Page 9 of Doctor One Night

7:49 am

I jolt awake, my heart racing. The early morning breaks through the wood slats covering my windows, casting sharp yellow lines across my bedroom. Blinking away the remnants of sleep, I try to grasp at the fading wisps of my dream. It slips away like smoke, leaving only a lingering sense of something unresolved.

Hunter Parrish. His name echoes in my mind, bringing with it a strange mix of emotions. I can't recall the details of the dream, but his presence lingers as if he'd just been here in my room. Ridiculous, of course. We haven't spoken in months, not since that night in the lab.

Until our hallway crash last night, of course. Curious how seeing him brings all of that back into my consciousness.

I stretch, pushing away the covers, and swing my legs over the side of the bed. The plush rug that takes up most of the floor in my bedroom grounds me in reality, easing me into wakefulness. I can't shake this odd tingling all around me. It's like a phantom touch, a conversation half-remembered.

“Get it together, Frankie,” I mutter to myself, padding to the bathroom. The face in the mirror looks back at me, green eyes still unfocused. I splash some cold water on my face, hoping to clear my head and brush my teeth. I can't do anything in the morning until I've brushed my teeth, not even take a sip of coffee.

As I go through my morning routine, flashes of the dream tease at the edges of my wakefulness: Hunter's intense and focused blue eyes; His tattooed sleeves peeking out from under his scrubs; His rare, genuine smile transforming his usually serious demeanor.

I shake my head, annoyed at myself. Why is he suddenly invading my dreams? The request, which is really a directive to me, from Dr. Theo Bench on Wednesday proposing a collaboration with him was probably the start.

And then seeing him in the flesh for the first time last night, running into that solid, broad chest, smelling him…

Curiously, neither of us mentioned the department head's proposal to pair up for the new pacemaker trial when we ran into each other. I wonder if he even knows, yet.

His possible involvement seems odd to me. He isn’t a researcher—he is a surgeon. But, the truth is, there’s no one else at UAB who knows as much about heart disease, pacemakers, and how they work as he does.

I pour myself a cup of coffee and try to focus on the day ahead. Today is not a work day. I have research to review and data to analyze, but it can wait until next week. Today, I have personal errands to run and laziness to catch up on.

Elmwood Cemetery

600 Martin Luther King Jr Dr, Birmingham

1:16 pm

I kneel down on the soft earth, the scent of freshly cut grass mixing with the subtle fragrance of the flowers I brought with me.

The cemetery is quiet and peaceful, almost out of place, given the rush of life just outside its gates. It’s one of the reasons I come here as often as I do. The world slows down here, giving me time to think, to breathe, to remember.

I start pulling at the small weeds that have cropped up around the headstone, determined to make it look as neat as possible. The stone is simple, just the way Mom would have wanted it. There are no frills and nothing ostentatious; just her name, the dates that mark the too-short span of her life, and the words “Beloved Mother.”

“Hey, Mom,” I whisper, the words catching in my throat like they always do. “I brought your favorites.”

I place the bouquet of daisies and lavender at the base of the stone, carefully arranging them so they don’t obscure her name.

She always loved daisies. She told me when I was itty bitty that they were the happiest flower and I always think of her when I see them. She also loved the smell of lavender. She would fill our tiny apartment with their scent, trying to make a home out of so little. She always had some growing around our house and in any outdoor spaces we had.

I sit back on my heels, letting my hands rest on my thighs as I take in the sight of her final resting place. It’s been years since she passed, but the pain of losing her hasn’t dulled much. If anything, it’s just settled into a familiar ache, a constant reminder of what I’ve lost.

We grew up together, in a way. She was so young when she had me, barely more than a kid herself. Bill, the sperm donor, as I call him, left before I was born. He ran off to start a new life, a new family, without a second thought for the one he abandoned.

I’ve never had much of a relationship with him, and I don’t think I ever will. He’s just a name on a birth certificate, a ghost who haunts the edges of my life without ever really touching it. I haven’t seen him since I was thirteen, and that was for about five minutes when he stopped by the apartment unannounced to “visit.” We moved after that.

Weirdly, though, out of the blue, I’ve had a few voicemails from him recently. I don’t even know how he got my number, but I eventually blocked him.

But Mom…she was everything. We didn’t have much, but what we had, we shared. She worked two, sometimes three, jobs to keep us afloat, always smiling, always telling me that things would get better. She is the singular person that made me believe I could be anything I wanted to be. Even when I didn’t believe in myself, she believed in me.

Mom was the first person in her family to even think about college, but she never had the chance to go. When I got accepted, it was like I was carrying both of us across that finish line.

When I earned my PhD, when I got to call myself Dr. Renna, I was the first in our family to hold that title. It was for her as much as it was for me. Unfortunately, she passed away before I graduated and earned the “D-R,” but I know she was with me every step of the way.

I worked my ass off, not just because I wanted a better life, but because I wanted to honor everything she sacrificed to get me there.

My independence and my drive—they’re not just traits; they’re survival skills. Watching her do it all on her own, without a single complaint, taught me I couldn’t rely on anyone but myself. Especially not a man.

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