BAILEY

I’m resisting Matt under the guise of being sensible and responsible. I tell myself I can’t indulge my fantasies just because I might want to. I have to think about my future. I have to do what’s best for Josie. I don’t have the luxury of living solely for myself. It wasn’t so long ago that I was worried about being out of a job. When Dr. Lopez retired, I was terrified of what would happen if I didn’t find another position quickly. I remember what that uncertainty felt like, and I won’t let burning-hot desire cloud my better judgment.

To curb temptation, I ban Grey’s Anatomy from the house. Josie, of course, puts up a protest, but I don’t listen.

“I can’t watch it! I hate it! All those stupid doctors making out in storage closets. Guess what?! In real life, it’s not so glamorous. Those metal shelves really hurt.”

She stares at me with wide eyes and I hurry to amend my statement.

“At least, I assume they do…”

The following week is torture on par with waterboarding. I swear Matt wears scrubs that purposely accentuate his ass. He’s tan and healthy while the rest of us are winter white. When he speaks, his voice has never sounded so deep and compelling. AND OKAY THE BEDROOM EYES HAVE GOT TO STOP. I’m boiling up inside.

I don’t think Matt’s faring any better than I am. Though he keeps his promise about treating his staff better, underneath his forced civility, I can tell he’s a brooding mess. He might not be shouting orders at any of us, but he’s still stomping around like he’s angry at the world.

I give him a wide berth outside the OR so there’s no chance of another steamy session in the storage closet, but it’s hard work avoiding someone all day. When I get home from the practice, I have PTSD from looking over my shoulder and listening for his voice. I’m ready to collapse from exhaustion, but Josie only makes things worse by asking me about him incessantly. Now that I’ve banned Grey’s, she’s been checking out too many young adult romance novels from the library, and she’s cast Matt and me as the main characters. Her questions might seem innocuous to someone else, but I know her tricks.

“Did surgery go well today?”

Yes.

“Was Dr. Russell there?”

Of course.

“Did he look handsome in his scrubs?”

Sure.

Every question is a little test to see how I’ll respond. If I say he looked so hot I nearly wept, she’ll accuse me of having a crush. If I say I barely noticed him, she’ll accuse me of lying. So, I toe the line and attempt to seem unruffled whenever he’s brought up, but of course, she sees right through it.

“You’re so blind to matters of the heart, it’s not even funny,” she says to me one night over dinner before she walks away to continue reading, leaving me with the fallout of that emotional grenade.

The only respite I have is at the end of the day when I’m tucked in bed. I indulge myself by unpacking every moment I had with him that day, even if he was acting like an angry monster. It’s better than nothing. I hoard every word and glance (okay, fine, every glare) he aims in my direction, and I dream about how it would be if things were different, if there were less on the line for me.

A few weeks after the supply closet incident, I overhear him speaking excitedly to Patricia in the hallway. I have my lunch in hand, en route to the staff lounge when I catch sight of him holding out a piece of paper for her to read. He’s beaming from ear to ear. I haven’t seen him look so happy since…well, ever. I freeze and stare, enamored by that smile and how it transforms his face. Hello, Heart? Yes, it’s me, Brain. Please control yourself.

“It’s an email from the grant committee,” Matt explains proudly. “They’re down to two proposals—mine and another one from an orthopedist in California.”

Patricia beams. “That’s awesome. When will they have the final decision?”

“Right after Christmas.”

Of course, his grant—the thing I’ve heard so little about and the thing that must be weighing heavily on his mind. I know it’s a big deal for him to be one of the final two nominees. I’m tempted to walk over and ask to read the email, but then he glances up and his gaze clashes with mine. Blue eyes pin me to my spot. In an instant, his smile fades. His eyes harden and any hope of congratulating him shrivels up and dies. I turn in the opposite direction and head for the stairwell. Creepy vibe or not, it’s better than walking past him.

I’m looking forward to Christmas with equal amounts of excitement and trepidation. At the end of this week, the surgical department will close up shop for ten whole days so we can celebrate the holidays, but before everyone scatters across the country, the department will throw its annual Christmas party. It’s always at a fancy location—a trendy restaurant or swanky hotel—and the food is worth stuffing myself into an uncomfortable dress. I always attend (re: food). Historically, Matt doesn’t, and chances are he won’t be there this year either.

I’m not sure how I feel about that.

I’m also not sure how I feel about not seeing him for those ten days. Sure, it won’t be so different than how it is now. We aren’t currently talking outside of the OR. For weeks, he’s treated me how he would treat any other employee. When he speaks to me—and it’s only ever about work—his tone is detached and aloof. He’s not being rude, per se, but compared to the warmth I got from him when we were on friendly terms, it’s torture.

I’m sitting with a few other surgical assistants in the staff lounge over lunch, picking at my sandwich and trying not to visibly mope, when Erika elbows me in the side.

“You have a visitor.”

I glance up, follow her gaze to the door, and freeze when I see Matt’s imposing figure standing at the threshold. He’s wearing his suit and white coat. There are files tucked under his arm. His piercing gaze is aimed right at me and my stomach fills with dread. I lurch to my feet and hurry over.

“Is something wrong with Hannah?”

She’s the patient we operated on this morning and I’m worried if he’s here, it’s because something is going wrong with her recovery.

His brows furrow and he shakes his head. “No. She’s doing well. A new case just came in and I need to speak with you about it.”

I let out the breath I was holding and nod quickly. “Oh, okay. Of course. Let me just go toss the rest of my lunch.”

He holds up a to-go box. “It’s fine, you can finish it—we’ll eat while we talk.”

Then he takes a step into the lounge and I swear every person’s breath catches from shock. Doctor’s don’t eat in here. They have chocolate fountains and catering. We have plastic utensils and Cup of Noodles.

If he’s aware of everyone’s attention on him, he doesn’t seem to care. He claims an empty table in the corner, drops the files that were clutched under his arm, and makes himself at home. The silence in the lounge continues as I walk to gather my meager lunch and head over to join him. All eyes are on me. I’m sure everyone’s wondering what’s going on, why he would deign to grace us with his presence.

I shake off their attention and try to focus on Matt. If he’s here, willing to talk to me, the case must be pretty important.

I sit down across the table and see he’s already laid out a few pieces of paper for me to read, his lunch forgotten, so I follow his lead and forget about mine too.

“A colleague of mine in Chicago emailed me this morning about an emergent case,” he says, launching straight into work. “A nineteen-year-old female presenting with extreme kyphosis and compression of her spine. She should have had surgery years ago, but her doctors and her parents chose to prioritize her other health concerns.”

I frown and lean forward to read her file. “What other health concerns?”

“Leukemia.” My breath hitches and I glance back up at him. His frown is deep as he continues, “They haven’t completely ignored her spine issues. She’s been wearing a brace for the last year and a half, but it’s no use—”

“She’s too old,” I conclude.

He nods with a grim frown. “Had they used a brace when she was younger, she might have stood a chance at foregoing surgery, but now it’s a necessity.”

“Why now? Why is this emergent?”

He pushes a document toward me, but the mass of words means nothing to me. I don’t even know what I’m looking at. Then one word at the very top of the page jumps out at me: paraplegia.

“Because as of last week, June can’t walk.” My hand flies to my mouth before I can stop it. “The curvature of her spine is extremely severe. She’s complained of numbness and paresthesia in her legs for the last few months. Last Monday, her symptoms intensified to the point of paraplegia. She’s lost all motor function in both of her legs.”

All I can think is, Poor June. To have endured leukemia only to now deal with this.

“What can be done?”

He gathers the papers in a neat pile and I watch as sheer determination sparks in his gaze.

“The paraplegia is a symptom, not a life sentence. Her spine needs to be decompressed to alleviate the pressure on those nerves. Hopefully, after the inflammation goes down, she’ll regain motor function.”

“Is your colleague in Chicago going to take the case?”

He shakes his head. “It’s not his specialty. Even if it was, June’s body has been through hell with chemo and radiation. There are additional risks. Most surgeons wouldn’t take this on.”

But Matt will. He has to.

His gaze meets mine and he must sense what I’m thinking because a moment later, he nods. “Her parents are bringing her here on the next flight out of Chicago. If we’re going to do this, I’ll need your help.”

There’s no hesitation.

I nod emphatically. “Yes. Of course.”

I had no idea what I was agreeing to. The moment I nod, he stands, tells me to gather my stuff, and we head back to his office. Patricia is standing at her desk as we approach, hurriedly writing on a notepad with her office phone pressed to her ear.

When she spots us, she tells the person on the line to hold on, presses the phone to her chest, and then launches into an update for Matt. “Dr. Buchanan is on line one. Dr. Mills says he’ll call you back when he gets out of surgery. Dr. Goddard is still out for lunch, but I’ll try to catch him when he gets back. Mr. and Mrs. Olsen will be on a flight with June from Chicago at 6:45 PM. I tried to get them a room at the hotel across the street, but it’s booked with holiday travelers. I’m talking to another hotel now.”

Matt listens and nods as he proceeds into his office. “Have Bailey take over the hotels. I need you to finish clearing my schedule. Push everyone you can into the new year. They’ll protest—I’m sure they’ve all met their deductibles, but assure them we’ll work with their insurance companies and figure something out.” He continues inside, raising his voice so we can hear him. “They won’t have to pay anything additional. I’ll see to it.” He turns back to address me. “Bailey, when you’re done booking the hotel, can you help Patricia with rescheduling my patients?”

I nod and scurry to take the phone from her.

I have no idea what I’m doing. I need to book a hotel for the patient’s family? Do we normally do that sort of thing?

“How many nights will they be in town?” I ask, gaze flicking back and forth between them.

“Start with four,” Matt answers, tone hard and authoritative, before he picks up his phone.

The afternoon and evening pass in a blur. I barely have time to let Josie know I won’t be home in time for dinner. It’s nearly impossible to find lodging for the Olsens. Hotels are booked, everyone is here to spend time with their family and enjoy the holidays. Matt goes so far as to shout through his door that they can just “damn well stay with him”, but I eventually sweet-talk my way into getting the family a room only a few blocks from the hospital. The price makes my stomach turn, but Patricia assures me it’s fine. I book it with Matt’s credit card then jump on the phone to start rescheduling patients.

Matt has a hell of a time with his task as well. Between our calls, Patricia explains to me in whispered tones that he won’t be able to do the surgery alone. He’s looking for a neurosurgeon to assist. With what June’s body has already endured, he wants to take every precaution.

He’s on the phone trying to call in favors, but like everything else, the holidays are impeding things. Most surgeons have their own cases to finish up before the end of the year. They can’t rearrange their entire schedules, drop everything, and fly across the country to help Matt.

I’m sitting at Patricia’s desk, crossing through patients’ names as I call and reschedule their consultations and pre-op appointments when Matt shouts for me to come into his office.

I jump out of my skin, drop my pen, and hurry inside. He’s pacing by the window, his white coat long forgotten, his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows. His tie is hanging on the back of his chair and his shirt is unbuttoned just enough for me to catch a sliver of his tan chest.

He rubs his forehead like he’s trying to ease a tension headache and then turns to face me. I’ve never seen him so stressed. His brows are knit together. His jaw is locked tight. “I need you to go see if Dr. Perry is still in his office. He’s down on level three. If so, tell him I need to speak with him immediately.”

I nod and hurry out of the room, fully prepared to mow down anyone who happens to get in my way, but the hallway is deserted. Dr. Perry’s office is dark and empty, which seems strange until I glance down at my watch and realize it’s half past eight. We’ve been going so nonstop I didn’t even realize it was so late.

I drag my feet walking back to Matt’s office. I don’t want to be the one to tell him his colleague already went home. I have a feeling he might accidentally (on purpose) shoot the messenger.

“Dammit,” he says after I tell him, and then he turns to face the window. He props a hand against the glass and stares out at the city covered in a blanket of snow. I’m torn on what to do. Give him privacy? Offer words of encouragement? I want to help, but I have no clue what he needs. He’s been going full speed ahead all evening. It’s a wonder he still has a voice after all the phone calls he’s placed.

I stand immobile on the other side of his desk, giving him the chance to calm down while I desperately try to think of the right thing to say. I don’t want to toss out some hollow phrase like Have no fear! Everything will work out! Because truthfully, I’m a little in over my head here. There’s a pretty good chance this won’t work out.

“Dr. Russell,” Patricia says from the doorway, removing her glasses and rubbing her tired eyes. “I need to get home before the roads get any worse. I’ll pick this back up first thing in the morning.”

He doesn’t turn from the window. “Of course. Yes. Go home and we’ll finish tomorrow.”

She frowns and heaves a resigned sigh before turning back to her desk to collect her things.

Matt and I stand there in silence for a long time, long enough for Patricia to leave, long enough for the quiet office to close in around us. I have the ludicrous urge to round his desk and wrap my arms around his middle and force him into a hug, but I stay right where I am, waiting for him.

He eventually speaks, turning to glance at me briefly before returning to his work. “You should go too. It’s late.”

He sounds so desolate and hopeless, my heart aches.

“And what will you do?”

He waves to the papers on his desk. “Stay here.”

Of course. It might be late, but Matt still has plenty of work to do. I steel my spine and lift my chin, anticipating his response when I reply, “Then I’m staying too.”

“No, it’s late. You should go be with Josie.”

Just as I expected. His rejection doesn’t hurt because I was prepared for it. I step forward and take a seat in one of the chairs in front of his desk. He doesn’t look up at me and he doesn’t get back to work. His attention is pinned to a spot on his desk as he tries to work through a problem. I can practically see the weight of the world on his shoulders.

I take the hint and sit quietly, focused on the glowing lights of the city behind him.

“Maybe I was crazy to think I could pull this off,” he says finally, his voice nearly inaudible. “I told the Olsens I could do it and I’ve cleared my schedule, and yet—” He shakes his head and looks up at me, worry etched in his gaze. “Once I get in there and see what I’m working with, I might not be able to help her.”

“I’m sure you’ve done similar cases,” I venture.

He drags his hand through his hair, tugging on the roots, stressed and angry.

I won’t let him give up on himself. If anyone can pull this off, Matt can. I lean forward and ask determinedly, “How can I help?”

“You can look through every one of those case files I pulled and find ones with CTs and MRIs that are comparable to our patient’s.” He’s being sarcastic. He doesn’t think I’m crazy enough to take on the task, but I push to my feet and turn to the stacks of files on the ground by his couch. They nearly reach my hip. “Bailey, I was kidding. Go home. I’ll do that later.”

It’s too late. I’m kicking off my shoes and getting comfortable. I’m still wearing my scrubs from earlier. They’re a little loose around my waist and pretty soft; I can totally trick myself into thinking they’re pajamas. “So just look at the CTs and MRIs?”

“Bailey,” he warns. “You don’t have to do this.”

I don’t reply. I carve out a nice little spot on his couch, pick up a short stack of case files, and get to work.

He eventually leaves me to it, though he does think ahead and order some pizza. I insist he add on some warm chocolate chip cookies. Y’know, for morale.

I’m not a surgeon and I don’t have the expertise Matt truly needs for this case, but he shows me exactly what to look for and it’s not so difficult. He stays at his desk, working quietly. I’m too scared to ask him what he’s doing, and besides, I’m here to help, not be a distraction. We eat our pizza while we work and I fight back a yawn. Josie texts me that she’s too tired to wait up. I remind her to lock the doors before she goes to sleep. When I put my phone back down, I peer up at Matt from beneath my lashes. He’s rubbing his finger back and forth along his bottom lip, eyes narrowed down at a file. He’s lost in thought then he sighs and shakes his head, metaphorically balling up a piece of paper and tossing it in the trash. He flips a page and keeps reading. I should get back to work, but my eyes are tired from scanning image after image and they need a break.

He’s my break.

He suddenly shifts in his seat, looks over, and I jerk my attention back to the file in my lap.

“What is it?” he asks.

My cheeks burn and I scramble for some excuse as to why I was staring at him. “Oh, I was just wondering if you had a blanket, by chance?”

It’s a good deflection, and not totally out of thin air. I’ve been cold for the last thirty minutes.

He stands and grabs one from a small cabinet near his bathroom. I thank him with a smile and watch as he turns to grab his laptop from his desk before he comes back and claims the other half of the leather couch.

“My back was getting sore,” he explains.

I nod and stay quiet. It feels like it could be intimate with us sitting so close, but the couch is big enough that we aren’t in danger of touching.

I start to tuck the blanket around myself, only becoming aware of his gaze on me after I’m halfway done fully cocooning myself.

I blush. “Oh, do you want some blanket too?” I ask, holding up one corner for him. It isn’t that big, and with me hogging most of it, he’d only be able to cover a few of his toes, maybe his ankle if he really tugged hard. He must appreciate my meager offer though because he smiles in amusement before shaking his head.

“I’m good. You take it.”

He doesn’t have to tell me twice. I wrap that soft blanket around myself and revel in the fact that it smells just like him. I reach for a case file and attempt to get back to work. It’s hard now that my stomach is full of pizza and cookies and I’m extra cozy on his couch, with his blanket.

I haven’t checked my watch in a while because I’m scared to look at the time, but I know it’s late. Sleep is calling my name, and I do my best to stave it off, even jerking back awake after my eyes flutter closed of their own accord. It’s no use, though. I tell myself I’ll only rest my eyes for a few minutes, nothing more.