Page 71 of Gamble
“What did you do?”
“Stuntman. Twenty-five years of jumping off buildings and crashing cars for the entertainment of others.”
Jennifer’s eyebrows rose. “That explains a lot. I bet you have some stories.”
“More than you’d want to hear.”
She finished her notes and checked her watch. “We’ll be taking you back in about thirty minutes. Is there anything I can get you in the meantime? Extra blankets, a chaplain?”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
After Jennifer left, Elijah lay back on the narrow gurney and stared at the acoustic ceiling tiles, trying not to think about how empty his life had become. A little over two weeks ago, he’d been looking forward to Friday night dinners and long phone conversations that lasted until dawn. Now he was facing major surgery with no one to worry about him except his surrogate daughter and his co-workers, who were equally concerned about finding his replacement than his recovery.
This is what you get for pushing away the best thing that ever happened to you.
The sounds of the pre-op area filtered through the thin curtains around his bed—quiet conversations between staff, the beep of monitors, the occasional laugh from someone who was nervous enough to find everything hilarious. It was a symphony he’d heard too many times before, but this time it felt different. Lonelier.
“Mr. Keaton?” Another voice interrupted his brooding. “I’m going to need to ask you a few more questions before we take you back.”
This nurse was younger, in her early thirties, with the focused intensity that suggested she took her job seriously. Sheworked through another checklist—allergies, medications, next of kin—with practiced efficiency.
“Emergency contact?” she asked.
Elijah hesitated. Years ago, he’d continued to list his ex-wife as his contact, but now, over twenty years after they divorced, he knew naming her would be ridiculous. The ache in his chest squeezed him hard when he realized he’d come so very close to being able to list Reagan Murphy as his person.
“Nalani Ione,” he said, providing her phone number from memory. “She’s in the waiting room.”
“Relationship?”
The daughter I never had. Probably the only person who gives a damn whether I live or die.
Even he realized his self-pity game was in rare form this morning. Going under the knife had that effect on him. “Friend,” he answered.
As she made notes, Elijah studied her face, wondering if this nurse knew Reagan. Cedar-Sinai was a massive hospital with hundreds of nurses, but the surgical department was smaller, more close-knit. Did she work with Reagan? Had she heard about the weekend in Vegas? Did she know about his cowardly text message that had ended everything?
He was desperate to hear her name. To meet someone who could share any small tidbit about her he hadn’t stuck around long enough to learn on his own. The question sat on the tip of his tongue until he swallowed it. He couldn’t bring himself to do it. What could he say? ‘Hey, do you know Reagan Murphy? I broke her heart a few weeks ago, and I’m wondering if she’s okay.’ That would go over well.
The nurse finished her questions and moved on to the next patient, leaving Elijah alone again with his thoughts and regrets. Through the gap in his curtains, he could see the controlled chaos of the pre-op area—staff moving efficiently betweenpatients, families saying goodbye, the occasional doctor making rounds with a clipboard and a serious expression.
He let his mind imagine seeing her in the controlled chaos. Elijah knew with no bias that she was the most beautiful nurse on the staff. She probably had doctors and male nurses hitting on her like crazy. Even more importantly, he knew in his soul that she was the kind of nurse patients loved to have taking care of them. Patient. Kind. Smart as a whip.
Christ, he had it bad. He should be over her by now. Instead, all he could think about was what was she doing right now on her day off. Maybe she was having a cup of coffee with that roommate friend of hers, the one who was getting married soon. Maybe she was going about her life, moving on from their brief connection, finding someone better suited to her vanilla sensibilities.
The thought should have made him feel better and the part of him that truly cared about Reagan did hope she had moved on, if for no other reason than to not be in pain. Pain he’d caused. Unfortunately, the biggest part of him wanted to rip out his IV and hobble home to his couch where he could keep punishing himself for being such an asshole.
“Okay, Mr. Keaton, it’s time.” A different voice this time—male, cheerful, belonging to someone who was about to wheel him into surgery.
“Already?”
“Time flies when you’re having fun,” the orderly said with the forced cheer that suggested he’d made the same joke a thousand times. “Let’s get you down to OR 3.”
The journey through the hospital corridors was a blur of fluorescent lights and ceiling tiles, punctuated by the occasional glimpse of concerned family members waiting for news about their own loved ones. Elijah had made this trip so many timesover the years that he could navigate to most operating rooms blindfolded, but this time felt different. Final, somehow.
Stop being so fucking dramatic. It’s hip replacement surgery, not brain surgery.
The operating room was exactly what he’d expected—bright, sterile, full of expensive equipment that hummed and beeped with electronic efficiency. The surgical team was already assembled, blue-scrubbed figures moving around the space with the choreographed precision that would have impressed his old stunt coordinators.
“Good morning, sunshine,” Dr. Jennings’s voice called out from somewhere behind a surgical mask. “Ready to get that hip fixed?”
