Page 30 of Near Miss

But he asks another question before I have a chance.

“My brother said you were a fellow. What does that mean?”

“Oh.” I pause, setting down my fork carefully and flexing out my fingers. “Essentially, I’m a board-certified general surgeon. But I’m finishing up additional training in transplant surgery. I’m a second-year transplant and hepatopancreatobiliary surgery fellow. It just means I’ll specialize in abdominal organ transplants, basically. Livers, kidneys, and pancreases.”

Full lips curve into a smile, and he nods. I think he’s about to ask another question, but someone shouts his name.

“Beck!”

He glances over and he’s still smiling—it’s full of affection, but something, somewhere, seems like it’s hurting him just a bit. He raises a hand and beckons them over.

I shift in my seat just as his brother and another two oncology residents I’ve only seen in passing come to stand beside the table, coffee cups and charts in hand.

“What are you doing here?” His brother looks confused, but when his eyes land on me, his face pales. “Hi, Dr. Roberts.”

Beckett tips his chin to me, dimple popping in his cheek, and winks. “Just trying to take Dr. Roberts to a thank-you dinner. Low and behold, she invites me to a place where her meals are free. What do you guys make of that?”

“Sounds like she didn’t want to have dinner with you.” Dr. Davis grins at Beckett with a shrug, and the other two glance back and forth between us with wide eyes.

“I’m on call. I can’t leave,” I blurt, and it comes out harsher than I mean it to. All three of them pale now, and I wish I could take it back.

“So she says.” Beckett’s brows quirk up, and he throws them a good-natured smile.

The one standing on the other side of Dr. Davis peeks her head around, blonde ponytail swinging wildly—Dr. Lowe stitched into the chest of her scrubs. “Congratulations on the fellowship award, Dr. Roberts. You deserved it.”

“Oh.” I blink. “Thank you, that’s very kind.”

Beckett cocks his head, and he’s looking at me with this faint appraising smile that has his brother glancing back and forth between us, and I think there’s a false sort of understanding dawning in his eyes.

Dr. Davis takes a measured step back—he looks infinitely softer and significantly less afraid when he glances back at me. “Well, we should go.”

He practically drags them away by their elbows.

Beckett watches them before his eyes swing back to me. His voice is low, teasing. “Award?”

He looks at me like, maybe, I’ve been keeping some sort of secret from him. When really, I just forgot. It was nice when I got the email saying I was being recognized. And then it didn’t feel much like anything worth celebrating at all.

I shake my head, looking back at my salad. “It’s just a stupid, made-up award. They give them away at this gala the health network hosts each year. One fellow gets one for ‘dedication to clinical and surgical excellence.’”

“You’re a big deal, eh?” His eyes glint, and all of him looks amused.

“I’m really not.”

“You are to me.” His voice softens, and my eyes cut up to him. He clears his throat. “I meant it when I said thank you. Thank you for helping me, when you didn’t have to. These last few weeks were a lot easier because of you. I’m glad we met.”

For some reason, I think of Beckett as a child—Beckett growing up when maybe he shouldn’t have had to. Beckett smiling and laughing and grinning when maybe he didn’t feel like it. Beckett becoming this person—likeable and reliable—because he didn’t have another choice.

And I think of little me. The path carved for her that maybe she didn’t want to follow but she had to because other people needed to be whole, so she gave and gave and gave until they were.

Not quite the same, but I wonder if there’s a world out there where we grew up as next-door neighbours—where we tied cans together with string and dangled out our windows each night so we could whisper to each other and keep each other safe—little him and little me.

Not the same, but not really all that different.

I set my fork down and flex my fingers again. “I don’t date so I don’t ... I don’t have a date. You could come with me. To the gala. If you wanted. One more kick at the PR can.”

“As friends?” He tilts his head, all of him suddenly serious and the lines of his jaw looking sharper now that the last rays of the sun are gone.

“Friends. Business acquaintances.” I shrug.

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