Page 18 of Dr. Fellow

I spent my first few years in the ER writing in journals to work through my emotions. But at the end of the day, I still felt the losses deep in my core. Nothing could erase them, and I eventually got tired of trying so I constructed a wall of impenetrability around myself.

And that wall has worked for the most part. It worked through the horrors of COVID and the helplessness that came with fighting a virus that nobody knew anything about. It worked through the frustrations of short staffing and feeling like we were failed by our healthcare system. It worked for pretty much everything I’ve experienced as a nurse over the past several years.

But for some reason, my steel barricade of protection was completely obliterated in a few hours this afternoon. I don’t know if it’s because I saw so much of my own father in this patient and started feeling guilty because I haven’t called him in a while, or if it’s because I finally hit the limit on the number of deaths I could experience without allowing myself to process them, but I’m on the verge of a serious breakdown. I can feel the pain swirling in my chest, begging for some sort of release that I’m not quite sure how to let loose.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I mutter under my breath as I turn on the kitchen faucet and no water comes out.

I blink back tears of frustration now that mac and cheese is out of the question, opening the refrigerator to search for something to eat. Unfortunately, I usually order takeout or buy shitty cafeteria food at work, so my options are somewhat limited. I try to always keep milk for cereal in situations like this, but I’ve been working so much overtime that all I see is a pile of Chick-fil-A sauce, six cases of Dr. Pepper Zero, and a bundle of smelly broccoli that needs to be tossed in the garbage.

A responsible adult would keep pizza in the freezer for emergencies, but I only find a half-empty bottle of Tito’s. Apparently I’m only here for a good time, not a long time.

At least I won’t have a puffy face when I starve to death though, because my ice roller is primed and ready to go. I pull it out and slide the cold stone along my cheekbone as I cross the kitchen.

My final option, the pantry, is more promising, and I discover a few homemade oatmeal raisin cookies from Claire’s recent batch. Score. That’s two food groups in one—carbs from the oats, and fruit from the raisins. If anything, it’s more nutritious than eating the stash of Nerd Clusters I always keep handy.

I decide to warm the cookies in the microwave to trick my body into thinking that it’s getting a real meal. Shoving one in my mouth, I slink to the floor of the kitchen and lean my head against the white-washed cabinet.

I have no idea what to do about the water. I feel disgusting and dejected after everything I witnessed at the hospital, and I desperately need to cleanse my body of the day—both physically and mentally. But there’s no way in hell that my shower is going to work if my sink doesn’t.

In any other situation, I could drive to Claire’s condo since it’s less than ten minutes from my house. But the ice on the road is horrible, and there’s no way I can get there safely. I might be careless with a number of things, including what I put in my body, but my life isn’t one of them.

As I’m running through the list of people I know who could possibly live nearby, I remember something Cass told me when we got dinner the other night. It turns out there actually is someone . . . the problem is that I’m not sure reaching out to him is any less dangerous than going back out on the roads.

Chapter 8

Walker

Icy roads mean car wrecks.

Car wrecks mean broken bones.

Broken bones are an orthopedic surgeon’s dream.

But when I called to pick up a shift this morning and help with the increased caseload, I got a stern lecture from the chief of surgery. I was so desperate to get out of the house that I even offered to work for free, but that wasn’t as well received as I anticipated because apparently, I’ve already grossly exceeded my reportable hours. He told me that I was on a fine line with the department and if I didn’t sit my ass back down, he would put me on leave for a month.

So, all I’ve done today is pace back and forth while I read my research abstract for the thousandth time, even though I know it like the back of my hand.

I guess this is the point where a normal person would enjoy their time off, maybe watch some television or something. But if there’s anything I hate more than quiet, it’s laziness.

Beau keeps trying to convince me that I should date again, but I blow him off by saying I don’t have any time, even though that’s clearly a blatant lie. I have all the time in the world, I just don’t know how to be a good partner to someone when medicine is all I’ve ever prioritized.

I don’t feel like getting my heart ripped out again when someone ultimately decides I can’t be what they need. So even though I might have time, I don’t see the point in spending it with someone when the relationship is going to end the same way that it did the first time around—in divorce.

As I’m pouring myself a glass of bourbon, my phone pings. I have no idea who could be messaging me at nearly nine in the evening—the only people who text me these days are my lawyer, my coworkers, and robot spammers.

Hey! It’s Morgan. Do you have water?

My blood stirs slightly as I read and re-read the message, making sure that I’m not hallucinating. I don’t have her number saved, but Beau created a group text for everyone going to Las Vegas, so I bet that’s how she got my information.

I should respond with something welcoming, considering I’ve thought about her nonstop for two months, but there’s just something about Morgan that makes me want to get a rise out of her. She’s naturally confident and self-assured, but for some reason, I have the ability to make her flustered. And that shouldn’t excite me, but it does.

Morgan who?

My phone immediately pings.

. . . seriously?

I feel the corners of my lips quirk up for the first time in days as I type a response.

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