Page 208 of Burn Bright
They found out this little nugget of information before my End of the World shift on Sunday. Ben and I met them at Duke’s on 10th, a cool diner in Hell’s Kitchen, where I was grilled more than the burgers.
Questions ranged from “what do your parents do?” to “would you let our brother drown in a Jack and RoseTitanicscenario?”—which I found funny since we were just discussing icebergs that day. Kate Winslet’s character definitely had room to scooch over and keep Jack out of the freezing water.
Problem is, Ben would pull a Jack and ensure he wouldn’t tip me over with his weight. It caused the whole conversation to derail into Ben needing to protect himself more.
Which I totally agree. But his selfless heart shouldn’t be changed either. It’s so much of who he is.
Ben ended the onslaught of questions when Eliot started asking personal ones about kinks. “Okay,okay, too far,” he said, but by Eliot’s grin, I knew he was mostly messing with his little brother.
In the kitchen, I glance back at the email. Rejected for another shadowing position. Then I confirm to Charlie, “My dad is a trauma surgeon. At Metropolitan Medical.” Which is so very close.
“Why not use that connection?” Beckett is the one to ask.
Ben gives me a consoling look, knowing the truth. My dadisan option, but I’ve been too scared to pursue that contact.
As I gaze up at Ben, I’m reminded of what he once said.
Courage doesn’t exist without fear. We all have to confront things that scare us at some point.
“Maybe I will,” I decide.
Might as well rip off this Band-Aid. I’m going to see my dad.
Today.
48
HARRIET FISHER
I’m desperate. It’s the sole reason I’m standing inside Metropolitan Med’s emergency department. I can admit that to myself.
The busy front-desk lady talks briskly on the phone, hoists a finger for me to wait, then appraises me in a quick sweep. She reminds me of my mom. Not because of her terse demeanor or her appearance. Her honey blonde waves and angular chin couldn’t be further from my mom’s light brown hair and rounded face.
It’s simply where she’s sitting.
Behind the plexiglass wall, checking patients into the hospital, asking for their insurance cards and IDs. When I was little, I heard the story about Hope Danes and Grant Fisher meeting in the ED. She was a medical receptionist. He was starting his trauma fellowship.
“The very first time we had the same shift, it was love-at-first sight,” my mom recalledbeforethe divorce.
Only later did the recollection of events flip from love story to horror story.
“He was a pretentious narcissist who wanted attention from the youngest ‘hottest’ girl in the hospital.” She went hard on the air quotes. “Some weren’t even legal todrink.What was he going to do? Buy them a soda.” She’d scoff and fume, as if she didn’t meet him when she was twenty, and he was in his early thirties.
Three months later, she became pregnant with me. Abigsurprise, they said. Not a good one either since I was the main strain on their short relationship, but they stuck it out until I was five.
“Surgeons are a different breed, Harriet,” she’d tell me while we grocery shopped, angrily tossing boxed mac ‘n cheese into the cart. “They’re sadistic, emotionlessassholeswho get paid to cut people up. Remember that.”
It’s as if she implanted her voice in my brain for this very moment. So I would turn around and bolt and never confront him.
My stomach curdles. This might be a serious mistake, but I’ve run out of good options. With a stomach full of nerves, I just think about Ben. Picturing his infectious, slow-rising smile edging across his face only makes me want to smile back and not bang my head on this lady’s desk.
Are these Cobalt powers from afar? Has Ben zapped me with poise? But I know I have my own brand of self-assurance.
I didn’t get this far on my own without putting myself out there.
I can do this.
Taking a deep breath, I prepare myself for the next step. So as the honey-blonde receptionist hangs up the phone and motions me forward, I feel ready.
