Chapter 23 – Catalina
"Hi Doctor Alba!" The sweet girl waves at me as I crouch down next to her bed. The two other adults in the room step up next to me.
“We’re Becka and Mauris Ventura—Olivia’s parents.”
Exhaustion and hope are woven into every line of their bodies.
I shake their hands. They look like they could be my age, if not a little older.
I can't imagine going through pregnancy and birth, watching their baby grow, and then watching them struggle with an unexpected health complication.
It's a heart break that most people can never relate to.
I look back at Olivia and that pang returns to my chest. The hazel in her eyes...
it's so much like Jensen's. I wonder what Jensen's children will look like when he inevitably has them someday.
I hope they have his eyes, but more importantly, I hope they have his heart.
The one I fixed, yes, but the kindness and softness it naturally has.
Don't think about that.
“We’re going to take good care of her,” I say. “I’m just going to listen to her heart, review the scans, and then we’ll talk about what comes next.”
“Do you think you can help her?” her mother asks quietly from behind Davis. Her voice cracks on the word help.
We both know that I can’t promise anything.
This is always the hardest part of my job—the place where the certainty that we all crave meets the reality that medicine, for all its miracles, can never promise tomorrow or a perfectly desired outcome.
Even when I’ve fixed this defect before in patients.
Even when I know I can do this. The confidence is there, but the unpredictability of about a thousand different factors we always work hard to mitigate, still looms like a shadow.
“I never take a case that I’m not confident I can fix.”
It’s my line. My shield. My steady hand when families tremble.
They exhale shakily, and I move to Olivia’s bedside for her examination.
“Hey, sweetheart. Sit really still for me, okay? I’m just going to listen to your heart and lungs for a bit.”
She nods with all the seriousness of a seven-year-old trying to be brave.
I press the stethoscope to her chest, listening to lungs, heart sounds, the telltale swish of turbulent blood.
I recognize it instantly. A defect. Manageable, normally.
But hers is trickier, made more complicated by the orthopedic issue Davis is addressing and her age. Her care needs to be timed perfectly.
Davis distracts her with the stuffed puppy while I finish my assessment, and even though everything between us burned to the ground, inside a hospital we’ve always worked like a matched set. Med school, residency… we’d been a team helping each other.
Maybe that’s why I stayed with him far longer than I should have—because with him, things functioned well. For a while. We were like a good surgical machine.
In medical school, we’d spend our evenings together quizzing each other on infectious diseases. We made sure we passed our courses and exams. We supported each other with referrals and kind words in public, even if I was more generous with mine.
And once, a long time ago, he did see me.
My potential. My hunger to be more. Maybe that's why he chose me. Maybe that’s why I stayed too long.
Because a part of me felt like I was being appreciated.
Until eventually, my potential became real results and real became too much for him when I surpassed him in accolades and surgeries.
“Thank you, Olivia. Hang tight for me,” I say once I’m done with my examination.
I tuck my tools away and gesture for her parents to follow me to the door.
Jordan is waiting there, watching me with her eyebrows practically disappearing into her hairline as she takes physical and mental notes.
I know exactly what she's doing—cataloging every move I make, and every look Davis sneaks my way when I'm not paying attention, all so she can dissect it later.
“From what I’ve seen so far,” I say to her parents, my voice slipping right back into its clinical, detached tone, “it’s important we address this quickly.”
Her mother presses a hand over her mouth. “How soon?”
“This week. In two days, preferably. While I’m still in town.”
She nods, then stifles a sob with her hand. “We should’ve come sooner. I told you, we should have come sooner.”
She turns to her husband with a panicked look on her face.
Her husband doesn't push her away or berate her for expressing normal, worried human emotions that might seem accusatory.
Instead, he pulls her into his arms and just holds her.
He doesn't deflect or pass the blame back to her.
He supports her. He knows this is just her worst fears manifesting themselves and not a direct attack on him.
Before I can stop myself, I reach out and touch her arm. Gently. Reassuringly. Something I never, ever do. I’ve always kept that distance—kept patients as bodies, cases, puzzles of muscle and valves and bone. It’s how I’ve survived ten years of slicing into beating hearts.
Yes, I know I said that I see each case as simply a body to cut into and fix. But I’ve always cared about the outcome, and not just because it would hurt my success streak. I care about people. I've just never cared quite like this.
My fingers curl softly around her elbow, and it hits me: Jensen Freaking Grant has rewired something inside me.
Knocked a crack straight through the armor that I normally wear.
Made the patients human in a different kind of way.
He's shown me what empathy feels like. What warmth feels like.
He's shown me that there are people living inside these bodies that I help heal, moving about the world for years later, with love and families who adore them.
He's explained to me without words that I'm not all cold corners and sharp tongues like most people think. That I can be warm too.
Maybe I just needed to know one person I’d fixed intimately to look at things this way. And now that I do, I don’t know if I can ever go back to seeing them neutrally again. I don't know if I'll ever be able to perform surgery the same way again. And that's what terrifies me.
“My surgical tech, Jordan, will help get you set up with scheduling,” I say as I gently release her arm. “We’re going to get through this. We’ve got a plan, now we just need to execute it.”
She nods, eyes shining with tears. Jordan steps forward—still processing this new version of me, I can tell. She smiles at the couple warmly. She was always better at this part.
“Let’s go to the room next door. I’ll grab us a scheduler and we'll talk pre-op paperwork and prep. The nurse can stay here with Olivia in the meantime.”
They exit the room but before they make it out completely, her father leans back to say to me softly, “Thank you for everything, Doctor Alba. We heard you’re only part-time at the hospital right now. You’ll be the one performing the surgery, correct?”
I remember the Iron Horn Series, and Craig, and the way he slid that clause into my contract like it was nothing after I told Hayes that I wanted to have an out in case rodeo life wasn’t for me.
“If any urgent cases arise, Dr. Alba may step away solely to perform the surgery before rejoining the current series location.”
At the time, it felt like a courtesy he was doing because Hayes insisted.
Now it feels like a premonition that a patient would be sent to me like this, and I'd need to step away. Because working at Whitewood Creek Community Hospital, and working on the Series has been a distraction, but I think I needed this reminder that I’m still a surgeon, even while living out of suitcases and arenas with the bull riders.
That I'll always be a surgeon.
We’re close to the end of this run anyway. The guys are strong, healthy, no major injuries except Jensen’s shoulder—but he’ll be fine. He'll ride tonight. And he’ll be riding in Seattle in three days. Unfortunately, that ride is one that I’ll need to miss so I can take care of Olivia.
I make a mental note to text Hayes later and thank him for the foresight.
I nod. “I’ll be there.”
Jordan runs through a few last notes. As I turn to go, she adds, “Drinks soon? To catch up?”
I blink. Then nod. And it hits me—almost embarrassingly. Maybe I haven’t been friendless this whole time like I told Jensen so confidently. Maybe Jordan was always my friend. Maybe people cared about me beyond the title and awards I won.
The thought squeezes something tight in my chest. My loose shirt suddenly feels itchy against my skin as I walk down the hallway, past faces that once knew me, past the ghost of who I used to be.
I round a corner and press my back to the cool cement wall, pulling in a deep, steadying breath where no one can hear me fall apart for six seconds.
And I do. With one hot tear trailing down my cheek, streaking the mascara I put on this morning for no other reason than I wanted to feel pretty when I see my parents later at the rodeo. Let's be real, it was for Jensen, too.
I take another shaky breath, allowing myself one more moment of silence before I slip back into work mode. Except on the next exhale, I realize I’m no longer alone.
“Hey.”
Davis appears slowly around the corner like he’s been rehearsing this conversation, stepping far too close before leaning his shoulder against the same wall I’m pressed against so he can look at me.
I roll my head to the side to glance at him, then immediately return my gaze to the far, more appealing, slab of concrete that’s across from me. I press my palms flat into the wall behind me, grounding myself for whatever insane thing’s going to come out of his mouth next.
He clears his throat. “You look good, Doctor Alba.”
My eyes shut. I let out a breath that feels like dust shaking off old bones. He doesn’t deserve an ounce of my emotional energy or attention.
“Would you maybe… want to… grab dinner tonight? While you’re in town. I’d like to talk,” he continues.
My head rolls to face him again. Slow and disbelieving, I ask, “You want me to have dinner with you and Liza?” The idea alone feels like punishment.
He shakes his head. “No. Just you. Or… we could have dinner after Olivia’s surgery in two days. We can catch up.” He tugs at the back of his neck uncomfortably. "I've missed you."
I blink. Once. Twice. Is he serious?
“Where’s Liza?”
“We’re taking a break.”
My jaw drops. I push off the wall and face him. “She’s pregnant, Davis. Isn’t her due date in—what—the next two weeks?”
He drags a hand through his sandy hair—the same haircut he’s had since before med school.
Clean-shaven face, no bull tattoo on his chest, no nose ring, no bite marks on his shoulders, no single hand painted red with my nail polish just because he wants to match me.
No chaos. It's all so predictable. Safe.
Clean. All things that I used to value in a man. Everything about it now feels… dull.
He’s still handsome. Objectively. But now, all I can see is the empty interior. The polished exterior. The lack of fire, grit, and edge.
The only surprise that Davis has ever given me has been hurtful. He’s nothing like Jensen. Davis is soft on the outside and hard on the inside. Jensen is the opposite—armor on the surface, molten warmth where it counts.
I’ll take the molten man every time.
A humorless laugh slips out of me. “Don’t do this to her.”
He shakes his head quickly. “I’m not doing anything. We’re just taking space before the baby comes.”
I take another step away from him. “I need to go. But listen to me—if you screw this up with her? You’ll never be happy. You’ll chase the next shiny thing, the next exit, the next person to hurt. It’ll be your legacy. Not your surgery success rate, not the bones you fix, the hearts you hurt.”
He pushes off the wall and steps toward me. “That’s not fair. I never meant to hurt you. The thing with her just… happened. I can’t explain it. I didn’t plan on her getting pregnant.”
My chest tightens. Of course he didn’t plan on the pregnancy.
He planned on marrying me, keeping his mistress on the side, living two separate lives until the secret got too big to hide.
Or maybe I'd never notice considering I was so focused on my career. Or maybe... an even scarier thought... I would find out down the road when I was much older and decide I didn’t care.
And I—his ex-fiancée—would always be the second-tier choice. The one he brings to hospital galas because it looks good for two surgeons to be married to each other, but behind closed doors, he'd prefer the thrill of his affair partner.
I take a large step back, feeling hollow, a bit embarrassed that this is happening, exposed, and wholly hurt.
“Goodbye, Davis.”
“Catalina, wait—”
My eyes narrow. “It’s Doctor Alba. See you in surgery on Wednesday.”
Then I shove open the hospital exit door and step into the sun, shaking my head the entire walk across the parking lot as if that could rattle the last traces of him out of my system.
It won’t. But Jensen’s already starting to take up the space left by the holes he carved into me.