Page 6 of Yours to Keep

“He’s busy with work.”

I gave her a look. “I just took over a whole hospital. I’m busy too.”

“Busy with what?” She scoffed. “You have an army of people doing all this for you. All you do is talk and tell people what to do.”

“Yeah,” I said slowly. “That’s called being the boss. Someone has to captain the ship.”

“Aye aye, Captain.” She gave me a lazy salute. “I’ll give you a pass this time, but next time I need wedding help, you better not say no.”

“Fine,” I said. “Whatever. Next time. If your DJ gets arrested too, I might know someone.”

I glanced toward the door, my mind already shifting back to projections, timelines, and the changes I still needed to review. “I’ve got to get going. If you think they hate me now, just wait and see what happens next.”

3

BREE

Aweek after Crowne Medical had taken over Saint Raphael’s, I learned two important things. One was that the hospital still smelled like antiseptic and burnt coffee, which meant the world hadn’t ended, and two was that most chest pain was still caused by people making deeply questionable dietary choices.

“Okay, Joyce,” I said, rolling my stool closer to the bed and tapping her chart. “I’ve got good news and bad news.”

Her eyes widened. “Give me the bad news first. I don’t like suspense.”

“You have to stop eating chili dogs from Louie’s bodega.”

She gasped like I’d suggested amputation. “Absolutely not.”

I smiled. “The good news is that those chest pains you’ve been having were gas.”

“Gas?” She blinked hard. “Are you sure?”

“Trapped gas,” I clarified. “It creeps up and scares you into thinking it’s a cardiac event when really, it’s just your digestive system reporting you for eating stuff it doesn’t like.”

Her shoulders sagged in relief. “So I’m not dying.”

“Nope, but your loyalty to processed meat might have to shift to something else for a while. Have you tried kale?”

“I’m not a rabbit.” Joyce snorted. “Louie makes a good chili dog.”

“I’m sure he does, but your esophagus and I are starting a support group.”

She laughed. “Oh, Doc.”

“I’m a nurse practitioner,” I corrected gently.

“Whatever you are,” she said, waving me off. “I like you.”

I winked at her. “I get that a lot, but you’re not going to like me so much when you find out what our next steps are.”

“What are our next steps?” she asked suspiciously, but she was still smiling. “As long as it’s not kale. I’m in.”

I stood to adjust her IV, keeping my tone light as I ran her through it. “We’ll tweak your antacids, get you on something a little kinder to your stomach, and I want you to take it easy for a few days.”

“What exactly does that mean?”

“No chili dogs,” I said.

She sighed. “You’re cruel.”