He’s visibly pale and . . . shaken.
And it takes a lot to rattle Garrett.
“What’s wrong?”
He swallows hard.
“Ryan called me. He told me to come get you and bring you to the hospital. There’s been an accident.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Connor
I argued with Aaron when we went shopping for his first car.
I remember feeling excited that I could buy my kid a car, because it was more than my parents had been able to do for me and my brothers. I only had two rules: it had to be safe, and it had to be used. I don’t believe a seventeen-year-old should own a brand-new car—they’re bound to ding it up, get into fender benders—and there’s a special sense of accomplishment when you purchase your first new car yourself as an adult that I wanted him to experience.
But still we argued—because I thought he should get a pickup truck, like mine. Trucks are practical, the bed space is always useful, they’re big, high—safe. They can drive in any kind of weather, drive over almost anything, including another car.
But Aaron didn’t want a truck. He wanted one of those low, loud, sporty street-racing cars like the ones in the Fast & Furious movies.
So we argued. And I gave in.
Because I wanted him to be happy. My work hours were so long for most of the boys’ lives that when I had the chance to be with them, I didn’t like to spend that time arguing.
Stacey was right. I was the fun parent, the lenient parent—the one who let things go when I should’ve put my foot down.
Because of that—because of me—I’m on the way to the hospital with Garrett while my son is being cut out of the small, fast car he wanted. Because an SUV swerved into his lane, hit him head-on, and pushed the entire engine block of his car onto his lap.
I’ve treated patients that were in head-on collisions. I know exactly what sharp metal and blunt force trauma can do to a human body. . . and it’s always bad. Always.
Timmy’s firehouse responded to the scene. He’s there with Aaron right now as they extract him—keeping him talking. Tim called Ryan, who called Garrett, who came to get me. I wanted to go to the scene, but I couldn’t take the chance of missing him and not being here when they bring him in.
Garrett pulls into the back parking lot of the hospital and I’m stepping out of the car before it’s completely stopped. I tell him to meet me in the front waiting room. And when I walk through the sliding glass doors of my emergency department, the emotion that’s swamping me—filling up my chest and drowning my lungs—isn’t fear or grief. It’s anger. Furious fucking anger. At myself.
Because Aaron’s just a kid. And I should’ve known better.
“Connor.”
Stella’s behind the nurse’s station as I head to the phone, looking for the paramedic notes because they call traumas in when they’re en route.
“Is he out of the car?” my voice is ice-cold and detached.
Stella nods, her features soft with rare sympathy.
“They’re five minutes out.”
I locate the chart and scan his vitals. It’s stupid that I’m shocked when I see how piss-poor they are, but I still am. And that makes me even angrier.
“Who’s on trauma tonight?” I ask Stella.
“I am.”
Makayla Davis is a trauma surgeon who’s skilled and experienced—the best in the hospital. That fact brings no comfort, no relief.
“I can’t imagine what you’re feeling right now, Connor.”
“No, you can’t.”
“We’re going to do everything we—”
“Yeah, I know the pep talk. I need to see him when he comes in.”
Makayla shakes her head—calm, steady, and in control.
“That’s not a good idea.”
“Makayla—”
“You’re not the doctor right now, Connor.”
“I know that!” I snap.
“Do you? Because I don’t think you do.”
I close my eyes and take a slow breath.
“I just need to be with him. If I’m with him, he’ll be okay.”
It’s totally irrational; I know that. I sound unhinged . . . I sound like a patient. But I still can’t help but believe it.
“Just let me in the room, Makayla. Please.”
She tears her gaze away, shaking her head like she knows it’s a mistake—but she’s going to do it anyway.
“If you second-guess my orders—”
“I won’t.”
“If you interfere—”
“I’m not going to.”
“Aaron is my patient; he is my priority. If you get in the way of me treating him, I will have you hauled out in a hot minute—for both your sakes. Am I clear?”
“Crystal. I just”—my voice cracks—“I just need to tell him it’s going to be all right.”
Makayla nods and glances at the clock on the wall behind me.
“Let’s go, then.”
* * *
One of the hardest, fastest rules in medicine—not just golden, but platinum—is doctors don’t treat their family members. There’s lots of good reasons for it, the least of which is that emotions get in the way, even if you don’t realize it. They slow your response time, cloud your memory, affect your decision making.