Page 2 of Dr. Fellow

“You want to talk about it?” Beau asks softly.

His attention drifts back to my naked ring finger.The finger that’s been surrounded by a thick gold band for the past five years of my life. The finger that I thought would be surrounded by a thick gold band until the day I died. The finger that has only been bare for a week because even though my wife left me a month ago, I wasn’t willing to admit to anyone, let alone myself, that I had failed.

Pathetic.

I force a laugh, more out of exhaustion than amusement, and rake my fingers through my dark, finger-length hair. “It’s all good. I’ve talked about it enough in therapy.”

His mouth drops open dramatically. “How could you? I thought I was your go-to therapist.”

“Too peppy,” I state simply, though that’s the farthest thing from the truth.

Because the truth is that Beau was there for me when I finally emerged from the surging whitewater rapids of residency and recognized that my marriage was in trouble last fall. He gave me space to talk through my issues, somehow sensing that I needed a friend even when I didn’t want one. Unfortunately, even his admittedly good advice didn’t matter in the end. Our relationship was broken beyond repair, and my efforts were too little, too late—Lane had run into the arms of another man who could give her everything I couldn’t.

The funny thing is, I don’t even blame her for what she did. Throughout residency, it never felt like we were on the same wavelength. While I had an entire life inside the hospital that consumed my every waking moment for years, she had a life in the real world that was just as full—without me in it.

Beau snorts at my critique. “What would you have preferred? If I told you there was no hope at all, and that you shouldn’t bother trying?”

“At least you would have been right for once in your life.”

“So you took the fellowship,” he states, grabbing the half-full pitcher to refill our glasses.

“I took the fellowship,” I confirm, my voice hollow.

The statement hangs in the air like a thousand shards of failure prickling my soul. Accepting the year-long sports medicine fellowship was never my original plan. Yeah, it’s incredibly prestigious and something I’ve worked for my entire career. But I was supposed to give it all up for her. I had promised to give it all up for her—to make a sacrifice for once in our relationship and put her first.

So forgive me for not feeling like I have anything to be excited about. The fellowship only reminds me that I’m a failure.

What a thing to celebrate . . .

“Well, it’s her loss,” Beau declares, clinking his glass against mine with a heavy hand. “She’s going to be so pissed when you meet all those famous athletes.”

“I think you’re probably more jealous than she is,” I reply. “She hates sports.”

“God,” he groans painfully, drawing out the word. “I knew I was right about her. She’s Satan’s mistress, and I hope she chokes on his fiery ball sack.”

I let out a reluctant laugh because he might be a pain in my ass, but the man knows how to lighten up a conversation. “Did you even meet her?”

“No,” he confirms, shaking his tipsy head. “But it doesn’t matter because she hurt my Walker-boo-boo. She’s as good as dead to me.”

I can’t help the way my lips twitch. Not because I wish my future ex-wife any ill-will, but because I appreciate my friend’s blind loyalty—it’s refreshing.

“You’re lucky I like you. If anyone else called me that, they’d be smacked upside the head.”

Beau snorts, staring at the black ink on my left arm. “You know you don’t scare me right? I mean, the tattoo sleeve really gives you that don’t fuck with me, intimidating vibe. But I know you’re just a big softie.”

He pauses and pulls out his phone to answer a text. “Plus, this is payback for that stupid-ass ‘Buff’ nickname of yours. You know it’s caught on, and everyone in the OR calls me that now? I swear to God, I’m the butt of every joke with the attendings.”

I shrug my shoulders. “You already were the butt of every joke, bud.”

Beau’s eyes flick to the parking lot, his usual swagger giving way to an almost guilty hesitation. Tracking his gaze, I see Parker Winters making his way through the line of cars toward our table.

Parker and I have known each other for several years because he was a year ahead of me in residency, though he specialized in general surgery rather than orthopedics like myself. I respect him a ton, and have always thought that we were similar, at least in terms of our personalities. But until Beau brought us together last fall, our relationship was strictly professional, filled with case communication or the occasional gripe about some new departmental policy. It’s been surprisingly nice getting to know him a little better outside of the hospital these past few months.

I glance back at Beau who grimaces, as if in a silent apology for inviting him to our night out. To be honest though, I don’t mind—I could use the distraction. And considering Parker’s appearance, something tells me that he could too.

I’ve never seen him look so disheveled. Typically, Parker is the poster boy for calm, cool, and collected, even when it comes to his life outside of the hospital. But tonight he looks like a completely different person. The expensive, tailored outfits I’m used to seeing have been replaced by a Yale long-sleeve T-shirt and tattered black sweatpants. His dark-brown hair is tousled, like he’s run his fingers through it hundreds of times today, and his jaw is covered in at least a week’s worth of untamed beard growth. In summary, he looks like shit.

“Sorry,” he says, sliding into the open chair beside Beau. “Lap chole took a little longer than expected because some idiot intern nicked an artery. You guys staying a little longer?”

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