Getting Real (Getting Some 3)

“Nooope—don’t remind me, I’ve seen it.”

And no part of that film isn’t terrifying as shit.

“All right, here’s what we’re going to do . . . you guys go get your pillows and blankets from your room and we’ll camp out down here on the couch together for the night.”

I wouldn’t want to sleep in a room by myself after watching a movie like that if I were them. I’m not sure if I want to sleep in Connor’s room by myself after being reminded of the movie.

“And we’ll put a wholesome, totally non-scary show on the TV.”

“Okay.” Both boys march up the stairs.

But halfway up, Brayden turns back.

“Can you . . . come up with us so we don’t have to go upstairs alone?”

“Please?” Spencer adds like he thinks I’d actually say no.

“Of course.”

I check out my surroundings on the way up the stairs, because this is where Connor lives—where he raises his boys, where he sleeps. His essence lingers—I can feel him here—his scent, the warm strength of his presence.

And the house is gorgeous, with a long, curved staircase and oak railings, gleaming hardwood floors, and a landing at the top of the steps that looks down into an immense family room. But it’s a little . . . sparse. Barebones. You can definitely tell it’s home to four guy-boys.

In the upstairs hallway my phone pings with an incoming text from Connor.

If you need something to sleep in, my T-shirts and sweats are the second and third drawers down in my dresser. Help yourself.

I text him back:

Thanks. That’s sweet of you.

And he replies:

My intentions aren’t entirely pure.

I’m instantly intrigued, and the three dots tease for a moment as he elaborates.

I like the idea of you sleeping in my clothes. I like the idea of you sleeping in nothing in my bed even more—but my clothes are the next best thing.

Joy bubbles like champagne over my skin, and my ovaries do a little shimmy. Because Connor isn’t just a hot, gorgeous guy with sex appeal to spare . . . he’s also thoughtful, a man who takes care of the people who are close to him.

And if that isn’t the boyfriend trifecta at the end of the dating rainbow, I don’t know what is.

I type back.

Ditto xoxo

And then I follow the boys into their rooms.

* * *

Connor

There are some night shifts in the emergency department that feel endless—when the minutes drag and hours seem to take forever to pass. Other nights fly by, and you only get caught up on half of what you intended to do. There’s no real rhyme or reason to it, whether the patients flood in or drip, complicated cases or simple doesn’t matter. I think it’s more internal than anything else.

And some nights are just a spikey, thorny, son of a bitch.

Tonight is one of those.

A thirty-two-year-old male walks in complaining of abdominal pain, and after scans and bloodwork, I admit him for a mass in his lower intestine that’s more than likely advanced stage colon cancer.

An eighty-five-year-old woman with no living relatives gets wheeled in from her nursing home in acute heart failure. She has a DNR, so the only thing I can do for her is put an intern at her side, holding her hand, until she slips away.

Paramedics call in an MVA and eight minutes later they rush in, doing compressions on an intubated twenty-year-old who swerved to avoid a deer and ended up hitting a telephone pole, while not wearing a seat belt.

I let the ED resident—not an intern, but still a baby doctor—run the trauma.

“Shock again at three hundred. Clear.”

The patient jolts as she shocks the heart for the third time and we look to the monitor for a miracle—to see if a rhythm appears. When it doesn’t, she tells the nurse, “Charge to three sixty.”

“Wait,” I intervene. “How much epi have we given him?”

“Four.” Skylar’s tone is solemn because she’s a veteran trauma nurse, so she knows where this is going too.

“How many transfusions?”

“Three.”

It doesn’t matter how much blood we give him—it’s coming out faster than we can get it in.

“He’s gone.” I shake my head. “He was gone before they got him here.”

The resident’s dark-green eyes jolt up to me, then she looks down at the patient and calls the time of death.

“Is the family here?” I ask.

“There’s a mom,” Tanner says, turning off the monitor. “She’s in the private waiting room.”

“Does she have anyone with her?”

“No, she’s alone.”

“Goddamn it.” I yank at my gown, balling it up and shoving it in the bin. “Call Pastoral Services, have them send someone down.”

Fifteen minutes later, in clean scrubs and a white coat, I stand outside the door to the small waiting room with Chaplain Bill on one side and the resident on the other.

“Don’t say anything,” I tell her. “I’ll do the talking.”