10. Chapter Ten
Chapter Ten
Scrubs, Success + the Stand-In Sisterhood
Aspen
I’m going to miss this place, despite the sterile chill and the countless headaches it’s given me.
All around me, the nurses and residents I’ve spent years with in the trenches move in a cloud of scrubs and stethoscopes, their well-wishes a bittersweet melody against the rhythmic, mechanical beeping of the monitors.
In the distance, the rattle of rolling gurneys—the frenetic symphony that has defined my life for so long—is finally humming its final tune.
“So,” Tatum says, leaning against the laminate table with a heavy exhale. “You’re actually doing this. Walking away from the steady paycheck of Centennial Memorial and all the hospital benefits.”
When she puts it like that, it sounds like I’m volunteering as tribute.
“Yeah,” I reply, my voice much more calm than I feel. “Any parting advice before I do something completely insane?”
“Who says it’s insane?”
“My mother. Definitely my dad. And absolutely my cousin Clarissa, who is sending family group chat messages bragging about her first-born getting into an elite private school while she judges my pipe dream.”
Tatum sucks her teeth, that familiar protective fire lighting up her eyes. “Nobody has to understand your path but you, Aspen. Success will prove them wrong.”
I let out a dry laugh. “Success. Right. That toxic word that makes Black women run ourselves into the ground trying to prove we belong in rooms we built.”
“Well, you’re not just any Black woman. You’re a visionary. You took your entire life savings—”
“And money that should be paying off student loans,” I add under my breath.
“—and you’re building something for you.”
“For the people,” I correct gently.
My mind flashes to the countless times I’ve argued with the hospital board, fighting for preventative care they deemed not cost-effective for the under-insured. That’s why I’m doing this. My mobile clinic isn’t just a business, it’s a lifeline for the people the system was designed to overlook.
“I’m proud of you,” Tatum says, her gaze softening. “We’re all proud of you.”
By “we,” she means The Stand-Ins—our tribe, born from a chance encounter at HollyDates and cemented by far too many espresso martinis.
I remember growing up and wanting to be part of every club and every “cool kid” activity.
My mother would always remind me how temporary those things were.
She’d say people grow up and grow apart, and that I had to make peace with the fact that by the time I was older, I’d likely only have a few good friends.
She was right. Tatum was the one friend who stood the test of time.
But The Stand-Ins? They became the cool kid club I’d spent my whole life chasing.
“Thank you. It means the world to have you all,” I say, my voice thickening. “Especially since my own family can’t be bothered to support this.”
“They’ll catch the vision eventually,” she promises, squeezing my hand. “And even if they don’t, you’ve got us.”
I squeeze her hand just as the energy of the room shifts.
The low-level chatter spikes into a series of hushed swoons as the crowd parts.
Dr. Diego Contreras—or Dr. McNaughty to the tabloids—strolls in.
Even in his white coat, he looks like he’s stepped off a runway, his long locs tied back in a neat ponytail and his almond-brown skin flawless enough to make God’s original creation look like a rough draft.
“I still can’t believe you never hit that,” Tatum whispers, her eyes glued to the pediatric cardiologist as he greets a few residents with that devastating, dimpled grin.
“He’s a mentor and a friend,” I hiss back. “And happily married.”
“He wasn't always married,” she counters.
She isn’t wrong. There was a moment, a few years ago, at a medical conference.
A lingering glance after a night that stretched too long.
But we stopped ourselves before the spark could catch.
I’ve seen too many “small moments” erupt into life-altering craters in other people's lives, and I wasn't willing to be one of them.
Now, a year into his marriage to his lovely wife, Jordan, Diego is the picture of a reformed man—his focus split entirely between her and the mission of the Contreras Foundation.
“I hear someone is finally taking the plunge,” Diego says, his rich voice cutting through my thoughts as he reaches us.
“Finally?” I question, tilting my head.
“I always knew you’d do something big, Aspen. You’ve got too much heart for these four walls.”
I shake my head, a small smile tugging at my lips. “Says the man who runs a pro-bono foundation giving heart transplants to kids who can’t afford them.”
He shrugs, his expression turning thoughtful. “Takes good people to know them. You’re one of the good ones.”
“Thank you, sincerely. This place would have been much harder to navigate without people like you in my corner.”
He stays for a few more minutes, offering a genuine promise that I can call him for anything.
He’s always been the one people call on, so I know he means it.
But as he walks away, a flicker of panic tightens my chest. What I need isn’t just a favor.
It’s clients. My business plan is solid, but my roster is thin.
If I don’t find a solution fast, my “new beginning” won't even last through next month's rent.
A chorus of “Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye” erupts as the staff presents me with the last, lonely slice of farewell cake. I whisper a bittersweet goodbye to the place that has raised me.
And also the place I intend to scout for my next mobile client before I hit the exit.