He nods then I hear his beeper vibrate in his pocket. He pulls it out to read the shorthand message, and I’m reminded that he’s on call tonight. It’s why he was late to the banquet.
“I need to head back to the hospital.”
“Duty calls,” I say, lamely.
He glances down at me, pinning me in place. “Right. I’ll see you.” His gaze flits to my plaque. “And congratulations.”
My mouth opens, undoubtedly preparing to expel some awkward response I’ll curse myself for later tonight when I’m alone and replaying this exchange, but then he turns and walks away, slicing through the crowd with his tall frame. Women watch him go, mesmerized by the sight of him. It’s like we all realize—on a molecular level—how rare it is to be in the presence of a man like him.
I watch him until the last possible second, when he disappears out the door, and then I stand there alone, like the last leaf in autumn. Some nonsensical part of me wants to chase after him. To steal another minute of his time. Another glance. Another waft of his cologne drifting in my direction.
Instead, I stay rooted in place, a slow smile unfurling across my lips once I realize I’ll get more time with Connor.
Just as soon as he moves in.
Chapter Three
Connor
Taking overnight call is like rolling dice. Occasionally, I get a night with no new admits and no emergent issues in the BICU. On those nights, I usually head home with my beeper, or occasionally, I opt for some shut-eye in the call room. Other nights, the BICU is more like a three-ring circus. Last night was the latter. Usually fellows and residents take the reins in handling overnight care, but the last week in June is tricky because residents are about to get bumped up a year and chief residents are graduating, so the hospital is notoriously understaffed. Fourth-year residents will soon find themselves in the big leagues, and even though they’re prepared to take on the task, the first few nights can be tricky. I’m forced to do a lot of hand-holding, especially because we don’t have our new crop of fellows yet.
When I left Natalie’s graduation and rushed back to the hospital, it was because the residents on duty were in over their heads. I walked in and found them standing in the center of the BICU, near the nurses’ station, knees quaking, their scrub pants in danger of new piss stains. They froze and looked at me with wide, expectant eyes.
It was Lois who strode over to me, filling me in while I yanked off my suit jacket and tie and tossed them onto the counter. She handed me a surgical gown, and by the time it was tied and covering my clothes, I’d been briefed.
Apparently, there were three new admits, all from the same house fire, meaning we needed all hands on deck. Two of the patients had burns severe enough that they needed to be rushed straight to the tub room. We started them on two large bore IVs and a morphine drip as the nurses started cutting away charred clothing.
I had residents pull labs while I assessed the third patient, who seemed lucky to have sustained only smoke inhalation, but his luck turned when his pulse ox dropped and his heart rate shot up—his airway was closing up from inflammation. He’d taken in too much smoke and soot and needed to be intubated.
I asked a resident to do it.
The guy fumbled with the laryngoscope, his hands shaking. He couldn’t see where to aim the trach tube. He swiped sweat from his brow and looked up at me, fear clouding his eyes. “You should just do it. I’ve only done a handful of these and I’m not ever good at it,” he said, trying to pass the tools over to me.
I told him to take a breath. The patient wouldn’t code while I was in the room. What probably felt like ages to the resident was in fact only milliseconds. He was fine. He could do this.
He tried again, blinking rapidly, concentration unwavering. I reached over and adjusted his angle, giving him better access so that this time, the trach tube slid down easily. A sigh of relief rippled through the room as the resident looked up at me. I nodded at his achievement before a nurse connected the Ambu bag. Before I left the room, I assigned the resident that patient for the remainder of the night. It was his job to continue with cardiac monitoring and ongoing pulse oximetry. I had other patients to take care of.
I ended up staying on my feet all night, barely stopping for a bathroom break or cup of water. There’s a lot of danger when it comes to burn injuries. Skin is an organ we take for granted, but not only does it create a barrier between the outside world and our bodies, it also helps with temperature regulation, immune defense, and vitamin production. It keeps us from becoming dehydrated, and it’s a storeroom for water, fat, and metabolic products.
Long story short: skin is fucking important. When a patient comes in with severe burns, we immediately assess the degree and the percentage of the body the burns cover. The higher the degree, the more likely it is the patient will need surgery.
That’s where I come in.
I’m ready to drop where I stand when my colleague, Dr. Sandra Garza, arrives to swap places with me in the morning. I glance up at the clock and see the time: nearly 7:00 AM. The night flew by.
Dr. Garza smiles at me. “You look like hell.”
“I feel like hell too.”
“Rough night?”
“You could say that.”
“Not surprising. It’s graduation week, which means we’ll all suffer until these residents settle into their new roles.”
I can’t help but smile. With her bouffant hair and round ’80s glasses, Dr. Garza looks like she should be manning a church bake sale, not running the floor of the BICU. She’s a chair in the surgical department and helped train me during my fellowship, years ago. She’s one of the best surgeons I’ve ever worked with.
She nods toward the doors. “I can take it from here. Go get some sleep.”
I nod before I yank off my surgical gown and trash it. Before I leave the hospital, I shower in the locker room and grab some jeans and a Red Sox T-shirt from a bag I keep here. Outside, the world is a bright and new thing. The sun is shining. Traffic is moving at a snail’s pace. I catch a whiff of coffee and nearly wrench a Starbucks cup away from a passing stranger, but I know I shouldn’t—both for the criminal implications and because if I drink caffeine now, I won’t be able to sleep.
Out of habit, I start off in the direction of my townhouse before I realize what I’m doing and reroute to Noah’s place instead. The movers will be at my house, packing up all the furniture and loading it into a storage unit so my contractor can have free rein for renovations. I packed up two suitcases the other day and will need to head over to grab them later. It’s just enough stuff to tide me over until the remodel is done. I don’t need much, just clothing and some toiletries. Noah said his guest bedroom is outfitted with most anything I’ll need, and if there’s something I can’t find, he told me to ask Natalie.
Natalie.
The idea of her settles in my chest, the first good thing I’ve thought about in twelve hours.
Last night had been planned for weeks. I’d wanted to attend her graduation ever since I saw the invitation for the banquet on Noah’s fridge. I knew her parents wouldn’t be there, knew how few friends she has, so I memorized the date and mentioned to Dr. Patel that I’d like to attend. He was pleased. Attendings are always welcome at resident graduations. After all, we’ve helped train these doctors, so it makes sense that we’d be invested enough to see them off before the next part of their journey.