no, don’t roll your eyes. Next year, you’ll be interns, and you think I pile on homework? Wait till you’re working back-to-back shifts, juggling patients, cramming for exams. A few books over Thanksgiving, pff . That's nothing.”

I glanced over at Blake making notes on his laptop. He caught my eye, smiled, and I smiled back. We’d never talked much, but we’d do that sometimes, exchange little looks when Hargreaves got going. Lord, here he goes. Buckle up; it’s a big one.

“I’m preparing you,” said Hargreaves. “Toughening you up. My first year of residency, I slept in my car, and not because I couldn’t afford an apartment. I was too tired to drive, so I’d sleep in the back. Pull my coat over me and…”

Blake went back to his notes. I let my eyes linger. His smile hadn’t faded, and it made him look younger, like a kid with a prank in mind. A very big kid. The first thing I’d noticed about Blake was his size: north of six feet and built like a tank. He had muscles on muscles, a hard, angled jaw. He might’ve looked dangerous if not for his smile, that mischievous kid’s smile I couldn’t help but flash back.

Hargreaves sighed and stopped talking. He surveyed the room. “You’re not listening, are you? Well, fair enough. You’ve got family waiting. Big turkey dinners. Cranberry sauce still shaped like the can.”

Blake’s lips went tight. His smile disappeared. He shut his laptop with his class notes still open and shoved it and his textbook into his bag. He stood, and on impulse, I got up as well.

“Hey, Blake?”

“Yeah?”

“You got plans for Thanksgiving?”

“Studying, mostly.” His smile was back, but I thought it looked strained. His body was angled for a quick escape. I moved on instinct to block him.

“You’re not going home?”

He shrugged. “There’s a diner near here, does it up for Thanksgiving. They do a whole turkey plate with all the trimmings.”

I stared. “You mean Joe’s?” I’d seen their special — gray rounds of turkey loaf; thin, lumpy gravy. A spoonful of stuffing splatted on top.

Blake smiled. “That’s the one. And there’s bottomless coffee.”

“You’re not going to study through Thanksgiving dinner?”

“Why not?” Blake winked. “Pick up your jaw.”

I probably should’ve left it at that. Minded my business and gone on with my day. But I’d been buzzing all week to get home to my parents, and they just lived an hour away. I saw them most weekends, and I still missed them. Blake was from Florida, so wasn’t he homesick? I blurted out without thinking, “You’re not going home?”

Blake swung his bag over his shoulder. “I am home,” he said.

“But, I mean, to your family? You’re from Florida, right?”

“Uh…” Blake set his bag down again and stroked his rough chin. “The thing is with that, my folks passed away. No one’s in Florida waiting on me.”

I could’ve smacked myself. Open mouth, insert foot. And before I could stop myself, I did it again, spat out the first thing that popped in my head.

“Why don’t you come with me, drive up for the day?”

“What, to your parents’ house? Blake’s expression was guarded.

“Is that super weird? It’s super weird, right? But Mom always makes so much food, and it’s only us three to eat it. You should hear Dad at Christmas, like turkey again? The leftovers last that long. I’m not even kidding.”

“I shouldn’t impose,” said Blake. “Your parents don’t know me. Hell, you don’t know me beyond how-d’you-do.”

“We could change that,” I said. “I’m about to get lunch. Why don’t you come with me, and we can talk?”

Blake’s brows shot up. “You asking me out?”

I laughed, loud and nervous, but I didn’t deny it. Because, wasn’t I? Hadn’t I been hoping he might ask me? I’d feel bad for anyone spending a lonely Thanksgiving, but the thought of Blake doing it, that hurt my heart. I pictured him in a booth at Joe’s Diner, eating his turkey loaf all by himself, and it just about made me want to cry.

“I’m asking you to lunch,” I said. “And maybe Thanksgiving. I guess the question is, are you hungry?”

Blake grinned at that. “A man my size, what do you think?”

“I think… Olivieri’s pasta buffet?”

“Bottomless pasta? I’d say, let’s go.”

Ten minutes later, we were twirling spaghetti. Blake pointed at my spoon and shook his head.

“You know, strictly speaking, you shouldn’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Use your spoon to twirl spaghetti. You’re supposed to use just your fork and take smaller bites. But with Thai noodles, you do use a spoon, because that comes with thin sauce and you need to scoop it.”

I laughed. “What are you, the pasta police?”

“Wee-oo, wee-oo.” Blake mimicked a siren. I set my spoon down and tried twirling without it. Then I looked Blake’s way and hollered, outraged.

“ You’re spooning spaghetti!”

He laughed. “Yeah, I am.”

“But, you just said?—”

“I do a lot of things wrong.” He took a bite of spaghetti. “Like, back in first grade, I had this teacher, used to come by and smack my hand with a ruler. Said I held my pencil like a mountain gorilla. But guess who won the prize for neatest handwriting?”

I’d seen Blake’s handwriting. “You did,” I said.

“Damn right I did.” He flexed his big hands. “I got these big meaty paws, all wrong for a surgeon. At least, you’d think they’d be, but I know how to use ’em. I do what works for me, not what looks right. But I thought it was interesting, the whole… noodle etiquette.”

“Where’d you even hear that?”

“One of my foster moms. She was big into manners.”

I took a sip of my soda, unsure what to say. Blake smiled.

“How about your mom? She know which fork goes with what?”

“She, uh…” I hesitated, choosing my words. Blake didn’t seem self-conscious about how he grew up, but I guessed our childhoods had looked pretty different. The last thing I wanted was to rub that in his face. “She probably does,” I said. “Gran was strict. But Mom doesn’t care so much which fork you use as she does about everyone cleaning their plate. Her love language is food, so you better come hungry.”

Blake smiled. “I get that. I like feeding folks too. Not that I get much chance, but not to brag, I’m a great cook. If I flame out as a surgeon, I’ll always have that.”

“Don’t even say that! Come on, knock on wood.” I knocked on the table, but Blake laughed.

“That’s plastic.”

“Well, what’s wood in here?” I cast about, frantic. The floor was tile, the walls painted plaster. Our chairs’ frames were metal, their seats molded plastic. “There’s literally no wood in here.”

“Are you that superstitious?”

“When it comes to my dreams, I am. I don’t have a fallback. I’m like those hitchhikers from those old postcards — VEGAS OR BUST, except switch medicine for Vegas. I’ve got to be a doctor, or else, or else…”

Blake’s lips twitched. “Or else what?”

“Or else my little girl self with her doctor doll, her game of Operation she played to death, her butterfly hospital in the back yard — that girl’s heart will break clean in two. And mine’ll break too, because then what’s left? I never had any other dream.”

“Never, at all?” Blake scratched his head. “You never wanted to be an astronaut, or the next Lamar Odom?”

I laughed, distracted, still hunting for wood. “You’re certainly tall enough, if you want to be Lamar Odom. But, no, not for me. No other dreams. As long as I can remember, it’s been that white coat.”

“I used to get a new dream every time I changed schools.” Blake set down his fork, and I thought he looked sad. His gray eyes were distant, winter-sky dull. “There’d always be one teacher at every new school, one teacher who’d see me and think, okay, smart kid. I’d latch onto that one and try to impress ’em, and somehow in doing that, I’d get a new dream. I wanted to run marathons all through third grade. Fourth grade was art, and then it was hockey. Then in fifth grade, I had this math teacher, got me all into sci-fi, and then astrophysics.”

“So what you’re telling me is some time in high school, your biology teacher pointed you here?”

Blake’s laugh was gentle. “No, not quite. It was actually this recruiter, y’know, from the Army. He looked through my grades and he said, listen, son .” He dropped his voice an octave, to a low growl. “He said, listen, son, these are top grades. You join up with us, you’ll have all kinds of options. He started listing them off, all these options I had, and when he got to med school, something just clicked.”

“Wait, you’re in the Army?”

Blake nodded. “Yeah.”

“So, they could…” My mouth went dry. “They could send you to war?”

“If they needed me, yeah.”

“That doesn’t scare you?”

Blake picked up his fork again. “Of course it does. But I’d go as a surgeon. I’d be saving lives, wherever they’d send me. That’s something worth doing, being there for, y’know. There’s a lot of kids out there, eighteen, nineteen, joined up out of high school, getting blown up. Someone’s got to be there to put them back together. To tell them, I got you. You’ll be okay.”

My eyes swam with tears, and I wasn’t sure why, maybe the thought of kids getting hurt. The thought of Blake, maybe, when he was a kid, wishing someone would tell him he’d be okay. Pushing himself to do well for his teachers so he’d be special to someone, at least.

“It’s okay,” said Blake, and stretched out his hand. His fingers brushed mine, a comforting touch. “Odds are, I’ll match with a residency stateside. The ones overseas are harder to get. Could be years yet till I see any war zone. Or it could be never. Some never do.”

“You’re brave,” I said, hoarse. Maybe this was the only way Blake could afford med school, but that didn’t mean it didn’t take courage. I wasn’t sure I could have made the same choice.

“Brave is just being scared and doing a thing anyway.” Blake’s lip twitched up. “Hey, you want dessert?”

“Cheesecake. Chocolate.”

“They’ve got chocolate cheesecake? Oh my God, yeah.” He waved to our waiter and ordered two slices. “You know what’s even better, though? Chocolate ginger. You get all the richness of cheese and dark chocolate, but that zing of ginger so it’s not too sweet.”

“Where’d you have chocolate ginger?”

“Made it myself.” He tipped me a wink. “Maybe if you ask me nice, I’ll make it for you.”

“I do have something to ask you.” I took a deep breath. “So, we’ve had a nice lunch and you know me better, so how about it? You in for Thanksgiving?”

“You sure your folks wouldn’t mind? I don’t want to intrude.”

“You wouldn’t be. Thanksgiving’s for sharing. They believe in that. One year, this whole busload of choir kids got stranded, and Mom asked them all to our house for Thanksgiving.”

Blake looked down at his empty plate. He rubbed at his chin. “Can I at least bring dessert?”

“You can if you want. But Mom bakes at least three pies — apple, pumpkin, and cherry.”

“Pie heaven,” said Blake. “You know what? Okay. I’d be honored to come to your family Thanksgiving.”