Chapter 2
Brant
I step into the store without bothering with a basket or cart. I’m only here for a few things for tonight’s dinner at my sister’s. It’s been a long morning at work, and tomorrow isn’t looking any quieter.
Grabbing a big pre-made salad, I pick up some breadsticks too.
We usually rotate, with one week at her house, the next at my parents’, and occasionally mine.
I snag a lollipop for my niece on the way past the candy section, then head toward the dairy aisle.
I ran out of creamer, and the stuff at work is awful.
Bitter and burnt, like half the doctors actually enjoy suffering through black coffee. I can’t stand it.
When I spot the last two bottles of my favorite vanilla creamer, relief floods me.
I reach for the closest one, but as my fingers close around it, the second bottle…
which has been leaning against the first the whole time…
loses its support. It wobbles, tips, and crashes to the floor.
The cap pops off and creamer starts pooling across the tiles.
I stare at the mess, then at the remaining bottle in my hand, just as another hand clamps down on top of mine.
“Hey, I need that,” I say, heat rushing through me as I try to tug it free.
“It’s an emergency!” A woman with bright blue eyes tightens her grip, her other hand joining the fight. Her mouth twists into a stubborn line.
My temple throbs. “How could this possibly be an emergency?” I grit out, not letting go.
“I take my coffee 80/20 creamer to caffeine ratio, and without, I can’t drink the liquid smudge,” she explains, like that settles it, snatching the bottle from me.
I’m momentarily speechless when Dores, a worker I recognize from my usual visits, comes over with a mop and starts cleaning up the mess spreading across the floor.
Before I get a chance to say another word, the woman turns on her heel and heads for the checkout.
I’m not letting this go. I trail after her, trying to keep my eyes on the back of her head and not on her toned physique. She looks like she’s come from the gym. “I'm not following you,” I say when she glances over her shoulder, glaring. “I need to ask if there’s any more in the back.”
“Well, I’m not sharing,” she says, hugging the bottle closer like I might wrestle it from her hands.
“I didn’t ask you to,” I mutter.
The cashier, Mila, glances between us, clearly torn. Her eyes land on the bottle clutched to the other woman’s chest, then flick to me.
“Uh… can I help you two?” she asks carefully.
I straighten. “Yeah. Can you check if there’s any more vanilla creamer in the back?”
Mila nods quickly. “I’ll go check—”
Before she can move, the woman practically throws her items onto the counter with a loud clatter. “Actually, can you just ring me up first? I really need to get home,” she interjects, flashing a bright, fake smile.
I hold the other items tighter to my chest, grinding my teeth. “We all need to get home,” I say under my breath.
Mila hesitates, her hand hovering over the register. For a second, I think she might ignore her, but then she lets out a small sigh and starts scanning the woman’s things anyway.
My jaw tenses. She’s got more than just the creamer. There’s a basket full of other groceries, and now I’m stuck waiting while she gets the royal treatment.
Finally, she pays. Just when I think that’s the last I’ll see of her, she turns and tosses a chirpy, “Bye,” over her shoulder.
I grunt in response.
Mila disappears into the back and returns a minute later, holding a fresh bottle of my creamer.
“Here you are.”
I nearly sag with relief. If I had to go home without it, the day would’ve felt ten times worse.
I pay quickly and head home, determined to shake off the strange encounter. A shower and some dinner with my family should do the trick.
Half an hour later, I pull into my sister’s driveway, only fifteen minutes from my place. My parents' house isn’t far either. We’re a close-knit family. It’s nosy sometimes, but I wouldn't have it any other way.
Her house is a cozy, green two-story with white trim and a bright red door that always makes me smile. The front garden is neat but bursting with color. Aria’s pink bike is half-toppled near the porch, and chalk drawings cover the sidewalk: names, flowers, and rainbows.
I knock on the door. When I don't hear anything, I figure they must be out the back, so I walk around, slipping through the white picket gate and letting myself into the backyard.
It’s a decent spring night, the air carrying the smell of cut grass and some kind of flowers.
The backyard looks like kid central: a wooden playset with swings and a slide, a trampoline shoved into the corner, and a sandbox with plastic buckets and shovels scattered around.
String lights hang across the patio, where I spot Rocco at the barbecue, flipping chicken thighs over open flames.
“Hey, man,” he says when he notices me walk in, lifting the tongs in greeting.
“Hi.” I take in the spicy, sweet-and-sour scent of the chicken, which is his specialty. “Smells good. I brought the salad and some bread. Where’s everyone?”
“They’re all inside,” he says, wiping his hands on a towel tucked into his back pocket.
Before I can answer, a high-pitched squeal cuts through the air. “Uncle B! Uncle B!”
I spot Aria, my niece, barreling toward me from the side yard.
I barely have time to drop the bag before she launches into my arms. Scooping her up, I fly her into the air, catching her as she giggles uncontrollably.
Her laughter bubbles up into the night sky, and just like that, the tension from my day melts away.
“How's my favorite girl?” I ask, tickling her sides until she cackles and wriggles like a worm.
“Good! Good! Let me go, let me go!” she squeals between giggles.
I ease off and settle her on my hip. “I might’ve brought something for you,” I tease, raising my eyebrows dramatically.
Her hazel eyes brighten. “What is it? What is it, Uncle B?”
Grabbing the grocery bag off the patio floor, I carry her inside. The sliding glass door sticks a little, and I have to give it a good shove with my shoulder.
Inside, the house smells like roasted garlic.
The walls are painted in soft neutrals, cozy and homey, with family photos lining the hallway: wedding shots, baby and vacation pictures.
Toys are scattered everywhere: Barbies, coloring books, a doll stroller parked by the stairs.
It’s messy, but filled with life. This is what a family home is supposed to look like.
“Come with me. I’ll give it to you once we check with your mom. She might say no,” I tell her, making a big show of whispering.
“I might say no to what?” my sister, Bridget, calls from the kitchen, where she’s chopping vegetables at the island.
“I bought her something,” I say, setting Aria down.
I kneel, dig into the bag, and pull out the giant rainbow-colored lollipop I'd grabbed earlier.
Aria gasps, clutching her hands to her chest. “Please, Mom, can I have it now? I promise I’ll eat all my dinner,” she pleads as she puts on her best innocent face.
Half-laughing, my sister shakes her head at me. “You know, you're going to get payback when you have kids.”
I laugh too, but there’s a tightness in my chest at the thought. My sister’s two years older than me, at 37. We've always been close. I'd always imagined we’d have kids close in age, cousins growing up side by side, but life doesn’t always work out the way you picture it.
I'd love kids... but it’s not like I’m dating. Not even looking. Between the long hours and pushing for Chief of Pediatrics, it feels far away, like something meant for a different version of me. One who isn’t trying to prove he deserves to run the whole ward.
I head into the kitchen and spot Mom fluffing around, loading plates, and fiddling with the potato salad.
“Hey, Mom,” I say, leaning down to kiss her cheek.
“Oh, hi, love.” She beams up at me, brushing a hand over my arm.
“Where do you want the Cobb salad? I've got a breadstick too… Just need to chop it and butter it,” I say, hoisting the grocery bag onto the counter.
“I've got it.” She’s already reaching for the salad and bread before I can protest.
“You know I can do it,” I grumble playfully.
She touches my cheek, her hands warm and familiar. “I know. But you go sit with Dad and Rocco outside. I'll bring it out.”
“Uncle B, will you play with me?” Aria puts her lollipop down and tugs at my hand, her small fingers curling around mine.
“Sure. What are we playing? Not Barbies again. I’m Barbie-d out.”
She giggles. “Okay. What about the swing?”
“I can do that.” I grin.
We head outside, the screen door slamming behind us. She tears off ahead of me, down the back steps, and straight to the swing. I shake Dad’s hand on the way through. He’s sitting back in a folding chair, a beer in hand.
“Hey, Dad. How’s it going?”
“Good. How are you feeling?” he asks, peering at me over his glasses.
“Tired, but good. Busy day. I'll be back, playing with Aria for a bit. Give me a yell when dinner’s ready.”
“Okay, will do.”
I push her on the swing carefully, trying not to send her too high. Every time I give her a push, my niece in her glittery tutu dress goes flying, her brown hair whipping around her face. She squeals with laughter, and I get caught up in the moment, forgetting everything else.
My sister and her husband have been trying for a second kid, but no luck so far. I don't ask. I just soak up every moment I can with Aria, knowing how precious it all is.
“Dinner's ready,” my sister calls from the patio.
“All right, dinnertime,” I say to Aria.
“Just a little more,” she begs, flashing me those puppy-dog eyes.
“Okay, five more pushes. That's it,” I say and hold up my hand.
She smiles, and I swear it lights up the entire sky. This little girl has my whole heart. I push her five more times, super slowly.
“Come on. I’m hungry. Aren’t you?” I ask.
“A little.”
“Come on then. I'll give you a piggyback ride.”
I scoop her up and carry her over to the outdoor table, lowering her into a chair. My sister has already plated her food: nuggets of barbecue chicken, a scoop of pasta salad, and buttered bread. The rest is spread out in the middle so we can help ourselves.
Mom and Dad sit next to each other, like always. Mom still fusses over Dad, brushing his shoulder, checking he’s got everything he needs. It's so sweet, it’s almost painful.
Dad puts a hand on her arm and looks up at her. “I’m good. Sit down and eat.”
“I know, I know,” she whispers back, smiling like they’re sharing some old joke.
I look away, serving up some food onto my plate, feeling that familiar tug, the one that says, One day, maybe when I’m chief.
“You ready for tomorrow, son?” Dad asks, reaching for the tongs.
“Yeah, I guess so,” I answer with a shrug.
“Did they tell you a name yet?”
“No, no idea.”
I wonder again why it’s so secretive. My mind drifts.
“Maybe it’s someone famous?” Rocco interjects.
I snort under my breath. “Doubt it. Don’t think anyone famous would end up at Pulse Point for their residency.”
“Maybe if you’re famous, you don’t want that lifestyle anymore,” Bridget throws in, grinning.
“Maybe.” I shrug again, popping a piece of chicken into my mouth. “Guess I’ll find out tomorrow.”
Sitting here, surrounded by my family with the fairy lights glowing overhead, the smell of grilled meat and garlic in the air, there’s a small ache deep down.
It would’ve been nice to share this with someone, too. Sometimes, I feel like the fifth wheel.
But honestly? I wouldn’t trade it. I love Pulse Point. I love my family. I love my job. And right now, nothing’s getting in the way of that… or my goals.