Page 1 of Dr. Intern

Chapter 1

Beau

“Buffington, get your meaty paws off of the patient,” my attending yells from across the operating table. “When I tell you to do something, you do it, son. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get out of my goddamn sight before I tell everyone just how incompetent you are.”

The scrub tech gives me a sympathetic glance as I nod, slowly stepping away from the surgical field.

Just another day in paradise.

I’m three months into my orthopedic surgical residency, and at this point, I’m wondering how I’m going to make it through the next three months, let alone five years. Almost every day has been filled with self-doubt and a constant anxiety that I’m doing something wrong. Everyone says the intern year is the hardest, and to take it day by day, but that’s a little challenging when you have a seventy-year-old drill sergeant screaming in your ear for hours on end.

I’ve been trying to remind myself that this is my dream—the thing I’ve worked harder for than anything in my life. That everything I sacrificed will be worth it when I make it through to the other side. But, words of affirmation can only get you so far when your eyeballs feel like sandpaper from lack of sleep.

Fortunately, this was my last case of the day, and we’re about to give our evening sign-off to the resident on call tonight. While I would love to swing by the bar afterward with the rest of my coworkers, I have a date with my surgical textbook and YouTube. We have several big cases tomorrow, and I’d love to get in on the hip replacement with Dr. Michaels, which means I need to forgo any fun and keep my head in the game.

The more you get a surgeon to trust you, the more leeway they give you during a case. And the only way to get them to trust you is to appear competent. Not that I am in any way competent, but like I said, the keyword is to appear competent.

On my way out of the hospital, I finally check my phone after hours of focus. Six of the unread texts are from my mom, checking in on me because I’ve let her messages go a week without response. She isn’t what I would call a helicopter parent, but because I’m the younger of her two kids, she worries about me more. It also doesn’t help that she’s an endocrinologist, and I happen to be blessed with type 1 diabetes. If my A1C is even one point higher, she somehow knows and bullies me into compliance. I still don’t understand how she gets the information, though, because HIPAA is something she should be compliant with . . .

I shoot her back a thumbs-up emoji to let her know that I’m alive, even though I think I’m closer to a zombie than a human at this point.

The next text is from Parker, my best friend and an attending surgeon at my hospital. He wants to know if I’m still down to play golf this weekend.

Parker doesn’t have a lot of people that he’s close to. I can count on one hand the number of friends he talks about when we’re together. Part of that is his unwavering dedication to his career, but the other part is his personality. He may act cocky and confident at the hospital, but he’s actually really reserved and introspective. For some reason, we hit it off when I was shadowing him during med school, and getting to know him on a personal level became like a fun challenge.Now, though, I can’t imagine my life without him in it. I can’t explain our friendship—we’re opposites in so many ways, but it just works.

I’ve got plenty of friends from various stages of my life, but over time Parker has become like a brother to me. He’s taken me under his wing and believed in me, going out of his way to provide positive feedback in a field that doesn’t give very much of it.So even though I’m more exhausted than I’ve ever been in my life, I’m going to golf with him. It just so happens that neither one of us is on call, and I know he’s desperate to get out of the house while his fiancée, Cassidy, is wedding planning.

The final text on my phone is from a dating app, letting me know that I have a new match. Truth be told, I don’t use the app to date. I use it to meet women who are down for a good time without any strings attached. Sometimes they see it that way, and other times they want more from me, which is when I swiftly exit the scene.

It’s not that I’m opposed to having a girlfriend, but I’ve never really felt the urge to choose a specific woman. Plus, working a hundred hours a week doesn’t exactly make me prime boyfriend material.

As I hop in my truck, I catch a glimpse of myself in the side mirror. I look like complete dog shit. My light brown hair is disheveled and in desperate need of a good cut. The shadows under my eyes look like they were carved by mountains of coal, and I’m pretty sure I smell like moldy cheese.

Being a surgeon is definitely not as glamorous as it looks on television.

I run my fingers through my itchy facial hair. Prickly stubble covers my jaw and upper lip like a rough carpet. Fortunately, none of the red is visible at this time of day. My facial hair tends to lean ginger in the sunlight, much to my friends’ amusement. The number of times I was teased for being a daywalker in college because of my stubble was enough to always try to keep it shaved. Though, at this point, I don’t have enough time to eat a real meal, let alone shave my face, so it’s going to have to stay.

Starting the engine, I open up the dating app and click on the profile: Brunette, twenty-six, new to Atlanta, likes country music. Normally, I would snooze on a plain Jane like that. I have a predilection towards busty blondes with daddy issues, not a woman who wants a love like Johnny and June.

But as I skim past her details to her photos, something makes me pause.

In the first image, she’s at a gala, draped in a gown that looks like it was made from the thinnest material imaginable. She radiates elegance and sophistication, like she belongs in that environment. Icy blue eyes, unlike any color I’ve seen before, shine against her pale features. There’s a cold, almost detached quality in her gaze, as if she’s become indifferent to the world.

The second photo tells a different story. Her eyes appear almost wolf-like, playful, and full of life as she’s standing on top of a mountain. She seems to be howling with the wind while she laughs, wild and carefree.

It’s confusing to me, almost like the life she’s living and the life she wants to live are at odds with each other.

I’m usually good at reading people; it’s one of the reasons I thought I’d make a good physician, but the two people I see on this profile are different, and it has me wondering which one I’ll meet. Kind of like when you open a mystery airhead flavor—you don’t know what you’ll get until you tasteit.

Which is exactly why, despite my reservations, I find myself typing out a response to her.

Unpopular opinion: Ring of Fire isn’t Johnny Cash’s best song.

Just as I pull into the driveway of my parent’s place, my phone vibrates with a notification. Ever since my residency began this summer, I’ve been house-sitting for them as they galavant through Europe. While I’d prefer to have an apartment of my own, turning down free housing would be stupid, especially when I make less than minimum wage on a per-hour basis.

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