Beautiful Potential

by J. Saman

Shaking my head, I want to scream so many accusations at him. Why does he constantly do this? I don’t get it. You want me, Finn. He does. But there is something holding him hostage. Something keeping him from taking this to the place we both want it to go. I just don’t have the balls to ask him what that something is.

  I knew this was going to happen. It’s why I won’t bother saying all of the things which are driving me crazy about him right now. Instead, I push him back and hop off the bed. “Thanks for stitching me up and coming to my rescue yet again. I’ll have a friend remove them, so you’re off the hook with me. See you around, Dr. Banner.”

  And then I walk out. I don’t wait for him to say anything back. I don’t even check out his expression. I’m done where he’s concerned. I’m done.

  Chapter 9

  Gia

  “There was nothing you could have done,” Chloe says to me, her hand on my shoulder, her blue eyes filled with sympathy. I can’t say anything. I can only nod because if I speak, I will absolutely break down. “These things happen. They’re horrible and gut you, but it’s part of the job.” Another nod. “Go home, Gia. You’re done for the day anyway. I’ll come by later.”

  I shake my head. “You don’t have to come. I’m just going to go home, have a soak in the tub and then go to bed.”

  Chloe stares at me for a moment, trying to decipher my bullshit level, before blowing some of her long blonde bangs out of her face. “I’m so sorry. I really am. It sucks the big suck. Are you sure there isn’t anything I can do?”

  “No,” I sniffle. “I’ll be fine.”

  I think that might be a lie. I don’t think I’ll ever be fine again.

  “Come here.” Chloe pulls me into her arms and hugs me snugly against her.

  I push her back, wiping away at my hot tears. If that hug continues, I’ll cry more and I don’t want to do that. Especially here in the breakroom at work.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow. Get some sleep, okay. And don’t torture yourself the way I know you’re apt to do.”

  More nodding. “Goodnight.”

  I throw her a weak wave, before tossing the strap of my bag over my head and leave the breakroom. I ignore the way the nurses are talking behind the nurse’s station. I ignore their pitying looks. I ignore the other patients in labor who are walking the halls with their smiling faces and the pained deliberate masks of concentration.

  I ignore all of it.

  Because today was the worst day of my life.

  Even worse than my father dying, I think. I don’t know. It’s certainly up there.

  Stepping out into the cool September evening, I stand in front of the hospital not knowing what to do next. I can’t go home. I know I told Chloe that’s what I was going to do, but there is no way I can be alone in my apartment with my thoughts. I can’t stand them right now and I’m practically still at the hospital. They’ll be a million times worse at home.

  My phone buzzes in my scrub pants and for a second, I debate whether or not I should check it. But I do, because it could be my boss or something else important. I already spoke with her about what happened and everything was documented, but still.

  It’s not my boss and it’s not Chloe or Monique even.

  It’s the guy I went on a date with the other night. I sigh. He was cute, but it just wasn’t there for me. I hate to be a bitch and not text him back or worse, tell him over text that it’s not him, it’s me, but I believe that’s what I’m about to do. Number one, I decide, because I really don’t want to have a meaningless text conversation with a meaningless guy at the moment.

  The electronic doors open and shut behind me and I hear people coming and going. I need to get away from this place. My feet take off without premeditated intention. I’m just walking because people say that’s a good thing to do when you need to think. Or is it to clear your head?

  Shit, I can’t remember which it is.

  Walking for either purpose has never really been my thing.

  It’s still not, which is why after I make it only a couple of blocks, I’m done. I need to sit and drown myself in copious amounts of alcohol. That’s never really been my thing either, but after you lose a patient, that’s the thing to do, right?

  I walk into the first bar I see and find myself laughing out loud like a crazy person when I realize it’s the bar I had drinks in with Colin the night Finn was eye-flirting with me.

  Whatever. I don’t care.

  That ship has long since sailed. I haven’t even seen Finn in like a month, other than in passing, and I never speak to him and he never speaks to me. How lame is it that that’s now our thing?

  Sliding onto the barstool, I grab a laminated menu off the counter and peruse it, searching for the strongest thing they have. I am not a shots person. They tend to make me sick. Even the sweet girly ones. Especially the sweet girly ones.

  But I do want to get very drunk and I want to do it quickly so maybe those shots are the way to go? Who the hell knows. All I know right now is that a new mother is dead and her baby is up in the NICU with possible brain damage from asphyxia.

  Oh, and the father is a fucking mess. How could he not be? I could barely look at him and that made me feel so much worse because he deserved my eye contact. He deserved the respect of me looking him squarely in the eyes when I told him that his wife didn’t make it and his baby was fighting for its life.

  “What are we having?” the pretty young bartender asks and I wonder if her job is as cool as it looks. Maybe I’m in the wrong profession. I highly doubt that people die on her watch. And you get to wear whatever the hell you want without getting blood on it.

  “What do you recommend for the shittiest day in the history of shittiest days?”

  She crosses her colorful tattooed arms over her black low-cut blouse. “What sort of shittiest day we talkin’ about?” She notes my scrubs. “Patient die?”

  I nod.

  “Your fault?”

  I sigh, because it wasn’t my fault but that doesn’t make me feel better. “No.”

  “You good with rum?”

  “Sure. Why not.”

  “Okay, I’m going to make you a drink with Bacardi 151 which is over seventy-five percent alcohol. I’m not going to make it too sweet otherwise you’ll be puking your guts out with the worst headache of your life tomorrow. So don’t ask what I’m putting in it. Just drink the drink.”

  “I think I might love you,” I tell her and she laughs.

  Leaning back in my seat, I scrub my hands up and down my face. I don’t think I’ve ever felt like this before. So completely helpless and ruined. So tormented.

  “You going to tell me what happened or just leave me here in suspense,” the bartender asks and for some reason, the thought of talking to a perfect stranger is so much more appealing than talking to my best friends or anyone else I know.

  “I was the midwife for a very healthy thirty-one year old lady. It’s her second baby and she had no complications or issues with the first one.”

  “Okay, I’m following. Go on.”

  Leaning forward, I prop my elbows on the counter and take a sip of the pale-green concoction she slides in front of me. “Wow, that’s really good.”

  “I know,” she smiles, mirroring my position against the bar. I realize it’s dead in here and I’m extremely grateful for that as she’s giving me her undivided attention. “I’m an awesome bartender. It’s my one great.”

  “You’re one great?”

  “Yes, the one thing I’m great at. Everyone has one, whether they know what it is or not.”

  “Huh,” I say, swirling that thought around my brain for a moment before I take another sip of my oh-so-yummy drink. It’s not sweet. It’s not sour. It’s not fruity. It’s like the perfect combination of all three. “So yeah, she was rocking along at seven centimeters and then all of a sudden–literally out of nowhere–she said her head hurt and then ten seconds later, she was gone. Her vitals ta
nked, and even though I hit the code button that second, and we did everything we could for her, it was too late. A burst aneurism, we think or possibly a stroke. We’ll know more after the autopsy.”

  “Shit,” the bartender mutters, and I point my finger at her because shit just about covers it.

  “Yeah. Shit. And if that wasn’t fucking tragic enough, her poor baby was without oxygen for far too long by the time we finally got him out. He’s in the NICU now and it’s not looking all that great.”

  “I’m Ophelia.”

  I tilt my head. “Like from Hamlet?”

  “Yeah. My mother did it to me, don’t ask.”

  “I’m Gia. My father did that one.”

  “Well Gia, I agree that your day was beyond shitty. This first one is on me. And after you’re completely plastered to the point you’re aiming for, let me know, and I’ll get you an Uber or call someone to take you home.”

  “Ophelia, I think you just became my favorite person ever.”

  “Wow,” she muses. “Not only did you already profess your love, but now I’m your favorite person? Your day might be shit, but mine’s looking up.”

  I laugh. Well, it’s really more of a cackle, because I think this Bacardi 151 stuff is already starting to get to me. Admittedly, I’m a bit of a lightweight and I haven’t had anything to eat in several hours.

  But I do not care.

  In fact, it’s already working. I’m feeling better albeit chemically induced, but whatever. I’ll take what I can get right now because things were going so well. So goddamn well.

  My job was awesome.

  I was rocking it.

  And now? Now I feel like all my confidence is gone. Not just gone, but shattered.

  Yes, it wasn’t my fault that this mom had an undiagnosed aneurism or threw a clot. And yes, those things have been known to happen at any minute, and given the strain of childbirth, it’s not a surprise that it picked that moment. But still. It’s a life lost. A baby who might never recover. A father who lost his wife. A four-year-old daughter who lost her mother.

  It’s just not fair.

  And I get that sounds childish, but you come to expect certain things to be fair. You don’t expect really horrendous things to happen to good people. To new moms and tiny babies. You don’t expect lives to be totally and completely annihilated in under five minutes. Now that father has to go home to his daughter and tell her that not only is mommy never coming home, but that her brother might not make it either.

  And if by some miracle he does survive, what sort of shape will he be in?

  “No crying,” Ophelia says, handing me a bar napkin.

  “Sorry,” I sniffle through my tears. “It just doesn’t make sense, you know?”

  “It’s not meant to. It’s life.”

  “Yeah, that’s not all that reassuring.”

  Ophelia laughs, taking my empty glass and mixing me another drink. “I already told you what my one great is. If you’re looking for brilliant words to make you feel better, you’re drinking at the wrong bar.”

  “Noted,” I say, picking up my newly delivered cocktail and taking a big pull of it through the straw. “But I think your one great is exactly the great I need right now. Ophelia, here is my address.” I pull a pen out of my bag and write it down on the napkin. “And here is money. Don’t let me have more than four of these no matter what I say to you, and at that point, call me a cab and hand the driver this.”

  “You got it. I’ll make sure you get home safe. Even if I have to take you home myself.”

  Chapter 10

  Finn

  Today is an absolute anomaly. I have no explanation for it either, other than being a fucking awesome doctor and efficient as hell. Today represents the first day I actually leave work on time since I became an attending. At exactly nine p.m., the doors of the ED close behind me and I’m stepping out into the crisp air.

  The trees lining the streets are covered with a medley of colors. Golds and cranberry reds and burnt oranges. Even in the dark of night, with only the light from the street lamps and the glow of the storefronts to illuminate them, they’re beautiful. Fall in New York is one of my favorite times of year, even if it does lead into the holiday season.

  I’m not slated to meet up with Mike for another hour, and though I could text him and ask him to meet me sooner, I won’t. I’m actually looking forward to the quiet drink after the long day before he shows up. Since starting in the hospital, this bar has quickly become one of my favorites. It’s low-key with good drinks, comfortable seating and pretty women who are occasionally eager for my particular brand of one-night stand, without being a hookup bar.

  That said, I haven’t gone home with a woman since my second week here and I refuse to think too deeply on the reason behind that. Maybe tonight is the night for that. The night to bring myself a little pleasure for once.

  Pulling open the heavy glass door, I’m instantly assaulted with the warmth and din which only a neighborhood bar can provide. My eyes flitter around, taking in the selection of eligible women, as well as trying to find a good place to park myself so I can continue my observations. But then something stops me in my tracks.

  Not something. Someone.

  Gia. Of course, it’s Gia.

  I’ve successfully avoided her since I stitched up her elbow. That was what? Seventeen days ago. As tempted as I am to turn around and walk out, I can’t help but watch her. She’s leaning against the bar, her head resting heavily against her hand with some lime-colored drink in front of her. The finger of her free hand glides up and down in the condensation. A frown mars her beautiful, full red lips. But the feature that stands out to me the most? Her eyes are partially closed and even from my vantage point, half the bar away, I can tell they’re glassy.

  She’s drunk. And that bothers the fuck out of me.

  Is she asking to be taken advantage of? Doesn’t she know how vulnerable she is right now?

  My body ignites with the ferocity and determination of a brush fire. Red-hot heat consumes me. Has me marching across the smallish bar until I’m standing next to her. She must hear me or sense my presence, because Gia’s head spins around like something out of The Exorcist, her eyes wide before a slow lazy smile spreads across her beautiful face, and her eyes go back to half-mast. She looks sexy as hell and I’d be turned on if I wasn’t so pissed off.

  “Oh Finn,” she slurs. “Have you come to rescue me from myself again?” Her petite body sways on her stool, before she slurps down more of her cocktail through her straw.

  “How much have you had to drink tonight?”

  She rolls her eyes at me. “None of your business, Doctor. I am none of your business.”

  A deep growl climbs its way out of the back of my throat. No one drives me crazy like this woman.

  I should turn around and leave. She’s right. She’s none of my business. But even as I think that, I know I’m not going anywhere. I may not do a lot of things right where Gia Bianchi is concerned, but leaving her in this state would be reprehensible. “Gia?” I ask in a softer tone, because clearly barking directives aren't getting me anywhere with her. “How drunk are you?”

  “Scale of one to ten?” she asks and I nod. “Probably somewhere close to a seven or eight. But this is my last one.” She points to her glass, nearly knocking it over when her hand misses its target. “I made Ophelia promise me. Though if we’re making comparisons here, Ophelia is way better than the chaste vessel of morality she’s named after. I mean, she sells alcohol, right? And she’s freaking awesome. I never liked Ophelia in Hamlet.”

  I have no idea what she just said. It’s like she’s speaking in goddamn riddles. “Who’s Ophelia?”

  “I’m Ophelia,” the pretty bartender with colorful ink adorning her arms, says. I’ve seen her working here several times over. I just never knew her name. “And she’s right. She’s done. She’s hit her four-drink max.”

  “Great,” I s
nap. “And you didn’t think four drinks was three too many?”

  Gia giggles, like what I just said was the funniest thing ever. She giggles so hard, she practically falls off her damn chair. “Finn, stop being my dad. He’s dead, remember? You were there for that. He’s dead. Just like my patient.” And then she breaks down into tears.

  What the hell is going on here?

  I eye the bartender expectantly. She gives me a conciliatory half grin, pointing to the stool next to Gia, for me to sit. I do sit, but not because she silently asked me to. I do it because when Gia cries, my goddamn lifeless heart breaks. Gia wipes away at her eyes with a deep heavy sigh, a small ring of black mascara stubbornly clings to the top of her lower lid.

  “She lost a patient tonight,” Ophelia supplies, with more sympathy than I would have expected. “I was letting her drink while keeping an eye on her. She said four drinks, so that’s what I served her, but the last two were on the weaker side.”

  “Hey,” Gia snaps indignantly.

  Ophelia shrugs unapologetically. “You’re a lightweight, honeypie,” she says with a hint of softness as her eyes linger on a still-sniffling Gia. “I was going to walk her home when my shift ends in an hour. But now you’re here,” she finishes with a big smile.

  “See,” Gia points to Ophelia while looking at me, “I told you she was awesome. It’s a shame I’m not a lesbian,” Gia says with so much sincerity that a laugh sputters out of me. “No, I’m being serious. Ophelia here is not only a beautiful bisexual, but she’s smart and funny and I like her. She doesn’t fuck with my head,” she turns to me, takes me in for a moment, her expression growing accusatory as she ends with, “the way you do.”

  I can’t for the life of me think of something to say back to that.

  I do fuck with her head. It’s not intentional. It’s not something I methodically plot out or particularly get off on. It’s just my reaction to her. It’s the fact that I react to her in the first place, that has me fucking with her head.

  “Yet here you are again,” she continues on, unaware of my silent contemplation. “Right when I need someone, you’re there. It’s aggravating in so many ways.” She pivots back to face Ophelia who seems to be enjoying the hell out of the verbal lashing Gia is giving me. “He always finds me at just the right moment.” Every ounce of sarcasm drips away, leaving her bare and raw. “My perpetual hero. He saved my life, you know? Pulled me out of the way of an oncoming car. I would have gone splat.” She slams her palm against the wood of the bar with a loud smack.