Page 34 of Dr. Fellow

The question catches me off guard, and I glance up reflexively.

Walker’s face is less than a foot from mine, and I can’t help but think about how handsome he looks. His short facial hair softens the lines of his jaw, making him appear slightly less intimidating, and his coffee-colored eyes are almost milky beneath the fluorescent lights of the ER.

“Got a hot date with a bottle of The Prisoner and an episode of Summer House,” I answer truthfully, holding my sass back. “You?”

He studies me for a moment before the corner of his lips quirk up ever so slightly. “Sounds like I’ve got a hot date with a bottle of The Prisoner and an episode of Summer House.”

Chapter 14

Walker

“Shit,” Beau blurts as he attempts his running subcuticular stitch for the third time.

“If you don’t know what you’re doing, don’t fucking do it,” I grumble loud enough for everyone in the room to hear me. “The point of this stitch is to leave the patient with less scarring. You know that right?”

The big idiot just chuckles and continues to work, throwing the stitch perfectly this time. He might look ridiculous in his cat-covered scrub cap, but he really is talented. He works well under pressure, doesn’t let negative feedback get under his skin, and learns quickly. He’s going to be a great surgeon one day, and I’m not just saying that because he’s one of my only friends—I really do believe in him.

Sensing that we’re almost done, the anesthesiologist looks up from her position at the patient’s head. “What’s the EBL?”

Beau pauses his work and peers up at me from across the operating table, his eyes searching mine like I’m going to provide him with the right answer.

I don’t.

“Uh.” He glances over at the table of saturated lap pads, then back at the anesthesiologist. “Let’s say a hundred,” he replies confidently.

I close my eyes, taking a moment to collect myself before I say something really rude. “Try again.”

Estimated blood loss has to be carefully tracked during all surgical cases. Every procedure is going to have some amount of blood loss, and it’s important to accurately assess the total so that you can determine if any replacement is needed.

Surgeons, especially those of us in orthopedics, are notorious for underestimating blood loss. I was in a case during my intern year with a seasoned attending who charted a fifty milliliter deficit for a hip replacement. The patient’s hemoglobin dropped by four points in his post-surgical labs, a value associated with closer to one thousand milliliters of loss, not fifty. While the patient was stable and didn’t require a transfusion, the case was something that stuck in my head so heavily that I focused my residency research on it.

“Three hundred?” Beau guesses again, less sure this time.

“Each one of those soaked sponges holds about a hundred milliliters. Count them, then give me a number based on reality.”

He tallies the total silently, then looks up sheepishly. “Five hundred, tops.”

“Better.” I nod toward the incision, indicating he should continue. “Always overestimate, rather than underestimate. Some guys think the less blood they admit to, the better they are at their jobs. But they’re just egotistical dickheads. Being honest with your documentation doesn’t make you weak—it makes you safe.”

Once he finishes his stitches, he looks to me for approval. I lean in slightly and stare at his work, pretending that I haven’t been watching him like a hawk the entire case. During his intern year any procedure we do together is under my license, meaning I’m the one liable if shit hits the fan. I like the guy, but he’s got a long way to go before I trust him with my career.

“Looks good.”

Despite the surgical mask covering most of his face, I can see the huge, prideful grin that he’s sporting. “I may be a brute, but I’m also an artist.”

“A struggling artist,” I correct, stepping back from the table.

“Even DaVinci started somewhere, right? Just call me Leo.”

I start to peel off my gloves, ready to get the fuck out of here because for the first time in a long time, I want to be somewhere other than the hospital. “You have the highest self-confidence of anyone I’ve ever met.”

Beau laughs, following me out of the OR. “You must not have spent much time around Morgan then. The other night she was hanging out with Claire, and the shit that came out of her mouth was absolutely ludicrous. I’m honestly terrified of Vegas.”

“Someone say Vegas?”

Beau goes stiff as a board next to me because Weston Southerland looks up at us from his phone. He’s leaning against the wall outside of the adjacent OR with an eager half-smile.

“Yeah. Heading out there in a few weeks, man,” I reply casually, nudging Beau to remind him to behave. “Good to see you by the way. How’s the attending life treating you?”

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