Chapter 10
KENDALL
I wear three-inch heels to my med school interview because they inject a little confidence into my posture.
One of the faculty members, Dr. Phillips, gives me a warm smile.
He’s a white dude in his late sixties with silver hair and a penchant for clearing his throat frequently.
He’s got two colleagues with him, and we’re seated in a large office with a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking downtown Louisville.
We’ve been chitchatting, and I get the sense they want to put me at ease before they get to their written questions.
“So, you’ve been working as a nurse for six years. Is that right?” He’s got a little file open in front of him.
“Yes.” I clear my throat. “I’ve had an opportunity to work in several different settings too. I think it’s given me a unique perspective.”
“I would imagine it has.” He smiles at me again, looking for a moment like a kindly grandfather, and my heartrate settles a little more.
“One of the doctors who wrote a letter of recommendation for you said that you faced adversity growing up, and that’s why you didn’t apply sooner. Can you tell us about that?”
Are we getting to the meat of the interview? The other faculty members watch me.
I inhale. Normally I don’t think of my upbringing as something I overcame—that’s just some bullshit people like to imagine.
I endured it, but I don’t think it helped me or made me a better person.
I think that’s what the interviewers are hoping for, though, so I give them what they want.
At least my sob story is good for something.
“I did experience poverty growing up,” I say. “I worked hard for my grades in high school because I knew that could be a way out. I got scholarships for my undergrad, and that helped tremendously.”
I feel gross recounting all this. The interviewers hang onto my words. I did work hard for my grades, and I wanted to go to college, but it’s like I’m inspiration porn for them or something.
“I do think it helps me connect with some of my patients, though. Those who are struggling financially.” That part is true, anyway.
One of the women nods. I forget her name—it starts with an S, maybe?
Dr. Smith? Dr. Sullivan? She looks at me as she speaks.
“We’ve heard other good things about you.
I happen to be friends with one of the residents you’ve been working with, Dr. Wyndham, and I spoke to him recently.
He mentioned to me how impressed he is with you. ”
My mouth falls open, but I quickly close it. My heart pounds. How could he not let me know he said something to one of the interviewers? And does he think I can’t do it by myself? I’ve done everything myself, damn him.
I know my smile is strained, but I can’t help it. My thoughts whirl for the rest of the interview, one of them rising to the surface often.
What is he playing at here?
I find Grant early the next morning before our day at the clinic begins. He’s at his computer, checking his appointments.
“Hey,” I hiss. His head snaps to me. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me you contacted the interviewing committee?”
His lips purse before he speaks. “I know Dr. Sanders and her wife well. I see them all the time. It was just a casual conversation.” He lifts his hands. “And I meant it. All I said was you’d make a great physician.”
I roll my eyes. “What is this, then? Another attempt at getting into my good graces?” My fists clench.
“I thought we established there isn’t a way for me to do that.” He lowers his brows. “Right?”
“I mean, no. There’s not. But just so you know, I don’t really like surprises. I don’t want things to be just sprung on me.” I wave my hand around.
He nods. “Noted.”
I turn away. When I face him again, I catch his gaze flicking over my ass, and I smirk. His cheeks color.
He really does want me.
“I’m going to get your first appointment started,” I tell him. I lower my mouth to his ear, and my lips graze the shell. He shudders. “Seems like a conflict of interest, you checking me out all the time. You like what you see?”
He sighs and scrubs a hand down his face. “I’m sorry. Weak moment.”
“Yes. I think you must have lots of those.”
Thirty minutes later, I watch Grant as he instructs our patient in what to expect after his knee injection.
The patient, a tall, ruddy-cheeked man in his sixties, listens and nods along.
The man is likely headed for a knee replacement at some point, but he wants to try some other conservative measures first. Grant has already talked the case over with Dr. Fields, who seems to trust him.
Grant maintains a warm, polite bedside manner. It’s infuriating.
I prepare the tools for Grant. I’m trained to give cortisone shots, but he wants to do it himself. He aims a little smile my direction as he reaches for the syringe.
He is so cute, damn him. A flash of heat covers my face and neck. I can’t even tell who’s messing with who anymore.
He deserves to be tortured a little, though. I can capitalize on this electricity buzzing between us.
After finishing our procedure, I stop him in the hallway with a hand on his arm. He jolts at the touch.
He glances down to where my hand rests. When he lifts his head again, his gaze holds mine, his stare dark and intense.
I always thought the notion of “eyes darkening” to be a case of overzealous literary description, but I would characterize his attention that way, noting how his pupils swallow his irises.
Yikes. Did I say this wasn’t a sexy rivalry? The room temperature suggests otherwise. I snatch my hand away. “Sorry,” I mutter, “I just wanted to talk about the next lady on your schedule.”
“Oh.” He straightens and shakes his arms out, seeming to clear fog from his brain.
We talk a little more, but my mind spins the whole time. I’m not sure I can mess with him without getting all muddled myself. I almost lost control of that situation, and I won’t let it happen again.
Our next surgery day sees me eating vendor-supplied lunch in the hospital lounge. The other residents are there, along with the attending physicians and the other nurses. Some dude in a button-down and khakis is showing us shoulder orthotics for reverse shoulder replacements.
I really shouldn’t even be here, but I’ve never turned down free food. The hospital has a rule against meals from vendors, and somehow they’ve gotten around it today with some bullshitty exception. I don’t know. I don’t really care, either.
Grant sits to one side of me, legs spread a little like he owns the fucking place. The awareness of him heats the side of my body. Each time he so much as scratches his arm, my skin prickles. I steal a glance at him. I could take my finger and trace a path along his thigh if I wanted.
Our charged moment from the clinic is mucking around in my head. This current version of Grant blurs the lines a bit, softens the worst edges of his treatment of me. I need to remember why I can’t be too nice to him.
Isaac, one of the third-year residents with the reddest hair I’ve ever seen, gets my attention from my other side. We’re all seated in comfy rolling chairs in an arranged semi-circle.
“I heard you might be joining our ranks soon,” he says. “Is it too late to talk you out of it?”
“I’ve lost my mind,” I tell him, “starting med school this late.”
“I was thinking less about your age and more about how it consumes your every waking moment.” He points to a tiny scar near his eye.
He has so many freckles I wouldn’t have seen it if he hadn’t pointed it out.
“Plus it’s dangerous. This is from an unfortunate incident my intern year involving this really high dude I treated in the ER. A literal physical scar.”
“It gives you character,” I tell him. “Besides, if you think I haven’t had to deal with some real wild stuff as a nurse, you would be wrong.”
I can feel Grant watching us from his position. What is he thinking? I find myself wondering that a lot.
George, who I’m gradually coming to dislike intensely, speaks up next to Isaac.
“That’s a big jump in difficulty. From nurse to physician.”
“Is it?” I prop my hand on my chin. “I would love to hear more about that.”
“The curriculum isn’t even close,” George says. “You’ll have a lot more responsibility.”
“Dude.” Isaac nudges George. “She’s fucking with you.”
Grant’s low chuckle sends a thrill shooting up my spine. I glance at him, but he’s already looking away again.
I also find myself watching him in the OR that afternoon. He’s so incredibly competent as a surgeon. Focused, meticulous, and steady.
I look at him as we’re washing our hands after the last surgery of the day.
“Good work today,” I tell him.
His hairline lifts. “Thanks.” He walks with me after we’re done at the sink. “I’m a little confused.”
“Yeah? What has you so baffled?”
“I can never predict how you’re going to treat me at any given moment.”
I tilt my head. “Yeah, I can’t either. I can’t decide how I’m supposed to interact with you now.”
“You aren’t going with polite disinterest?”
“It’s just . . .” I grit my teeth, then unclench them. “I wish you weren’t who you are.”
He hangs his head once we step in the office door. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I owe you so much. Much more than just an apology.”
I think about that for a while as I document. When else am I going to have one of my former bullies at my mercy like this?
We end up walking out of the hospital together. It’s late, and we’re headed to the mostly deserted parking garage.
He peeks at me. “Are we friendly now?”
“I wouldn’t go that far.” I shrug. “I’m not sure what I’m doing. I did have something to ask you about, though.”
We stop by my car. I bite my lip, unsure if I really want to extend our relationship beyond the strained politeness and weird awareness we’ve adopted this week.
“You said you would give me money if I wanted.” I grin at him and lift my eyebrows a few times.
He chuckles. “Have you always been so blunt?”