Page 101 of Sweet Heart

“Good. Prep CT.”

James’s head whips up.

“She is too unstable. Take her straight to the OR.”

He utters the words as a command, going against my assessment. My blood runs cold, and for a single heartbeat, I am uncertain what to do. But this is my case, my call. I know what I am doing. I slowly turn to him and take a deep, steadying breath before I speak.

“Her heart rate and BP are stable enough, giving us a window. She’s getting a CT. I want to know what I’m opening before I take her upstairs.”

“Her BP is on the low end. This is not the moment to gamble.”

Every single person in the room is quiet now, and I can feel their eyes on us. On me. I don’t move a single muscle. I don’t lift my chin or square my shoulders. I don’t even raise my voice. It’s not worth it. I’ve prepared myself for his backlash. I saw this coming the moment he left the ethics meeting early. And right now, I am grateful I trusted my gut.

“One day, when you are Head of Trauma, you can overrule surgeons in charge of a case. Until that time, I advise you to trust the instincts of your coworkers, Doctor Honda.”

I hold his gaze until he finally drops his, and it almost feels as if the room takes in a collective breath.

“My apologies, Doctor Durand.”

I drop my gaze to the patient and then nod once before I turn toward Whitman.

“The CT?”

“Ready and waiting, Doctor Durand.”

She gives me a small smile. The kind of smile only a proud mother can give. She tries to hide it, but I know she makes sure that I see it. I feel my own gaze soften in appreciation.

“Okay, let’s move.”

I drain the last of my coffee way too soon and sigh in frustration as I walk toward the break room. Today just might be the longest day of my entire career, and only seven of the twelve hours have passed. Honda’s little mutiny had a bigger impact on me than I care to admit. Even after the CT showed a rupture and we had to do surgery to repair Susie’s spleen, I went over the conversation in my mind over and over again. Had I made the wrong call?

After reconsidering three or four times, Carmen had walked in and talked me through it. Two weeks ago, I would not have second-guessed my decision, and neither would James. Nothing had changed.

“You are still the same amazing surgeon, Cat. Don’t let that opportunistic pendejo rattle you.”

She was right. Of course she was right. My judgment isn’t altered in any way, shape, or form, no matter what people like him try to make me believe. I simply fell in love with a woman who happened to walk into my ER. Had I met her on the street two hours later, nobody would have batted an eye. But you didn’t. But I didn’t.

I push the door to the break room open when I hear sharp whispers. It is unmistakable that I am walking into something that I’m not supposed to hear, so I freeze on the spot. My stomach churns before I even catch the first words. I don’t have to hear what they are saying to know who they are talking about.

“I mean, she’s always so full of herself, you know?”

“She’s a surgeon. What did you expect?”

“Ha, no, you are right. But I mean, does she ever let you question anything? I think that what Honda did was very brave.”

“What Honda did was rude and dangerous. What if complications had happened while she had to def—”

“Are you taking her side, really? She fucked a patient.”

My fingers slip, and the mug I was holding so tightly clatters to the floor and shatters into a dozen pieces. I don’t stick around to clean it up but turn on my heel and march back to my office. The two women at the nurses’ station dip their heads as I walk past them, refusing to look me in the eye. Normally, I wouldn’t mind. I prefer a certain professional distance. But right now, it feels like a knife is being pushed into my gut and twisted violently.

By the time I reach my office and close the door behind me, a cold sweat beads on my skin, and my chest is rising and falling rapidly with each breath I struggle to take. I try to steady myself against the door, but my body decides this is the moment to turn against me as well. My stomach cramps violently, and I reach the bin just in time to catch the wave of sickness that spews out of me. Tears spring to my eyes as I retch again and again until I’m empty and drained. Only then do I sink down beside my desk and drop my head into my hands.

When there is a soft knock on the door, I push myself up on shaky legs, smooth out my slacks, and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. I glance at the bin, but there is nothing I can do about that now. The knock sounds again, a little louder this time, and I reluctantly take my place behind the computer.

“Enter.”

“Hey, Cat, got a mo—”