“Just let me down this champagne and then I won’t even notice that I’m basically sitting here all by myself.”
I raise the glass to my mouth and take a sip just as a heavy hand hits my shoulder. I sputter and choke. Champagne dribbles down my chin.
“Ah, sorry, Natalie.” The jovial voice of my mentor is accompanied by a few gentle pats on my back, as if he’s trying to dislodge the sparkling wine from my lungs.
I finally regain control of my breathing and smile up at him as he takes the open seat beside Noah.
“I hoped you’d have room for me at your table,” Dr. Patel says. “Mind if I join?”
It’s an honor, really. Dr. Patel is a vice chairman of the surgical department and someone whose ass I’ve kissed regularly for the last five years. He’s also the doctor who revoked my log-in privileges this weekend.
“Please, join us,” I insist with a welcoming smile.
His grin is half-hidden behind his salt and pepper mustache, and his round glasses barely conceal the twinkle in his brown eyes when he asks if I did anything fun with my free afternoon.
I blanche, knowing from the cheeky lilt in his tone that he already knows the answer.
“Did Lois rat me out?”
He chuckles. “You know I’d never reveal my source, especially when the source inspires as much fear as Lois does.”
I’m slightly embarrassed to have been caught. I give him a small smile. “I swear I’ll stay away until Monday. How’s that?”
He nods. “I’ll consider it a win.”
Noah laughs and shakes his head, not quite relating to my desperate need to stay married to medicine. Noah has a life. I don’t.
Even worse, Noah has friends and regular dates and is still really good at his job. Case in point, he’s leaving his post at BHUMB for the next few months to go on sabbatical. Part of his time will be spent setting up and running cleft palate clinics in underserved communities. The remainder of his time will be spent training surgeons at other programs on the surgical techniques he presented at the ASPS conference earlier this year. Yes, Noah is so damn good at what he does, programs like Baylor and Johns Hopkins and Columbia want him any way they can get him, even just for a week or two on-site.
Did I already mention the cheekbones? The French model vibes?
My brother should be a total tool, but he’s not.
He aims a smile my way just as the salad course is placed in front of us and Dr. Patel launches into the story of the first time he supervised me in surgery.
My brother is brimming with glee to hear it. I squash myself lower in my chair, knowing where this is headed.
“As a first-year intern, she should have been standing back and observing her superiors with her mouth glued shut. Maybe—maybe—it would have been okay if she’d asked if there was anything she could do to help. Hold an instrument, run a message, that sort of thing. You know what she was doing instead?” At this point, his smile takes over his whole face. “Correcting the fellow on the way he was stapling the xenograft. Apparently, she thought she could do it better than someone five years ahead of her in the program. The fellow chewed her out in front of everyone in the operating room before kicking her out. Then he proceeded to do exactly as she’d instructed him to do.” He laughs and shakes his head. “I’ll never forget it.”
I blush and fidget in my chair, uncomfortable. Looking back, I was totally out of line, walking into another surgeon’s OR and giving unsolicited feedback. I’m surprised the doctor didn’t permanently ban me from his OR.
“She’s always been a spitfire,” Noah agrees with a shake of his head.
Dr. Patel laughs, and then I steer the conversation toward him and his family. A doting father of two girls—both of whom are currently in med school—he’s more than willing to carry the conversation through dinner.
After the final course is removed and desserts are being distributed, Dr. Patel excuses himself to take the stage. Thanks to attending in previous years, I know how this next part goes. Since there are so few graduates, Dr. Patel will go through a short summary about each of us and our time spent in the program, as well as our plans now that we’re graduating.
Luke and Richard are going into private practice, Andreas is entering a surgical oncology fellowship, and I will be here, continuing on as a burns fellow at BHUMB. It makes sense for Luke and Richard to go into private practice. They’re both in their early thirties with a wife and kids, ready to settle down and start earning the big bucks. While Andreas has a partner he’s serious about, he isn’t ready to ease off the gas, so he’s happy to prolong his training in a specialty he loves.
As for me, there was never really a choice. I’ve always wanted to be a burn surgeon, always wanted to work with children. To do that, I had to be extremely dedicated, and I had to make sacrifices. It’s why I’m twenty-eight and single, why my phone gets more action on the nights I take call than on a Saturday when I’m actually free to go out and have fun.
Noah chides me about putting too much of myself into my job, but I made a decision a long time ago to put medicine before everything else and it’s paid off. I glance around the room and see the full tables, wondering if that’s really true. A part of me wonders if I’ve convinced myself I’m happy with my life choices because the alternative is too difficult to bear. The empty seat on my right is a looming presence. I fight the urge to push it away.
I’m about to turn my attention back to the stage, knowing Dr. Patel is getting close to asking each of us to come up to receive our diploma and have our photo taken beside him, when the back door of the banquet hall opens. I glance over, curious to see who the latecomer is, and shock immediately lurches my heart into a race it can’t win.
My stomach plummets and time slows to a crawl as I watch Dr. Connor Easton walk in wearing a midnight blue suit.
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