by Bri Stone
“You can always talk to me.” Perrie holds back a yawn.
She has been lying in bed the whole time since it is much later up in New York. It must be after one in the morning there, but she insists I hadn’t woken her up even though I knew she was lying.
“I know.”
“What will you do? Will you talk to him?”
I swallow the anxiety of telling Pete the truth. Of telling him all the reasons why I felt the way I did, of why I was always so afraid in the beginning. Telling him the truth now, and even then, always meant taking the chance on him not understanding. On feeling broken, beyond fixing, as I always have. Now that he’s back… I just don’t know.
“I haven’t thought of it yet. I don’t know if he wants to talk to me.”
I hear Thom snore in the background before she answers, watch her smile slightly just remembering he is there. My chest tightens, wanting that, hating that I can’t have it because of what I’ve done.
“I’m sure he does. He followed you out there tonight, he wants more of you. You just have to figure out what you want to do, what feels right.”
“Being with him always felt right. Too right.” I blow the rest of my nose out and sniffle. My eyes are so swollen it’s hard to even see straight.
I am physically and mentally exhausted. That’s love in a nutshell.
“I get it. That’s how it was with Thom, at first.”
“I know,” I half laugh. “Pete is… I was so cruel to him. But the way he looked at me like I still aligned his stars. I don’t get it.”
“He loves you. He’s still in love with you and you are with him, too. Just take some time, and then try and talk to him.” Perrie looks at me intently, I hardly see her face with the lamplight so low in her room, but I always see the intensity in her gray eyes and it’s hard to ignore now.
“Okay.”
“But how was the ball before that?” She changes her tone.
“It was fine. Some guy asked me out, and I saw Stan.” I perk a little.
Perrie giggles, “Really? We didn’t even know he would be there.”
“How are things with him and Thom?”
“Okay, great even. Stan visits a lot, and they bond a little differently. It’s nice to watch.”
“That’s good. I may be able to come up there, a little later.”
“You always come here, we can go there. I have to see dad soon anyways.”
“Yeah, we’ll figure something out.” I sigh.
5I stare down at my gray blanket, perfectly fitting for my mood. I sniffle, take a deep breath and try to calm my nerves. Half of me wants to go out and find Pete, the other half wants to be here, safe, alone… but I don’t want to be without Pete anymore.
If I don’t figure out some way to heal the scars of my past, I may never be able to keep him again.
It’s days like this that make me wonder what is wrong with the world. Why people do the things they do… it’s unimaginable. Every bed in the hospital is taken, the ER is overflowing, and three of the trauma rooms have been made into mock ORs because someone woke up this morning and decided to bomb an entire arena of people who were just trying to watch the opening game.
The city is in an uproar, I can barely see straight after how much shrapnel I have been pulling out of people’s bones from the homemade bomb. No one knows who the suspect is, the police are keeping quiet while every political or social activist is using social media for everything.
It’s devastating.
It’s the worst day as a surgeon, as a doctor, when I lose a patient, let alone five. And I’ve just been paged of five more ambulances coming in. There is nothing on my mind but my job until I head to the ER, but I am compelled to stop and watch the brief newsreel on the television with an update.
Uploaded short frame video footage shows Pete, egging on the crowd and then stepping up to throw the pitch. Five, maybe ten seconds later the lower left of the stadium goes up in black smoke. I see now why most of the injuries were trauma from impact, the foundation of the upper rows collapsed from below. In the back of my head, I realize that. The rest of me is analyzing how close Pete was to the blast.
I feel as pale as my blue scrubs when I freeze in my tracks. I need to move, I have patients… but Pete.
“Charles, exam room two needs you.” Seven is behind me, I take two beats to center myself and come back.
Pete is okay, I tell myself. He would have been the first headline if he wasn’t. All I know is the kid on the exam table can’t breathe because his snapped collarbone is blocking his airway. I assess the situation, plan everything out it in my head as I always do, and then actually go through it again in a matter of seconds.
I pat the sweet kid’s shiny blond hair with my gloved hand, glad that the anesthesia has put him out. A reset and sling do the trick, and I’m paged again, then again… the next page sends me to an OR while I entrust my residents in the ER.
“This is insane.” Luke has been centered all day, he does his job well and knows how to focus.
“It’s shitty,” I respond as we’re scrubbing in quickly. “What’s the deal with this one? I only just got the page.” I ask Luke as we’re gowned and gloved.
“He was found closest to the blast site, his legs are half gone, he has a subdural hematoma, internal bleeding. I don’t even know why we’re operating; his heart developed a cardiac wall rupture too.”
The scrub nurse glares at him and pulls his face mask too tight, but he doesn’t notice or care, or both.
As principal, I take the right side and take the few seconds I have to think to myself.
“Can we have the news radio cast on?” I ask aloud, to no one in particular but a voice answers. ORs are so packed, it’s hard to know who is inside besides my assist and scrub nurse and an anesthesiologist.
“Ready?” Luke asks me. I nod back. The radio says the suspect has been identified, just before they say Pete Buchanan has been sent to the hospital, this hospital, and plans on making a statement.
I didn’t realize I hadn’t been breathing, I didn’t know my forehead had been tightened since I saw that footage. I didn’t realize, that I had been mostly inside of my head and functioning under a shell, thinking I lost him.
“Dr. Charles?” Martha gets my attention and hands me the scalpel. I clear my throat and assess the damage because he is tanking fast and everything is in high time.
I need to stop the clotting in his leg before it throws air embolisms through his body, but it’s a mess. Even I can’t see the femur from the tendons, the muscle fibers are shredded; he won’t ever be able to walk again. Our neurosurgeon comes in shortly after to work on his hematoma, the general surgeon and cardiologist for the splenectomy and aortic tear; it’s a full OR.
I continue to listen to the radio cast, more news on the suspect, the victims, our hospital mentioned numerous times as the principal trauma location. As of now, no more ambulances are coming. The calm within the storm because it is still going on.
“Don’t put the bomb shrapnel in the waste bin.” Dr. Garett, the neurosurgeon, stops me from discarding a silvery clump of metal.
“Why?” I hold the clump in forceps as I ask him.
The OR quiets besides the radio and machines, and the surgeons working. Garrett looks between all of us, we, in turn, meet his silence for a brief moment before we continue; suction, lap pads, and repeat.
“Shit, you all don’t know. No one got the page?”
“Nothing besides the call to come to the OR.” Dr. Green says, the general surgeon. Her voice is high and chipper, even in late afternoon. I went through my fellowship with her, I know it anywhere.
“Spit it out,” I say, dropping the piece of shrapnel in a blue collections bowl instead.
“This is the bomber. Everything has to go into evidence.”
Nothing is heard except the drain of fluids, and the rapid beep of the machines. I hear the thoughts in everyone’s head because they match mine; we don’t know what to
do because we took an oath to save lives but how can we not hesitate to save the same life we know took so many others? That we know has killed others.
I look down at his shredded limbs and think of what could have happened to so many other people. How can I save this mass murderer, or walk away from him—how do I make choices?
When he starts crashing, my instinct settles in. I am a doctor, and I don’t see a person outside of this room, I see the patient. The Oath isn’t situational, it means everything all the time.
“Suction here, I can’t see where this blood is coming from.” Dr. Green is furiously searching for it, while Garrett is dealing with his own problem when his saturation levels drop. He is throwing a clot somewhere in his brain. I don’t remember much from my time on neuro service in residency.
I keep working on his leg because I need to close off the torn tendons before the blood clots in his leg and makes matters worse. Luke is working on the other as well and with all of us going, there is no more discussion. It is almost like everyone forgot.
The OR phone goes off in the background.
“The police are asking for an update.” The nurse relays.
Everyone looks at me, and I sigh. I clamp off the forceps and Luke takes over before I step out. The more important work is done, I’m the only expendable one.
It takes five minutes speed walking to get to the waiting room, and I go right to the two burly cops waiting, assuming they’re who want to see me. A little shocked when they see my scrubs and gown covered in blood, they clear their throats and introduce themselves, but there is too much on my mind to recall.
“It’s tough to say at this point. His body has undergone a lot of trauma, and even if he makes it out of surgery, he will be in critical condition.”
“We understand, we just need to get a statement if he does.”
“Sure, when he wakes up and doesn’t remember anything, you can talk to him.” I can’t mask the irritation in my voice or keep from rolling my eyes. “He probably has memory loss from how long he’s gone without oxygen and the damage to his frontal and occipital lobes,” I explain.
They curse quietly and nod me away. I turn on my heel and pause, “Would you happen to know how Pete Buchanan is doing?” My voice softens.
The taller one with kinder eyes answers, “Last I knew he was in the ER, but they moved him to a waiting room because of the other patients.”
“Thank you.” I nod and rush back to the OR.
Luke is more than capable of finishing, if I stay in that OR, I’ll remain distracted. And if he can’t, a resident can be paged. I just know I have to get to Pete. I phone into the OR to check with Luke, who says they don’t need another ortho surgeon, and then I scrub out completely, change scrubs, and then try and find him.
I don’t know what I will say, but I just know I have to see him. The ache in my chest that was put on pause reopened when I saw him again, and now I have to find a way to heal it. I want to find a way to be honest with him, but it will take time and I have to hope he will give it to me.
I find him in the waiting area but the nurse’s station, where some of them stop and stare in the midst of their work, as I look on from a distance to build up courage.
He sees me first, though, looking up from where he is sitting. I glance around, the hall has two on call rooms I know are empty at this moment, When I gesture for him to come with me, he hesitates, indecision in his eyes, before he rises and I lead the way. My skin tingles as I open the door and step inside. He walks around to meet my eyes as I press my back to the door and shut it.
He stands by the window in a tight black shirt and jeans, I had seen him in it so many times before but it’s different now. Everything is. His face is more drawn, his hair not as glossy but still full, and his muscles beefier, more intimidating.
I want to be wrapped in his arms again, I want to be surrounded by him again.
“I heard you were there… I had to come and see you.” I cautiously walk closer, until we are inches apart, and stare into his eyes. Between the two bunk beds, the room is puny compared to him, towering over me.
He seems to try and look past me before he focuses in on me.
“I’m fine.” He drawls. God, I missed that voice, his accent, the roughness of it.
“I was worried.”
“Why?”
I swallow, looking down at my overly expensive black sneakers.
“I care about you, Pete. I thought…”
He steps away from me like he wants to escape my words, closer to the other wall where an ugly painting hangs. My heart is in my stomach as I try to work up the nerve to say the right things.
“I want to… talk to you.”
“Don’t you have work to do?” He gestures to my scrubs.
“I delegated. Pete, I—”
“You gonna tell me why the hell you skipped town and disappeared on me? Told me you loved me and then just left like I was nothing to you?” His voice raises, and it makes me flinch.
Pete was never an angry man who raised his voice, except when he was on the farm with the animals, and never at me. It feels like he hates me at the same time his love for me burns.
I come closer to him, where I can smell his cologne and feel the heat of his body. I see the small blotches on his skin now, from soot I suppose. I reach out to him, and he doesn’t move away, so I take his hand and it’s like all my pieces find their way together again. The pages of a book completed but still without the cover, still without the ending.
“I want to tell you, but there is so much more to it…”
“Sounds like a no.”
I try not to smile as I meet his eyes, that have softened only slightly. “I wish I could go back.”
“But you don’t want to tell me the truth. Why did you come here?” He steps closer, so close it’s perfect.
His body is like a wall in front of me, the tall, broad shoulders and wide back, his raised pecs. He is too much man.
“I…” I can’t resist the urge to move closer to him.
The way he is looking down at me, the way his lips are twitching; it makes me tilt my head and wait for him to kiss me, wait for him to do something. But instead, he moves us so I am against the wall, trapped under him. I gasp at the solidity of his body, the heat, and the fire in his eyes.
“Pete…” I whimper as he rubs his body over mine, solid, imposing.
When he leans in close I shiver, and my body heats when his lips press against my ear. “Is this what you came here for?” He gruffs.
My breath catches, my chest rising unevenly. I lean into him, my hands grazing his narrow waist, ribbed with muscles. The heat of his body burns my fingertips.
“No.”
“No?” He pulls back, licks his lips as his hands move from beside my head to my arms.
His calloused hand slips my hair behind my ear and I arch up to try and kiss him. My lips burn for it, itching for it.
“You were right… the other night in the garage. That I still love you—and you still love me.” I add, gaging his reaction.
His jaw tightens, pursing his lips as he steps back, and I regret saying anything. For just a moment, I think I have reminded him of what he thinks of me—that I am a coward who can’t be honest, who can’t even love right.
But then he is back again, and I’ve lost the ability to think, to feel anything other than his lips on mine. It takes me back in time, the sweep of his thick lips and tease of his tongue as he turns his head and crawls inside of me. I moan into his mouth, parting my lips so our tongues can fight each other once again. His hands are hot and heavy on my hips, making my scrubs invisible underneath them as his strong thigh parts mine and I yearn to feel more of him.
My hands go to his hair, combing through the thick, wavy locks and latching him to me. I don’t know how long we go on, devouring each other, trying to burrow ourselves in each other again. It doesn’t feel wrong and it doesn’t feel new, just right and familiar. My body hasn’t been
properly keyed up in so long, it only responds to him.
I want more, I need more, I want to taste all of him, but he pulls away and I am left panting for another breath of him.
His dark eyes burn holes into mine, searching, wondering… and I don’t know what to tell him. I don’t know what to say.
PETE
* * *
Dinner is loud and obnoxious because it’s Sunday and the whole family is here. All four sisters, their husbands, their kids. Too much is going on in my head to register everything.
I can’t stop thinking about Melinda. It’s juvenile, but I can’t seem to keep it at bay. That kiss… she wanted it, I wanted it, but for some reason, she couldn’t get away from me fast enough. Not even my mom’s steak dinner can get this unease in the pit of my stomach out.
“I want summore!” Sanders wails, Penny’s kid.
“No bud save space for dessert.” Mitch, his dad, replies; and it is not liked because Sanders hurls a piece of potato at him when he goes back to the kids’ table. Mitch makes a face and moves to scold him, but Penny just stops him while we laugh.
They laugh, I just stay wondering what Melinda is doing. I don’t have her number, but even if I did, I would be afraid to contact her. She doesn’t seem to want to be bothered; but she came to the bonfire, she talked to me a bit, and kissed me back.
I didn’t imagine that—she did kiss me back.
“Sorry we missed the game yesterday, things got pretty crazy on the farm when the cows got out,” Dad says once mom serves us banana cream pie; my favorite.
I eat anything banana or creamed with banana.
“It’s alright, y’all have seen enough of my games.” I shrug. I really didn’t think about it at all.
“It was a good win though.” He gruffs.
Dad and I look a lot alike; dark hair, brown eyes, farm muscles… but we aren’t much alike. My mom and me? We’re the same person. It really is the girls that are most like dad.
“We watched on television,” Phoebe says.
“Who is we?” I ask because she lives alone and is usually always working. She’s a cover and editorial model, so she has to travel a lot.
