Brain Games

9. Saving Grace

Fourth of July means all hands on deck in the Emergency Department for all the drunken idiots and pyromaniacs coming in after thinking they're invincible on this holiday. Its only half way through my first eighteen hour shift and I've already treated several burns and fractures and given stitches to three patients. And it's inevitable that the day only gets worse from here as nightfall approaches.

After stitching up my third patient, I peel the latex gloves off my hands and head to the central desk to finish charting. I pass Ashlee and she shoots me an exasperated look that says, "Is today over with yet?" and I shoot her a look right back that says, "I wish."

I snag the first open computer I see and begin charting. When I'm finished I glance at the clock and decide I have a few minutes to sneak in a quick break. I run upstairs to the neurosurgery department and stop dead in my tracks when I walk into the lounge to see no one else but Brad. He sits relaxed on one of the swanky leather couches, a cup of coffee in one hand and a tablet in the other, going over a patients chart. His brown eyes glance up from the tablet to look at me.

I give him a stiff, awkward nod of acknowledgment and scurry over to the coffee maker, programming the high powered machine to make the perfect single serving cup.

Instead of standing around and waiting for the machine to gurgle out its contents, I duck into the locker room to avoid the tension—tension probably only I feel—of being alone with Brad. Ever since that night at EBS a couple of days ago when he sat down with Dr. Allen and Dr. Larson, I can't help but shake the petty urge to avoid him at all costs. Ever since that night I've avoided him like a tuberculosis patient, just because I can't seem reel in my stupid emotions. Every time I see his stupid face, involuntary anger, self-disappointment and jealousy all bubble up in my gut, and I can't shake it.

As much as I hate to admit it, with my very competitive nature, I'm a sore loser. I'm no stranger to taking L's, especially when it comes to competing with Brad, but back in med school I could bounce right back. Brad and I were always neck and neck, one never too far behind the other, but residency feels different. In the course of just a few days, I feel like he's miles ahead of me and I'm never going to catch up unless he literally breaks a leg. I feel like we've just entered a marathon and I'm still stuck at the starting line, eating his dust. And that terrifies me, especially at a place like Warner.

For the past few days, I've hardly seen Brad at all. I've changed up my schedule to avoid him, coming in earlier and leaving later, and fortunately we've been too busy running around the hospital, only having the opportunity to see each other briefly in passing. I know it's silly and I can't avoid him forever, but I think at least a solid week of avoidance—even though I'd prefer a year, but that seems too hasty—will allow my petty feelings to dissipate and the fire inside me to roar back to life to come back stronger and more determined than ever.

After ninety seconds of restless pacing in the locker room, I finally gain the nerve to go back into the lounge, grab my coffee from the machine and throw a lid on it quickly. Just as my hand grabs the door handle to leave, a deep voice resonates from behind, startling me.

"I haven't seen much of you lately," Brad comments.

There's a hint to his tone, but I just can't pinpoint what it is.

Reluctantly, I turn around to be met with surprisingly soft, dark brown eyes peering up at me through thick, dark lashes. Why the hell do guys always seem to have the best eyelashes? All natural, too! It's not fair.

I lift my shoulder up a fraction in indifference. "It's been busy around here."

He nods, sinking back further into the couch. "How crazy has your day been so far?"