Page 11 of Dr. Fellow

Every waking second of my life has been spent working toward achieving the same goal.

So what do I do once I finally reach it?

I genuinely don’t know.

Sure, I still have my fellowship to go, but it’s the cushiest year in all of medicine. There’s no call requirement, and all you do is absorb everything you can about your specialty. Fellowship is essentially like slamming on the brakes after finishing a five year long NASCAR race—you’re a winner because you survived the worst years of your life, but then you look around and realize that there’s nobody to party with.

So why would I be excited to live my life again?

I never started living it.

But before I can reply with a smartass comment, my pager goes off.

“Sorry, gotta run,” I say, standing from the too-firm couch in a rush.

Dr. Kinkaid removes his glasses, eyeing me with concern. “Same time next week?”

“Uh, sure,” I lie, already on the way out of the room.

I won’t be coming back.

“Dr. Chastain?”

I glance back at him with my hand on the door, ready to make my escape.

“Happy Valentine’s Day. I hope that one day you will allow yourself to celebrate again.”

***

On top of the divorce, the past two months have been fucking miserable. In orthopedics, we spend the first half of our chief year on trauma, teaching the interns and taking call. It’s supposed to hone our leadership skills and provide us with additional responsibility, though I honestly have no idea if I was a good example at all because the sheer exhaustion of it was miserable.

But I’d still rather be drained, than bored as hell like I am now because we spend the second half of the year on elective time. We basically prepare for our fellowships by scrubbing in on interesting cases, finishing up any research that we were working on, and studying for our board exams at the end of June. In theory, it’s supposed to give a nice cushion in between residency and fellowship so that we can tie up any loose ends, but there’s one major problem—I don’t have any loose ends to tie up.

My research has already been published in a journal. I’ve been yelled at multiple times for exceeding my hours on elective cases. And there’s only so much studying I can do before my eyes start to glaze over. For the first time in my life, my schedule is normal. And while that would be exciting to anyone else, it’s my worst nightmare.

Which is why I’m currently running to ER triage to answer Beau’s vague page that said:

Need a set of hands in bay 1. Code 8008135.

I have no fucking idea what the numbers mean, but the big idiot probably can’t type with his huge fingers.

When I arrive at the trauma bay, I pause and look around. The area is empty, and it doesn’t seem like anything has come through, but maybe he mistyped the location?

I decide to do a quick sweep of the floor before heading back to my office. As I pass by triage, I spot Beau leaning over the edge of the circular desk with a goofy smile plastered on his face. He’s flirting with his girlfriend, and whatever he said must have been wildly inappropriate because her pale cheeks flush a bright pink, and she lovingly slaps him on the arm.

“Buff,” I snap, purposely using the nickname he hates as I walk up behind him. “Where the fuck did the trauma go, and why aren’t you there?”

He turns to me, squishing his fluffy eyebrows together. “Huh?”

I blink at him for a moment, the absurdity of the situation momentarily rendering me speechless. My adrenaline had been pumping, fueled by genuine excitement to do my job and finally feel useful. But now the realization hits me—there actually isn’t anything to do at all.

“You paged me to triage bay one,” I state, unable to help the irritation threading through my tone.

“Why would I page you? You’re not even on call anymore. Plus, the new guy is way nicer and doesn’t give me stupid-ass nicknames.” He smirks, knowing that his comment will piss me off.

It does.

I snag the pager out of my navy scrub pants and flash the message in his smug face. “Who the fuck sent me this then? A ghost? Because it came from your number.”

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