Grumpy Doctor

But that wasn’t true, of course. If he went to another hospital, maybe I could move my residency there. I might have to begin over again or something—but that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

It was a poor, weak hope. I tried to picture what Piers was feeling, but that only made me angry. I hated the way he seemed so down and unwilling to fight, like he’d given up entirely after one single setback. Things hadn’t gone perfectly, so he was finished.

I saw a spark last night. He was looking at lawyer. He was willing to meet with Rees.

But then it all went away again, and he left me alone there.

I didn’t know what he wanted. Even if he was going to stop trying to keep his position at Westview, and he was going to let Caroline and Gina pin the Tippett thing entirely on him, that didn’t mean we had to end whatever relationship was starting to blossom between us. I knew he felt it as much as I did, and that had to mean something.

I didn’t know why he was so willing and able to walk away.

I couldn’t do it. I kept thinking about him, and about what we could do together, if given a chance. I imagined all the different ways we could stick it to the hospital, had these stupid, elaborate fantasies where I found some proof that Caroline had faked it all, and made her come beg for my forgiveness, before I still ruined her anyway. Despite my fantasies though, nothing changed, and I was still powerless, and angry, and running out of time.

“I don’t know if that’ll happen,” I said.

Milo kicked his feet out. “I don’t know you or Dr. Hood all that well, but it seems like the two of you made a good team. You could always try to talk to him about it, you know?”

“I could try,” I said, “but he’s an asshole, remember?”

He snorted a little. “Okay, that’s fair. But then again, I’ve been hearing rumors that he’s been extra nice to the nurses and the staff these past few weeks, so maybe he’s turning a corner.”

I wished I could tell him that his whole attitude change was a ploy to try and buy him more time, but that wouldn’t help our case at all. “I’ll get over it,” I said, “sooner or later.”

“Let me know if I can help.” He squinted over at the other guys. “In the meantime, we should probably go join them and see what they’re up to.”

“Probably making some elaborate plan where a very simple solution would be better.”

“That’s true, but then again, elaborate plans can be so much more fun.” He stood up then looked back at me, motioning with his head. “Come on, we could use your input.”

I reluctantly joined them. The other guys allowed us into the huddle and together we talked about the puzzle, and for a little while I forgot about Piers.

But not for long. As soon as I stepped back into the hospital, I started thinking about him again. So much reminded me of him, the smell of the place, the sights and sounds. We talked about it all, and it felt like a part of whatever relationship we’d been growing.

The day continued, then waned, and when I left, I felt some strange sense of certainty.

Shit was hard enough without giving up something I liked, just because the world wasn’t perfect.

I took out my phone and called him. It rang, and rang, before he finally picked up.

“Let me guess,” he said. “You’re off duty.”

“I want to come over.”

“Excuse me?”

“I want to come over,” I repeated. “You’ve been to my place. Now I want to see yours.”

A short pause on his end. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Give me your address.”

“Lori—”

“Give me your address,” I said, getting annoyed.

He let out a sigh, but he gave it to me.

I hung up and marched my ass over there.

He lived near me, which was surprising. He must’ve known it, but hadn’t said anything. His building overlooked Rittenhouse, the type of place with a lobby and a doorman. I gave my name up front, then rode the elevator up toward the top floor. He had a corner apartment, and he answered on the third knock, wearing a tight black shirt and navy joggers.

“Good evening, Dr. Court,” he said.

I pushed past him into his place. The floors were dark wood, the walls covered in colorfully framed movie posters. Thrift store coffee table, a big leather couch, and a guitar perched in a corner. It was an extremely masculine space.

Beer cans and a liquor bottle covered the coffee table.

I frowned at him as he leaned up against the marble kitchen counter. “Welcome to my home,” he said.

“You’re drunk.”

“I am not.”

“You are.” I found a trash bag under his sink then started collecting the empties. There were a lot more than I expected. “You’re really drunk.”