Since I had nothing left to lose today, I said, "The Chief knows my father. Same intern class, or something."
"Oh, shit."
Alex knew enough about my father to understand the significance. Nearly everyone in surgery knew of him but Alex was one of the few who knew it was an emotional sinkhole for me. "Thought I'd cleared all the possible connections here but I missed that one."
She packed up the used gauze, shooting me a concerned glance. "How did this come up for the first time today? That sounds like some first-rate horseshit to not mention it until now and—"
"Doesn't matter," I said with a resigned shrug. "He expected me to be a carbon copy of my father and was disappointed to discover I am nothing of the sort and, well"—I sucked in a breath because I was not going to cry or break things—"he doesn't want me making a habit of destructive tantrums."
Alex whipped off her gloves. "What the fuck?"
"It was so wonderful to be lectured about my conduct and sentenced to eight weeks of counseling and reminded to be a good little girl all in one afternoon. It's really fun to get the disappointed daddy treatment when you're thirty-nine years old. And it's coming from your boss, who thinks it's okay to invoke your father in conversation. Kinda thought I'd passed that phase of my life but nope. Here the fuck I am."
She stared at me, nodding slowly. "That really sucks. I'm sorry."
"Thanks."
"What did you say? Please tell me you told him where to shove that."
"I didn't. I just kind of shut down." That was the most mortifying part. The shame of failing to stand up for myself when it was most essential slapped hard. I'd love to say this was unusual for me, yet this messy little pattern was uncomfortably familiar.
"I'm sorry that happened," Alex said. "But eight weeks isn't that long. And it's with Stremmel. You'll have fun."
I stared at her, unamused. "Hardly. He's the worst. He's the most arrogant surgeon in the hospital. No, wait. He's one of the most arrogant surgeons I've ever met, and that is an accomplishment considering my dad's ego needs its own area code."
Alex gave an impatient sniff that said she very much disagreed with me. I allowed her to sniff at me because she was the absolute best at letting people vent and then giving top-notch advice. She didn't take any of her own advice but that was an issue for a different day. "He isn't that bad. He likes to pretend he is but he's not."
I was treated to this man-sized cloud of arrogance at least twice a day as our schedules often aligned to guarantee we'd leave both the Beacon Hill brownstone we called home and the attending surgeons' lounge at the same times.
It would be tolerable if he wasn't so busy being drunk on his own exaggerated sense of self-importance that he fully ignored my attempts at polite conversation. I didn't understand why everyone liked him so much and willingly spent time with him outside work. I had to constantly remind myself that figuring him out wasn't worth my energy or attention, and I didn't have to keep going out of my way to connect with him as a colleague or neighbor when he couldn't manage complete sentences for me.
I reminded myself, but I hadn't broken the habit of doing it yet.
"Alex, the guy growls at people. We see each other almost every day and the only form of greeting he can manage is an irritable-looking jerk of his chin or a grumble of word-shaped sounds."
"Yeah, he's a little rough around the edges," she conceded. "But it's all bark, no bite."
"Maybe he shouldn't bark! Why can't we ask that of people? Don't bark. Don't treat female staff like children. Don't slut-shame anyone." I sent her an apologetic frown. "I'm not calling you a slut."
"Yeah, I know, I know," she muttered. "You psychotic bitch."
We shared a bitter laugh, the kind that cleansed wounds and taught scars how to stretch beyond their limits. We had it good but that didn't mean the good was easy.
"I should've ignored the whole thing," I said, mostly to myself. "Should've let it go and spared myself all of"—I gestured to the barely there cuts on my arm—"these brand-new problems."
"Would you have actually let it go?" Alex shrugged. "Or would you have resented the decision to make your professional expertise less important than avoiding a difficult conversation?"
"I would've moved on," I said, and that was at least forty percent true. "Eventually."
"But what does that really mean?" she asked. "Would you have written off the stapling issue as 'trauma surgeons gonna trauma surgeon'? Or would you have planted that seed in your field of fucks and let it grow?"
"Field of fucks. For sure. I'd bring up that issue to Stremmel every time I saw him and I'd drive him insane with it, nice and slow. Only way to farm a field of fucks, Alex. You gotta long-game that shit."
Alex hummed as she pushed to her feet. "Eight weeks of counseling will be fun for you two," she drawled.
"Don't remind me," I said with a groan.
Chapter 3
Sara
My sneakers squealed against the laminate floor as I rounded the corner to Dr. Milana Cuello's office. I would've preferred to slip into the restroom to check my hair and straighten myself before the first conflict resolution session with Stremmel but I was already running late. Just a few minutes, but I hated being late. It always filled me with the most pointless panic. I told myself it was pointless and that worrying in this way was a waste of energy but I was already wasting a ton of pointless energy so there was no stopping this mess now.
The truth was, I didn't choose the messy life.
All this messy chose me—and I was okay with that. I mean, I had to be. I was a perfectionist good girl with the heart of a raging bitch. Messy was the only way to rock this bun.
I was really good at my job, yet stupid old imposter syndrome kicked my ass on the daily.
I was scrappy as fuck and more delicate than anyone had the right to be.
I was vain as hell yet bristled at being judged on my appearance first, my surgical pedigree second.
I swore fluently and often.
I came across as inconsistent and moody. Hot and cold.
I was thirty-nine years old and a pickier eater than most toddlers. That, plus an endless list of chronic digestive issues meant no one could take me anywhere—but don't even think about not inviting me.
Even my hair got in on the action. Some of it curled, some of it fell stick straight, and the rest existed on a spectrum of wavy to frizzy.
I came by the mess honestly—as honestly as anyone could when growing up with drama-addicted parents who would've been better off divorced but elected to cheat on each other and complain about their unfavorable prenup to anyone who would listen, me and my siblings the most frequent audience. Despite living through this marital master class, I still found myself wanting to settle down with someone. Just as soon as I met them and learned how to be vulnerable. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.
All of that left me holding the bill of sale for a whole lot of emotional garbage, most of which I'd processed and recycled into the kind of high-value skills that made me look like a well-adjusted, functional adult until I destroyed an exam room. Appearances, those funny little liars.