Chapter 9
KENDALL
Grant finds me in the clinic on Monday morning while I’m combing through some of our patient messages at my desk.
I’m responding to someone’s question about using paper towels as a wound dressing for their incision —the answer to that is no, and also what happened to the adhesive dressing we gave you?
—when he pulls up next to me in a rolling chair.
He holds his hands up like I might be about to arrest him.
“I know you don’t really want to talk to me,” he says.
I look around to make sure we’re alone. “Yeah? What gave you that idea?”
Grant winces. I study his face. His smooth skin, sharp jawline, and long eyelashes make for a striking combo. And an orthopedic surgeon too. He doesn’t deserve all that.
“Now that I know it’s you, it’s obvious,” he says.
“Huh. I’m glad I still look like myself.”
“I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do to make this better?” His soft lips turn down, and my gaze snags there. I loathe him, yes, but I do wonder what it would be like to kiss him. I shake off the errant thought. What the hell is wrong with me? That would be absurd.
“You have a quarter million dollars for med school for me?”
He laughs. It’s such a bright, sunny sound, even in his deep voice, that I’m startled into a smile.
“I don’t even think that would be enough,” he says softly. “I would give you some money if you really wanted. But I can help you in other ways. I can help mentor you. Or I can leave you alone, like you asked.”
Grant shouldn’t get to feel better. He should have to stew in his regret forever. I throw him a bone anyway.
“You can give me the kindness you didn’t give me when you were younger,” I say. “And to everyone else. I also wouldn’t say no to a couple free lunches.”
He smiles again. “Done.”
“What’s done?” Dr. Gambill, another third-year resident and the most aggressively average man I’ve ever met, walks into the room. Grant calls him George, and I think it rankles him that his peers don’t use his title.
“Grant’s career in ortho,” I say. “He’s switching to dermatology.”
George—I’ve heard his first name so much I’ve started to think of him that way—wrinkles his nose. “Ew.”
Well, that seems uncalled for. “You’d both get more sleep that way, I bet.” I grin at George, but he doesn’t return it. Hmm. Tough crowd. I’ve noticed that about him, that he’s stuffier than Grant ever was.
Grant turns toward me and rolls his eyes. I’ve also noticed he and George don’t get along very well. At first I thought that could be a point in George’s favor, but now I’m not sure.
We disperse to get on with the rest of our day. At lunchtime, I find a mini-cheese pizza on my desk, still hot in its cardboard container. The note on top says, “Enjoy. I went out on a limb because everyone likes pizza.”
I sigh. I hate him, but he keeps making everything confusing.
The next day, Grant talks me through his hip revision surgery with Dr. Fields. The attending is doing a lot of this one since it’s more complex, but Grant narrates along with Dr. Fields.
“You want to come see this part?” He gestures at me, and even though I’m scrubbing in again today, and I’ve gotten to see this surgery before, it’s still nice to be included. “You can stand at my back here if you want.”
I do just that, inching up behind him until his body heat brushes against me. I peer around his shoulder.
“She’s had some bone loss here,” Grant says. “We have to augment it before we can put in the new prosthesis.”
I watch Dr. Fields work. Grant’s assisting with the retractors. I’ve seen these surgeries a lot, but it is fun when I get to observe for just a moment, especially since Grant’s making an effort to teach me.
I ask a few questions before George speaks up.
“Does she need to know all of this?” He nods toward me. His tone isn’t mean-spirited, exactly, but it grates on me all the same.
“She’s going to med school,” Dr. Fields says, not looking up from the patient. His lips purse. “And besides that, there’s nothing wrong with learning. The more we all know, the better.”
“Right. Of course.” George nods but doesn’t look convinced. I guess he’s one of those almighty surgeon types who doesn’t think nurses deserve his time.
I’m standing opposite of Grant now and his expression turns murderous.
He catches me in the lounge after the procedure and glances around to make sure no one is listening.
“Don’t worry about George,” he murmurs.
“Dr. Gambill, you mean?” I inch a little closer to Grant so that we’re not overheard. We’re almost brushing elbows now.
“He’s . . . difficult,” Grant says, swallowing. His eyes find mine as we lean against the counter. My heart gives an unfortunate little lurch, and I have to remind myself that I hate him. “You kind of get used to it, but you don’t have to take anything lying down. If he’s rude, call him out on it.”
A slow smile spreads across my face. “What about me makes you think I would just roll over when someone mistreats me?”
He winces. “Ah. Yeah, I can see that. I’ll back you up if you need it, though.”
My heart shifts again. Dammit.
“Thanks, Grant,” I say. “I look forward to that.”
He laughs. “Any time.”
I see Grant intermittently throughout the week.
Sometimes I’ll run into him when I’m rounding a corner, and I have a moment of visceral panic before remembering he’s mostly safe now.
It’s like seeing a malignant-looking apparition before realizing it doesn’t mean to harm you.
On Thursday, he offers to buy me lunch from the hospital cafeteria.
“I have twenty-five minutes,” Grant says, looking at his watch. “You want to walk with me?”
I chew on my lip. Do I want to voluntarily spend time with him? Not really, but I do want a turkey wrap.
“Okay,” I tell him. “Don’t get any crazy ideas about friendship, though.”
“I wouldn’t dare,” he replies. We walk down the hospital corridor together, dodging other staff members and equipment as we go. The fluorescent lighting paints his skin a bluish color, and yet he still manages to look indecently attractive. I observe his profile for a moment.
“You’re cute, you know that?” I face ahead again, but I feel him startle next to me.
“Excuse me?
“Oh, stop. You know what you look like. It’s just that you always ruined it with your attitude.”
He laughs. “Ugh. That’s fair.” His voice lowers to a murmur. “I meant what I said about how pretty you are.”
My chest tightens. “Careful, there. If we can’t have friendship, we definitely can’t start a workplace affair.”
I can sort of picture it, though, in seductive clarity: making out in supply rooms with my enemy. Stolen glances in the OR. Satisfying a tiny, ugly part of me that wanted attention from guys like him when I was younger. Leaving him wanting more.
That’s ridiculous, of course. I still don’t even like him, and I just can’t go down that road.
He shakes his head. “You are . . .” He chuckles again. “Something else. But I know that’s not what this is. I’m not a total idiot.” He pitches his voice lower. “I gave up on that idea as soon as I realized who you were.”
My blood heats. He’s just confirmed he was thinking about me in that way, even though I had already suspected it. My breaths quicken.
I need to rein this in. “Yes, well.” I clear my throat. “I don’t dabble with coworkers, anyway.” My gaze slides to him. “Especially not you.”
“Yeah. I know.”
The moment has deflated. We get our lunches, and he pays for mine, despite my halfhearted protests. We start walking back to the clinic. There’s a bit more space between us now.
“So,” I say once we are in the hallway again, “seen any good movies lately?”
“Ha,” he breathes. “I wish I had time for that actually. I love movies.”
“Really?” I roll my lips inward. “I can’t picture you as a leisure guy. You seem like you do bicep curls and critique scholarly articles for fun.”
“Nah.” He smiles at me, and my stomach flutters. “I’m into movies and television. And books. I love disappearing into fiction.”
“Huh.”
“I’ve shocked you into silence?”
“I guess I just never knew you were a human being.”
His smile drops, just for a moment, but it’s enough for a tiny fissure of regret to burrow into my chest. Maybe he has a heart, after all.
We get back to the lounge, where he unwraps his lunch and begins eating it in a standing position, like he’s prepared to take off the second he gets done. He opens his mouth again to say something, but a few others filter into the lounge, so we aren’t alone anymore.
I find him watching me as I eat, though, and the back of my neck prickles. What am I going to do here? It almost feels like we’re becoming friends, despite my protests, and I can’t have that. I can’t let my guard down.