He looked at me and told me he’d have a solution in a few days.
He loved me.
It was on his face. In his words.
And now it would be in his actions.
Samantha & Brad
One
Samantha
“Jesus, Sam. You look like you slaughtered a whole army by yourself.”
“I’ll take as a compliment,” I sigh as I take off my disposable gloves, both of them covered in fresh blood. I throw them into the bin and then I take off my surgical cap and shake my head, freeing my hair and allowing it to cascade down my shoulders.
I look down at my scrubs—blood stains everywhere—and sigh again. Another perfectly good uniform ruined. It’s the second this month.
Oh, well, nobody said that being a surgeon would be easy.
“How did it go?” Mary asks me, leaning against the room door and cocking one eyebrow at me. “You kicked ass, right?”
“Damn right I did,” I reply, finally allowing a smile to creep up on my lips. Being a surgeon is demanding—I’ve been at work for close to fourteen hours now—but it’s all worth it when, at the end of the day, you know you made a difference in someone’s life.
“That’s my girl!” Mary squeals, holding her hand up in the air. I high-five her, run one hand through my hair, and glance at my wristwatch. It’s ten p.m. already, which means my shift ended about two hours ago.
“What do you say we grab a drink and celebrate?” Mary asks me.
“I don’t know if it’s fitting to celebrate an open-hearted surgical procedure over drinks,” I tell her, praying to God that she doesn’t go on another one of her tirades: Oh, Sam, live it up—you’re twenty-eight, no boyfriend, you don’t drink, you don’t party, yada yada.
“So, just calling it a day, huh?”
“That’s right,” I nod, every single muscle in my body aching. Sweet mercy, I think I could just lean against the wall and fall asleep right here.
“Right, fair enough. But if you change your mind, me and some of the staff will meet at The Ensemble for drinks.”
“Gotcha,” I tell her before I march straight into the locker rooms.
That went well—usually, Mary doesn’t give up this easily. I guess she’s growing tired of having to drag me everywhere.
Well, goes both ways. I’m also tired of having Mary egging me all the time, trying to have me go on dates and whatnot. Sure, I don’t have a man in my life…but it’s not like I need one.
Look, I’m not a bore, alright? I’m just driven. Being a cardiac surgeon at twenty-eight isn’t an easy feat, and I studied hard to get here.
I intend to keep on working hard so that I’m the best at what I do. What can I say? I’m an ambitious young woman.
I never bought into the notion that success was something reserved for men, and I made sure to carve out my own path in life. That’s how you get an apartment at The Bradford at twenty-eight—by working your ass off and being the very best at what you do.
Getting out of my ruined scrubs, I then step under the shower and close my eyes, allowing both my body and mind to unwind from a hard day’s work. By the time I’ve finished showering and changed into my clothes, I actually feel so much better. Maybe I can still read a few medical studies before calling it a day?
As I get out of the hospital and start walking toward the cab I’ve already hailed, I feel so wired up that I have to resist the urge to simply turn back and pick up an extra shift.
“Where to?” The cab driver, an old balding man with an easy smile, asks me.
“The Ensemble,” I find myself saying.
Wait—fuck, what the hell am I doing? Is my brain so exhausted that it has stopped working rationally?