Megan The emergency department had a particular rhythm to it.
In the overhead speaker, a doctor was being paged, and at the nurses station, as usual, a monitor was beeping away.
A few waiting patients were complaining about the wait, the pain, the temperature, the coffee—to my surprise—and how their insurance was not able to cover whatever it was they had managed to do to themselves.
It was chaotic, relentless, and strangely predictable.
I liked it.
Predictable was good, chaos that had nothing to do with me?
Even better.
I found peace in the middle of all that noise.
Not silent peace, of course.
That would have been a miracle.
The kind of peace that comes when I focus entirely on the patient in front of me, rather than my personal problems.
“Look at me, Mrs.
Collins.” The elderly woman blinked slowly.
Her pupils followed my finger as I moved it from side to side.
Good reaction.
“What is your name?” She frowned.
“Margaret.” “And where are you?” “At the hospital.” “Which hospital?” That earned me another frown.
“The one with the ugly curtains.” I chuckled.
“I’ll take it.” It was the truth after all.
She gave me a suspicious look which did nothing to hide her smile.
I glanced down at the chart in my hand before exchanging glances with Taylor, the attending nurse.
“Mr Collins said you have not been eating well.” “That’s because his cooking is bad.” Her husband, who was sitting beside the bed, snorted.
“I heard that.” “Good.
No need to pretend anymore.” Taylor and I fought not to laugh.
“Your blood work looks good, but I’ll have to keep you overnight to monitor your digestion.
Then we’ll see what the morning brings.” I turned to Taylor.
“I’ll be adding vitamins to her drug buildup for tomorrow.” “Sure.” Taylor said and left the cubicle.
Mrs.
Collins smiled.
“Can Martin stay the night with me?” “Of course.
I’ll have Taylor bring in a cot for him.” “Thank you, Dr Holt.” Mr Collins said, coming to stand by the bed.
His hand reassuringly rested on his wife’s shoulder.
These moments were why I loved my job.
Not the blood.
Not the paperwork.
Certainly not the twelve-hour shifts that left my feet feeling as though someone had beaten them with a hammer.
It was this.
The soft moments of gladness and the tiny hope of reassurance in someone’s eyes when they realized they were going to be all right.
I was about to remove my gloves when the curtain beside us swiped open so abruptly that Mrs.
Collins jumped.
I looked up, and immediately regretted it.
A man walked into the cubicle.
Tall.
That was my first thought.
Tall enough to dwarf me, although I wouldn’t particularly call myself tall.
My second thought was that he was handsome, and annoyingly so.
The sort of handsome that should have been illegal in a place where most people looked exhausted and vaguely miserable.
Dark blond hair, broad shoulders under an expensive-looking tuxedo, and sharply defined features even with the scared look in his eyes.
My third thought, however, was that he was an asshole.
That one became obvious almost immediately.
His eyes scanned the room sharply and narrowed.
“Where is Riley?” He wasn’t asking.
He was demanding.
“Excuse me?” I asked, pulling the gloves from my hand.
His eyes moved to me.
For one second, we simply stared at each other.
His expression did not soften.
If anything, it became more impatient.
“Where is Riley Sterling?” “Obviously not here.” Unless Mrs Collins was sitting on whoever he was looking for.
He left immediately.
What was that?
“Taylor will bring the cot as soon as she returns.” I quickly told the Collinses and left their cubicle, pulling the curtain to give them privacy.
The smoothly-dressed rude man was still roaming the floor, looking for this Riley person.
“Sir, you are supposed to wait at the nurses station.
Whatever it is you are doing now is disturbing the other patients.” “I don’t care about the other patients,” he snapped.
“Find me Riley, now.” Find him Riley, now?
The audacity!
Just then, a young woman walked out of a cubicle.
“Mr Sterling, Riley is here.” He entered the cubicle and I followed.
The concussed woman.
She was Richard’s patient.
“Roman?
What are you doing here?” the patient, Riley, asked, sitting up.
“Claire called me,” he was already beside her, looking her over.
“Are you alright?” Riley chuckled.
“I am,” then to the lady by the side, she added.
“You didn’t have to call him.” “She wouldn’t dare not call,” the man said before turning to me.
“Why is she just lying in bed?” “She’s being treated.” “I can see that.” “Then I’m not sure what the question is,” I returned.
“You—” “Roman, just-just stop.” Riley caught his hand.
His jaw tightened.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
I understand that was worried about his girlfriend, but his attitude was very unattractive.
He turned away from me.
His gaze swept over the room before landing on the young woman standing nervously in the corner.
She looked about twenty-three, maybe twenty-four, and at the moment she looked like she would happily disappear into the wall.
“Claire, what happened?” The young woman swallowed.
She was thoroughly frightened.
“We were visiting the local gallery just two streets from here when someone bumped into us.
Riley missed her footing and fell.
I had the gallery director bring us here.
I’m so sorry, sir.” “We will have this conversation later.” he was glaring.
“How is she?” I knew he was talking to me, but until he addressed me properly, or even looked at me, I wasn’t going to say a word.
No matter who he was, this was my territory.
His eyes slowly moved over to me, then over me.
“I asked a question, doctor.” “Roman,” Riley cautioned.
Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it, sir?
With a smile I reserved only for victory, I rounded the room and grabbed her patient chart.
Mild concussion.
A small cut along the hairline.
Regained consciousness.
No vomiting.
Pupils were equal and reactive.
Orientation intact.
CT scan clear.
“I’d say she is fine.” The wound itself was hardly dramatic.
A shallow cut, probably from the edge of a cabinet or table she hit on her way down.
It had been cleaned and dressed.
My eyes went to her name.
Riley Sterling.
Okay, same last names.
I guess a married couple.
“You’d say?” he frowned.
“Is she fine or not?” It took all my willpower not to ask him out of the space.
Instead, I ignored him.
“Mrs Sterling—” “Mrs?!” Riley yelled.