I remember how he stared off into space. How it took me thirty seconds just to catch his attention.
My lips upturn at the memory. “That guy is always distracted.”
“More distracted than usual,” my father notes.
My smile fades fast, and I stuff a blood pressure cuff in the bag. I search for my missing stethoscope, unzipping sections.
Maximoff fought with his cousin on that yacht. Both threw punches. And he’s been caught in more than a few brawls before, mostly with hecklers. “Do you think he was in a fistfight?” I ask my father, just as I find my stethoscope in a front pocket.
“No,” he says. “He never calls me after any fight.”
I zip up the bag, stand and grab my keys off the counter. Then I remember… “He’s at Harvard.”
A six-hour drive from Philly.
If he’s badly hurt…I shake my head. Six hours feels too long. Before I think of alternatives, my father speaks again.
“I already booked the private jet,” he says. “I’ll email you the details. You should be arriving at Cambridge in a little over two hours.”
I nod. “Good.” And I can sleep on the plane.
“Before you board, I need you to stop by the house and get more supplies.” He means my childhood house in Philly, where he still lives and keeps medicine for emergencies. “Moffy’s blood type is B-positive, and if he has a serious fracture, give him lidocaine intravenously and assess. He’ll refuse an opioid.”
“I know.” His parents are recovering addicts for alcohol and sex, and he’s cautious around addictive painkillers.
My father lists all the supplies, and I mentally file the information. When he’s finished, he says, “After you treat him, make sure to write a report and email me.”
“Sure.”
“And if you have any questions, I won’t have cell service. You can always call your grandfather or Rowin—”
“I’m not calling Rowin,” I cut him off. “We broke up last week.” I sling my bag on my shoulder and check the plane schedule on my phone. Calculating how much time I have. Not much.
The phone line is silent.
I head down the narrow hall towards my bedroom, phone back to my ear and say, “If that’s it—”
“You shouldn’t let work affect your relationship. If you need help balancing the two, you can talk to me.”
“Not everything is about medicine,” I say more coldly than I meant. My jaw muscle tics. “I know you liked him, but it’s over. If there’s nothing else I need for Moffy, then I’ll let you go.”
“That should be it,” he says, his tone still warm. “Take care.”
I hang up and slip into my small bedroom that I share with Cory. A six-foot metal bookshelf separates his side from mine, medical texts stacked on each shelf.
The friend that Cory hates is currently passed out in my single bed, tangled in my black sheets. And he’s not alone. A mystery blonde girl sleeps beneath his tattooed arm. Her bra and red dress litter the floorboards.
I don’t care. At this point, the bed is more Donnelly’s than mine.
But I’m in a fucking hurry. I chuck my motorcycle keys at him, and they land with a thud on his chest. “Donnelly.”
He squints and pats at the keys while glancing at the nightstand clock. It’s past noon, and the potent scent of Lucky Strikes and bourbon lingers.
“Fuck,” Donnelly groans and runs a hand through his tousled chestnut hair.
The blonde girl underneath his bicep starts waking. Rubbing her eyes, her mascara and lipstick are smudged. I spot the Zeta Beta Zeta keychain attached to her leather purse.
This isn’t the first sorority girl Donnelly has brought to my apartment to fuck.
She eyes me skeptically while stretching off the bed and grabbing her dress and bra. “Who are you?”
“I’m about to leave,” I say more to Donnelly, but he’s not looking at me.
“He lives here,” Donnelly tells her with a yawn. He sits up against the headboard and watches her collect her shit.
She tugs on her dress, checks her phone and stands, not paying that much attention to him. “Okay…thanks, Daniel.”
“Donnelly.” He mouths to me, great lay.
My brows spike and lips rise. I mouth, didn’t ask.
He grins and unscrews a nearly empty water bottle. Downing the last drop, he swallows and motions to the girl, then me, with the bottle. “He’s a resident at Philly General.”
She surveys me head-to-toe while tying her tangled hair in a pony. “You’re seriously a doctor?”
I lean my shoulder on the doorframe, loosely crossing my arms. I may be constantly relaxed, but I’m keeping track of the very last second that I can waste before I need to leave. “I’m seriously a doctor, but I’m just a first-year resident.” I look to Donnelly. “Which is technically called an intern.”
He tosses the empty water in an arch, and the bottle clatters in a trash bin. “Same thing.” His South Philly accent is thick.
“Sort of,” I say. “I haven’t taken my Step 3 exam to become licensed yet.”
I’m twenty-four-years-old and I’ve already graduated medical school and I have that MD. But I won’t become a licensed physician until I complete the USMLE exam.
Donnelly shakes his head. “Unnecessarily complicated.”
The girl frowns. “What?” She can’t understand what he just said with his Philly lilt.
He tries to enunciate. “Unnecessarily—”
“Forget it,” she cuts him off and checks her phone.
I’d like this girl to make a quick exit about as much as she wants to make one. I cock my head. “Need me to call you an Uber?” I ask.
She texts quickly. “My friend is picking me up. Can I have the address?”
I tell her the address of the apartment complex, and then Donnelly swings his legs off the bed and reaches for his jeans. “Hey,” he says to the girl, “if you wanna come along, I’m going to Wawa for lunch—”
“Wawa?” she cringes. “Ew.”
I almost laugh. Fuck, she hates Wawa. My smile stretches, decently entertained because Donnelly is going to lose his shit.
“Ew?” he repeats. “Girl, Wawa is a great wonder of Philly—”
“It’s just a convenience store. God, I don’t understand people’s obsession with it.”
Donnelly cringes. “Didn’t you see my tattoo?” He rotates slightly and flashes her the inked Wawa logo on his shoulder blade.
She tucks a flyaway piece of hair behind her ear. “Boy, it was just sex. I don’t care if a one-night stand is creepily obsessed with a gas station or not—and don’t act like this was anything more for you. You don’t know my name either.”
“You’ve gotta be a Betty,” he says. “Betty sounds like the name of someone who’d trash Wawa.”
She struts past the bed with her high heels in hand. “My name is Sylvia.”
I turn a fraction of an inch to let her pass through the door. She eyes my trauma bag and then disappears to the kitchen. Three minutes left.
I unpocket a stick of Winterfresh and peel the foil.