“He’d be proud of you, too, you know.”
I swallow hard—not because it hurts, but because I know she’s right. He would be proud.
“I know. I’m sure he’s up there, pumping his fist right now, cheering me on. I can feel it.”
“Hell yeah. Just like he did on his last day. He told you he would be your cheerleader from heaven. He told you he wanted you to live life to the fullest—for him and for you.”
“It’s going to be hard. I know it is. I haven’t been able to get to know trauma patients like I will here.”
“You knew it wasn’t going to be easy. But I’m here. I have a shoulder for you to cry on—and an endless supply of wine.”
“You know me so well,” I say with a smile, shaking my head. “I love you. Now get back to yourvacation.”
“Ugh. I’m home, visiting my family. Trust me. It’s not a vacation.”
I feel for her. I know what it’s like to struggle with your relationship with family.
“I know. I’m sorry. But you only have two more days. Then we can bitch about every annoying little detail when you get back.”
“Deal. I’ll talk to you soon. Love you. I’m so damn proud.”
“Thanks, Kay. Bye.”
I hang up the phone and pick up my glass of wine. I close my eyes as I take a sip, letting the flavors settle on my tongue for a brief second before I swallow.
I know this will be difficult. This job will test me in ways that will likely make me question why I chose it. But beneath it all, I know the desire driving me here—to make those dark moments a little easier for patients and the people who love them—will be worth it.
I’m ready for the challenge.
And I’m excited for it.
Chapter Two
Colton
There has to be another option. I’ve reviewed the scans, double-checked the blood work. Still, I’m sure I’m missing something. He’s only twenty-two. Just married.
This can’t be happening again.
My body stiffens as I click open the file for what feels like the hundredth time in the last three hours. It’s ten o’clock, and I should be home, getting some much-needed sleep, but I can’t go home. Because sleep means there’s nothing more I can do for Peter. And I’m not ready to tell him and his wife that tomorrow morning. I don’t want to take away the little amount of hope they have left.
Hope is a funny thing. I know what it’s like to hold on to it too hard.
It can be dangerous.
It can destroy you.
The only light comes from the monitor in front of me. The rest of my office is dark. My elbow rests on my mahogany desk as I stare intently at my screen. My eyes feel heavy as I scan the numbers again. Nothing has worked so far. I scroll back up anyway. Imaging. Labs. Notes. The same story, told in different fonts.
I lean back in my chair and look out at the lights of New York City. They twinkle like they are promises of a place where hopes and dreams come alive. That is not the case for everyone.
I know what the morning will bring. A conversation that starts with careful phrasing and ends with silence. I’ve had it before. Too many times.
There are things I can still offer—comfort, time, honesty—but none of them feel like enough. They never do. I tell myself I’m looking for options. What I’m really doing is delaying the moment when I have to say there aren’t any left.
I scrub a hand over my face. The clock on the wall clicks over to ten fifteen.
Then it dawns on me. I was supposed to meet the guys for happy hour tonight. I pull out my cell phone and see a dozen missed text messages from the group.
