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“That right?” I reply dryly. “Did they mention the cashed-up cardiac patient I saved on the way here? You’re welcome,” I drawl right back at him, waiting for him to just go away, but he doesn’t.
Of course, he won’t.
It feels like anything involving Evelyn, worth fighting for in my life, is suddenly being road blocked by people or things I’d rather see removed for good than have to deal with personally right now.
“I wasn’t aware of that, no,” he admits, clipping his tone as we both hear his hospital beeper go off.
“I also wasn’t aware you had a certain patient’s daughter with you,” he adds icily, ignoring his beeper while he waits for my reaction.
But I don’t have one. Not anymore.
After twenty years of doing the right thing, climbing the ladder, and kissing so much ass, I feel like I’m using enemas for mouthwash.
I figure it might just be time for Dr. Mark Love to hang up the surgeon’s mask after all.
I can feel my hand balling into a fist, ready to give the hospital director my five-knuckle signature resignation in person when I feel a familiar set of cooler, smaller fingers clasping over it.
It’s Evelyn.
Stepping in to stop me from finishing my career, for her. For her dad.
“Dr. Love, I can’t thank you enough again,” she gushes, grabbing my fist and pumping it into a handshake.
“You remember director Carmichael,” I almost groan, motioning towards him and giving her what I can only assume is enough rope with whatever she’s trying to pull here.
“I do,” she says, beaming with a tear in her eye and strutting over, she pumps his hand as well. Both hands.
“I have to thank you both. As does the Dean of the college of medicine,” she adds with affection.
Carmichael looks at me and then back at her.
“The media coverage is going to be perfect! ‘St. Mercy hospital surgeon saves the life of scholarship winning medical student’s father and then shows her how it’s done first hand!’” she exclaims, using her open hands like headline news in the air in front of us both.
“What?” Carmichael asks, his eyes straining as his head shakes in disbelief.
I’m not too far behind him, I have to admit.
“The news crews will be here any minute,” she adds. “Are you both ready?” she squeaks, the director smoothing what’s left of his hair back and starting to stutter a reply as I catch the real meaning of the glint in Evelyn’s eye.
“I’m ready,” I declare. “Shall we?” I ask her, taking her arm in mine as we pretend to make our way to the elevators.
I’ve never seen John Carmichael move faster, and before we can even reach an open elevator, he’s gone.
“What the hell was that?” I ask her, half annoyed, half intrigued.
She just shrugs.
“Can you arrange some sort of media thing before the director figures out what’s going on?” she asks innocently.
“It was either that or have to watch you drop him to the floor right there,” she admits.
And I know she’s right.
She’s always right.
Pinching my brow, I think for a second, I know exactly what to do, calling in a dozen favors in as many minutes once I hook the phone to my ear.
“He’ll be in his office, preening himself,” I tell Evelyn between calls. “I can call a few people, Evelyn. But a press conference?” I ask her in disbelief.
She shrugs again, assuming we don’t have to be there. Even know what it’s about.
And she’s right.
We won’t be.
Chapter Twenty-One
Evelyn
“I got it,” I assure the nurse, dismissing her with a nod from Mark who tells her it’s all under control.
“Alright, and thanks. We got it from here,” he tells the other staff, who all swish behind the curtain, grumbling at feeling left out as I straighten dad’s pillows.
What’s changed everything?
Well. The few minutes I had alone with dad once we got back to the ward for starters.
Turns out a leopard can change his spots, given the right opportunity.
Maybe.
Mark’s still looking a little unsure about everything, but I figure someone with some common sense had to take charge here.
A girl with her future goggles on, and not some set of college doctors living in the past, right?
“Dad?” I ask him, leaning close and making sure he really is okay. “Remember what we just spoke about, okay? No excitement,” I tell him again, glad when he nods, asking for just a sip of water from the cup by the bed before he continues.
“Mark…” he rasps, his voice strained with fatigue. “I remember everything,” he says before drawing a long and pained breath.
“You should really not talk,” Mark suggests, as a doctor. Not just as a guy who doesn’t want to hear it all.
But dad has his hand up, he’ll say his piece if it’s the last thing he does and I can see Mark understands that.
