Page 4 of Yours to Lose
“I think you asked for the wrong size sutures, Dr. Wyles,” he says, his voice shaky. “6-0 is for pediatric abdominal surgery. This is a full-grown adult.”
Fuck. I did it again. Two whole years after switching from pediatric surgery to general surgery, my brain still wants to turn every patient in front of me into a kid.
Blowing out an exasperated breath, I hold my hand out and wave my fingers towards my palm in the universal sign ofhurry the fuck up and give it to me. “Just hand me the right size.”
Once I have the right sutures in my hand, I make quick work of closing and finishing the surgery. Leaving the operating room, I tear off my gown, mask, and gloves, shoving them into the biohazard bin. Then I scrub out, counting the minutes until I can be home on my couch with a beer and something ridiculous on TV.
I walk straight to the surgical board and mark the surgery I just finished as complete, barely resisting the urge to roll my eyes at once again seeing my name next to an appendectomy.
That’s all I do lately. Remove appendixes and gallbladders. Fix hernias. General surgery is boring as shit. Even the fact that my last surgery was a burst appendix that required an open appy didn’t give me any kind of thrill.
Nothing in my life is all that thrilling.
Exhausted at the end of a long shift, I make my way to the locker room and head straight for my locker, ignoring the group of surgeons sprawled over the benches.
“Hey, Jordan, we’re about to go get a drink. Want to come with us?”
The question comes from Lucas Rodriguez, a fellow general surgery attending and the only person on my team who still tries to talk to me. New York Med is a surprisingly friendly place for a Manhattan hospital, and a lot of surgeons in my department made an effort to get to know me when I first started here two years ago. Eventually they gave up after I never accepted their invitations and generally made it clear that I’m not in the market for friends, but Lucas never stopped trying. Cheerful, persistent fucker.
“Sorry, not tonight,” I say, reaching into my locker to grab my bag.
“You sure? We’re going to that new place on 68thand Amsterdam. The one with the ax throwing.”
“I really have to get home.” It’s a lie. There’s literally nothing waiting for me but an empty apartment and too many hours to fill before I have to be back here in four days, but socializing is the worst form of torture.
Lucas shrugs, happy expression never leaving his face. “Maybe next time. Have a good night, man. Enjoy your days off.”
I barely resist the urge to scoff as I hightail it out of the locker room, opting to change out of my scrubs at home rather than spend any more time in that room full of people. As I wait for the elevator, I pull my phone out for the first time since my shift started yesterday and place bets on whether I’ll have more texts from the group chat with my three brothers or the one with my friends.
The one with my brothers means I’ll get hit with yet another request to come home to Boston for a visit or, more likely, to just move home permanently already. I love my family, but it’s enough that I have to feel the suffocating weight of their love and concern from three and a half hours away. Feeling it in person might end me.
The one with my friends means general ridiculousness and snapshots of coupledom I used to love but no longer have the patience to participate in.
Clicking on the screen, I see that the chat with my brothers is surprisingly light, but there are forty-seven messages stretching from last night to early this morning in the chat with my friends. I roll my eyes at the preview of the first message on the screen.
Asher
Buckle up guys. It’s daddy o’clock up in here.
The message that follows is a picture of Asher Hansley, former NFL quarterback and friend of mine, holding my best friend Ben and his wife Hallie’s one month old twins and grinning into the camera.
Jeremy
You know they’re not actually your kids, right?
Asher
No, but they’re my niece and nephew, so it’s almost like they’re mine.
Asher married Ben’s twin sister Julie a couple of years ago, and it’s entirely unsurprising that he’s taking his uncle role extremely seriously. The guy is the human equivalent of a puppy dog.
GABE
The way the girls are talking, it’s like those babies have four moms, so Asher isn’t that far off.
Ben
If you’re not up at 3 a.m. feeding them, the babies aren’t fucking yours.
