Hotshot Doc(31)

Dr. Russell barks at Kendra to help him cover the patient.

This is bad. This is cry-and-plead-for-forgiveness bad.

Accidents like this happened once or twice during one of Dr. Lopez’s surgeries, but I was never the cause, and we always had a backup instrument set prepared just in case.

I really want to give in to the urge to cry, but it would only make things worse.

There is no way I will survive this. He’ll give me the axe as soon as this surgery is finished. This has to be a new record. Kirt—the sobbing giant—lasted at least a couple months. I’ve lasted a paltry few weeks.

I’m shaking as I hurry to collect all the equipment on the ground. Dr. Russell growls at the techs to help. There are half a dozen of us crawling around the operating room, and I swear if a single tear falls from my eyes I will never forgive myself. Everyone is waiting for me to crumble, but I refuse to let it happen.

I keep it together through a feat of superhuman strength. I compartmentalize my feelings and stay focused. I count the instruments and confirm with the device rep that we’ve collected everything. The autoclave only takes 45 minutes. We’re hardly delayed. The surgery finishes with flawless results, and I’m still completely numb as Dr. Russell tells me to close, pulls off his gloves and gown, and leaves the room.

I watch him go, heaving a sigh as soon as the swinging door shuts behind him.

I can’t believe how unlucky I’ve been. I’ve tried my hardest and worked my butt off, but in the end, the universe and Dr. Russell seem to be in cahoots against me.

“Bailey?” Kendra asks gently. “Are you okay to close?”

I nod. Of course.

It might be the last thing I ever do at New England Medical Center.





Chapter 12





MATT



I dip my hands under the faucet, letting the warm water rinse away the suds from my skin as the door to the OR swings open. Kendra peeks her head around it and grimaces.

“Do you have a minute, Dr. Russell?”

There’s a mountain of work standing between me and my weekend. I’ve got a lot to do and not enough time to do it. I’m usually in the office as much on Saturday and Sunday as I am Monday through Friday, but I’m less efficient. Patricia’s gone. There’s no resident rushing in with Starbucks, and I usually have to contend with the cleaning staff. They skitter past when they see me walking down the hall, and they don’t even bother knocking on my door anymore. I don’t want anyone in my office rearranging things. There’s a method to my madness and I’m perfectly capable of taking out my own trash.

This weekend is different, though. Tomorrow is Molly’s wedding, and I actually have to make it out of the office at a decent hour if I want to grab my suit from the tailor before he closes his shop.

I wouldn’t have to rush if my surgery hadn’t run over time thanks to Bailey’s mistake.

“What do you need?”

I turn and grab a towel.

She steps out and lets the door swing closed behind her. “It really could have happened to anyone.” She’s talking about Bailey’s accident. “And I don’t think you should punish her for it. You might not have noticed, but she’s good. These last few weeks have been paradise compared to when you were working with Kirt.”

I toss my towel into the laundry bin, and she must sense that I’m about to run out of patience because she scrambles to continue.

“Okay, yes, that mistake delayed your surgery today, but usually with Bailey by your side, you drastically cut down on your procedure times.”

I’m aware.

“So today aside, she’s the best assistant you’ve had. Please don’t go hard on her.”

“What do you think I’m going to do? Fire her?”

Her eyes widen in fear. “Please don’t. She makes my job easier too. I’m not run ragged anymore.”

I sigh and brush past her. “Thank you for the insight, Kendra, but Bailey isn’t going anywhere. I assure you. Have a good weekend.”

As I work through some emails at my desk, I’m annoyed to find the cold front the newscasters were droning on about this morning finally makes an appearance. It’s raining cats and dogs, which means Friday after-work traffic will be more hellish than usual. I’ll have to take my paperwork and finish it at home so I can pick up my suit in time.

I use my personal bathroom to change out of my scrubs, grab my coat, and gather the files I want to take with me. The elevator is crowded, but everyone gives me a healthy berth—one perk of being universally disliked is I never have people encroaching on my personal space.

The elevator doors slide open and I’m about to take a sharp left toward the parking garage when I spot Bailey standing just inside the front entrance to our building with her arms wrapped around her middle. She changed out of her scrubs and she’s wearing jeans and that same pink, puffy coat that completely drowns her. I wonder if she’s waiting for someone to pick her up. Why else would she be hovering near the front door? Then she wipes furiously at her cheek and I realize she’s crying.

Fuck.

I eye the parking garage door. I’m seconds away from freedom.

I glance back at her in time to see her shake her head at her phone, stuff it in her pocket, and then reach down for her backpack like she’s about to march right out the front door. Except, there are no cars out front, just sheets of rain and rumbling, dark skies.