Page 30 of Dr. Intern

Parker chuckles into the phone. “Yeah, my fiancée is just a clutz and ran into the coffee table.”

Faintly I can hear Cassidy reply to him, though I can’t make out exactly what she says.

It must have been good though, because Parker’s voice is muffled, as if he’s covering the phone, when he warns, “Say that again, sweetheart, and you’ll be over my knee in ten seconds.”

I look out the window trying to distract myself from their banter. This isn’t the first time I’ve been caught in the crossfires of their uncontrolled lust for each other, and I’m honestly just glad they finally stopped arguing and gave in to it. When I was Parker’s med student, he once used me as a buffer during a fight, and the tension between them was something I’ll never forget. Fortunately, they took things outside and worked them out like adults—by hooking up in the supply closet.

“Sorry,” Parker says into the phone after a moment, his breathing slightly labored. “Had to handle something.”

A giggle erupts in the background, and I hear the rustling of what sounds like a zipper.

“No worries.”

“I just wanted to check in to see how the move went.”

I pull up to a light a few blocks from the condo and drum my fingers on the wheel, anxious all of a sudden. I haven’t been around for more than a few hours in the days since I moved my shit into the spare bedroom. Not because I haven’t wanted to, but because my time isn’t my own. Though, for some reason the thought of going back there now, at a time when Claire might be up, makes my heart race.

“Not bad,” I answer, trying to sound casual. “I took the loft in case y’all want to ever stay in the city.”

Well, that and because I didn’t trust myself sleeping across the hall from his little sister. At least this way I have to walk down a full set of stairs to get to her.

“Thanks, man. I know I didn’t say this before, but you’re welcome to live there all residency if you want. It’s paid off, so you can just handle the utilities.”

“That’s too much,” I admit, slightly stunned by his generosity. “But I may take you up on it for intern year.”

I was only intending to stay a few months while I got my shit together, but the commute has already been a godsend. And for a surgical intern who's starved for sleep, the few extra minutes in bed are precious. So precious, in fact, that I’m seriously considering sticking it out in a condo with a woman who hates my guts.

“Whatever you want,” he responds, his tone more rushed. “I’ve, uh, got something I need to—” His voice trails off and the line goes dead.

I roll my eyes and try not to think about what they’re doing as I pull up to the valet for my new home.

It feels weird living in luxury like this given the way I grew up. Back in South Georgia, where I spent the majority of my childhood, life was simpler and more grounded. Our family wasn’t poor by any means, especially with both my parents being local physicians, but our circumstances were a far cry from the opulence I’m surrounded with now. My days were filled with mudding, fishing, and a freedom that only a small town can offer. It was paradise for my brother and me.

The shift to city life hit me like a freight train when my parents both took jobs in Atlanta during my freshman year of high school. The move was enough of a culture shock on its own, but then they put me in private school which made me truly feel like a fish out of water. Initially, my thick southern drawl made me the target of bullying, but I quickly learned that it’s easy to charm the pants off your peers when you’re outgoing, friendly, and play sports.

While private school is easy to judge for someone with my upbringing, it taught me how to talk to pretty much anyone. Now I can find some sort of commonality with each person I meet, regardless of their background.

I wouldn’t be surprised if that skill was the only reason I got into the orthopedic surgery residency, because I had to network my ass off in addition to leaning on Parker’s recommendations. Though now that the exhaustion of my day has finally settled in, and I have several hours of studying left before bed, I’m kicking myself for not choosing a specialty with a better lifestyle.

As I pass through the front door of the condo, I’m half-expecting some kind of standoff with Claire, but the place is quiet, almost too quiet. Part of me wishes we could just address whatever tension there is head-on, but I haven’t yet figured out how to explain to her that I’m not an asshole who flirted with her the same day her mom died.

I’m just a busy asshole who has incredibly poor timing.

Dropping my keys on the stainless steel countertop, I head to the fridge and grab something for dinner. My life these days is all about efficiency, including my meals. The stuffed peppers from Costco are a lifesaver—healthy enough, and easy to prepare. Cooking used to be a passion of mine during med school, but now it’s just another chore squeezed into a packed schedule.

Surprisingly, the only stuff in the refrigerator belongs to me. I didn’t question it at first, assuming Claire just needed to go grocery shopping, but it’s been a week and there’s still nothing but my food.

I rub my face as I place my dinner in the microwave, telling myself that her nutrition is a problem for another day. Right now I just need to shove something in my mouth, take a shower, and watch case videos until I pass out. I’ve got to be back at the hospital in less than eight hours for rounds, so time is not on my side.

Thank god, though, that tomorrow is Friday and I have Saturday off. I may still be spending the day thinking about surgery, but at least I’ll be doing it from the couch with a cold beer in my hand.

Once my meal is warmed up, I slouch on the black metal barstool at the counter. I barely pause for breaths as I inhale the combination of peppers, meat, and cheese, while simultaneously watching a YouTube video on a potential surgical case for tomorrow. The case itself is simple, but I prefer to know exactly what to expect before I encounter something in the OR for the first time. My old rugby coach used to say, “Perfect preparation prevents piss poor performance,” and I guess that mantra always stuck with me.

“Well, well, well, I was beginning to think my new roommate had already moved out.” Claire’s lively voice appears beside me. I haven’t heard a peep from the condo, and considering the late hour, I assumed she was asleep.

I’m glad she’s not.

“You haven’t scared me off just yet,” I answer, swallowing the last bite of my dinner as I look in her direction. “Did I wake you?”

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