Page 1 of Still The One

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EVE CASSIDY

‘Morning, Eve.’ One of the emergency surgeons I see regularly greets me with a lift of his coffee cup as we pass each other in one of the endless employee-only hallways.

The walls of the hospital are crisp, sterile white, with shiny black marble-looking floors, and local photography, or healthcare signage, hanging every ten to twenty-five feet. I’ve worked here long enough that I’ve got the photos memorized but I still glance at each one to verify I haven’t forgotten a single one.

‘Good morning, Doctor Sully,’ I say. ‘I hope I don’t see you today,’ I tease, glancing back at him as I pass.

‘Amen to that,’ he chuckles.

I wouldn’t want to put money on whether or not we’ll meet, but I would love for today to be as low-key as possible because it’s my Friday, and it’s easier to roll into a weekend without the unsettling feeling of turmoil lingering from the day before.

As usual, the morning shift-change employees crowd the in-hospital Starbucks with a line to the doors of the tiny coffee shop. I claim my spot behind a face I don’t recognize, which means small talk is unnecessary, and pull my phone from myscrub pocket – might as well catch up on social media while I wait.

I scroll through Instagram first – nothing new since I left for work. So I flip to Facebook. Immediately I double-tap my sister Jess’s most recent story (she gets auto likes): a rambling about home remedies rumored to help evict a stubborn fetus. At thirty-six weeks pregnant and confined to her bed via doctor’s orders (but hesitant to do so since this baby looks to weigh in the double digits, judging from the size of her), she’s giving all the labor-inducing wives’ tales a try. Her latest attempt: consuming castor oil from a spoon. Ick. I shiver at her near-gag on screen. Why didn’t she have a trigger warning, jeesh? Note to self: never get pregnant.

‘Well, well, well, isn’t it my lucky day,’ the barista chirps as I approach the counter. ‘What can I get the girl who completes my story?’

I cock my head, rolling my eyes. ‘Every day, Adam?’

He grabs a clear Venti cup, scribbling my name on the side, complete with a heart. ‘God would be disappointed if I didn’t at least acknowledge fate,’ he says with a sly smile.

Adam has asked me out at least once a month for the last few years he’s worked here. He claims it’s fate that we end up together. But I’m pretty sure he’s only in it for the puns. My answer is always no because after a couple of dud exes, I no longer date, and I definitely don’t date the under-twenty-five crowd.

As Adam swirls my usual iced latte to perfection, I lean against the counter, watching him work his magic. He slides the cup toward me with a wink. ‘On the house today, Eve. Consider it a bribe for future consideration.’ He chuckles, his eyes playful.

I shake my head. ‘Have I ever told you that I don’t believe in fate?’

He gives me a mock pout before moving on to the next customer. I take my drink and head toward the exit, my mind drifting back to my sister’s impending motherhood. Jess has always been the brave one, ready to leap into any adventure without hesitation. I mean, do you know what castor oil is for? Constipation. She’s trying to shoot that baby out of her vajayjay explosive-diarrhea style. Ouch. She’s been talking for months about doing this life-changing event medication-free. Double ouch.

Not once, in any relationship, have I ever considered procreating. I made that decision when I unexpectedly delivered a baby at the front entrance of the ER a couple of years ago. The expectant mother and I just happened to be walking in at the same time (for once I’d gotten a good parking spot!) when I realized what was happening in front of me as she dropped to the filthy ground. I knew it was either medically trained me or the wide-eyed, horrified-looking security officer standing in the breezeway to my left. I stepped up. Not one ounce of that disgusting mess was beautiful, as soon-to-be parents claim. I wish my eyes could unsee it because my brain has it filed in the ‘3a.m. file’ and nothing in that sleepless mess is a good time.

The bravest thing I’ve ever done is mistakenly get married on a whim.

I swipe my badge over the magic lock that keeps society out, and employees safe. The doors swing open, revealing people scattered here and there, meandering between ER departments.

Time for my morning pep talk. ‘Please God, since I’m your OG human, give me an easy day today, would ya?’

‘Morning!’ Catalina calls while in motion.

I lift my coffee, acknowledging I’ve heard her.

‘Hello, Miss Cassidy.’ Dale, today’s charge nurse, greets me with a sleepy smile – even though I know darn well he’s probably on cup of coffee number three. He gets here an hour before therest of the morning shift so he can give room assignments and catch up on who’s still lingering from the overnight shift.

‘You’re in Trauma 2 today,’ he says, glancing at the giant whiteboard on the wall behind his counter.

‘My favorite room,’ I say, lifting my cup. Cheers to that.

‘It’s weird you have a favorite trauma room.’ Genevieve, my work bestie, appears at my side from a hallway to my right.

‘It’s weird you wait to get out of bed until fifteen minutes before your shift with your hair looking like that,’ I tease.

‘What’s wrong with it?’ she asks, patting the oversized messy bun perched on top of her head – her favorite pen, the one she takes to and from work with her, pokes out of her hair.

As usual, she’s wearing a set of scrubs from the in-house scrub shop’s ‘that’s so eighties neon line’ (named bymoi). She can pull off highlighter pink. I cannot. I went a little lighter with my already light blonde hair this month, and even though it’s nearly fall, I still don’t have that summer glow that I usually do, so I feel like neon scrubs are only going to attract attention to that. I’d look like a glow stick. I’m perfectly OK sticking with my boring ‘cool’ colors scrub wardrobe, mixing and matching – mostly because I don’t turn on my closet light on my way to the shower – and hope the pairing isn’t too wild. I got lucky today with navy pants and a pastel purple top.

‘Your hair looks fantastic, I’m just teasing you. Also, there is nothing weird about preferring the single bay over the multi-patient. Less chaos,’ I say, my reasoning sound.

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