Page 27 of The Devil Gets His Due

“I assume Dr. Patel is still torturing residents?” I ask the head nurse.

“Only his favorites,” she replies with a grin. “I think he misses you.”

I laugh. “Right. Pateltormentedme my last six months here.”

“I don’t think he meant to.” She must not be much of a judge of character.

They tell me about who’s sleeping together and the craziest things that have happened and I realize how much I’ve missed this. I loved the bizarre diagnoses, the nuttiest patient interactions. I thought I wanted the ease of a private practice—that it meant choosing the kind of cases I’d take, setting my own schedule, and not being at someone’s beck and call—but it’s none of those things. I’ve got a full load of patients angry they keep getting pushed onto a new doctor, and they’re all the same type of patient. There is no longer any variety to my day, and there is nothing to solve, which is far more boring than I realized.

I’m on my way out when Dr. Joliet calls. I half expect an apology for making me deal with her shoddy handiwork.

“Did you take a call in the middle of stitching my patient up?” she demands instead.

“No,” I say flatly. “I did not.”

“Well, Marissa said you did. And that you were brusque and unprofessional and appeared put-out that you had to come in. This isn’t the kind of experience our patients expect, Keeley.”

My eyes sting and it’s not because I can’t defend myself. It’s simply that I miss the hospital, I’m really sick of the job I just started, and I can’t do a goddamn thing about any of it.

No one is going to hire a six-month pregnant woman who left her first real job after a month. No one.

“Okay,” I say. “Sorry.”

Patel was a nightmare. I’m not sure Fox and Joliet are any better.

I order a pizza because I’m starving, and there’s no way I’m cutting up kale and grilling chicken now, not that the food would still be good anyway. Nothing about today has gone to plan: no cooking, no cleaning, no getting us off on the right foot. I’m tired, but above all, I’m sad. I hadn’t realized how much I enjoyed the camaraderie of the hospital, how much I’d miss the noise, the mild chaos, the intrigue. And…it’s Sunday. I just want to eat and relax and watchThe Kardashians,and now I’ve got to deal with Graham Fucking Tate instead. At least I was never nice to him in the first place, so he won’t expect much.

I arrive home to discover my apartment completely junked up with boxes, a situation I can’t say too much about since I completely junked it up with a week’s worth of food I never put away. And the clothes I’ve strewn around here…Oh my God, the clothes. EvenIam embarrassed, and that’s saying a lot. If I weren’t pregnant, I’d be racing around right now, picking up the skirts, blouses, and bras that are draped across every surface. I’d be throwing out the now-spoiled chicken and the now-defrosted supergreens packs. But…I’m just too tired and too hungry, and I can’t decide if I want to curl up on the couch and take a nap or demolish a bowl of cereal, so I settle for curling up on the couch with a box of Lucky Charms held to my chest like a favorite stuffed animal.

Which is when Graham walks in.

He’s in a t-shirt and deeply in need of a shave. My eyes are drawn, involuntarily, to the bulge of his biceps and triceps as he sets two boxes stacked one atop the other on the floor. I picture those arms braced on either side of my head, his brow damp like it is right now. His jaw tense as he tries not to come.

It must be the pregnancy hormones, but man are they packing a wallop right now.

“Hey, roomie,” I say, popping a handful of Lucky Charms in my mouth as he turns to me.

“Hey.” His face is stern as his gaze drops to the cereal, no hint of a smile. “Is that your dinner?”

“A, they’re healthy because they have the gross non-marshmallow bits. And B, I ordered a pizza, but I’m starving.”

Just as his mouth opens to comment on this, the doorbell rings. I start to climb to my feet but he waves me down. “I’ll get it.”

When he sets my pizza and garlic knots on the table, I grab a slice straight from the box.

“Do you not have plates?” he asks.

I groan around the cheese and bread in my mouth. Nothing has ever tasted better than this first bite of pizza. “Too hungry. Cabinet.”

He crosses the kitchen and flings open doors. “You shouldn’t let yourself get that hungry.”

“I didn’t have a choice…I was in the middle of making something when I got called into the hospital.” It’s sort of true.

He takes the seat across from mine and hands me a plate before opening the pizza box. He has a burn mark on his forearm, one I never noticed before. Maybe he left his abacus sitting in the sun too long.

“Can’t they cut you some slack, given the situation?” His eyes fall to my stomach, the way they do every time he sees me, as if he still can’t quite believe there’s actually a baby in there.

I reach for a second slice. “They don’t know yet. I need them to see that the baby won’t change anything.”

---