Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Aspen

At the tender age of five, I never thought about what it meant to be a doctor. It was all about the cute Band-Aids and kissing the bumps. How hard could it be? Brooklyn, Scarlett, and I decided to become EMTs in college. It turned out to be a big help as we applied to med school. It was accelerating to be the first one on the scene. Assessing the patient, stabilizing them, and trying our best to keep them alive until we reached the hospital. Brooklyn and I loved it and decided to combine pediatrics with the emergency room. I enjoy it, except when I'm called in the middle of my weekend off to cover a shift.

There's a deeper reason I do it. Michael. The night that car accident took his life, the EMTs didn't arrive fast enough. They didn't know what to do and just set him on the stretcher driving him to the hospital where instead of stabilizing him, they left him in the hallway waiting for a bed to assess him. Each time I receive a patient, I'm saving Mike. It won't bring him back, but I try my damn best to go out to the waiting room and say, "your loved one is going to be just fine."

Not tonight.

Tonight, we had an entire family with critical injuries—a bloody car accident on highway forty-five. One idiot who shot himself in the foot. I tended to a boy with a broken ankle; another man had a heart attack. Usually, I do my best with my patients. I stitch them back together, find a specialist who can help them with their long-term recovery. The only part I hate about my job is when someone dies. This time it was a toddler with a head trauma, internal bleeding, and maybe a few broken bones. I tried to stabilize her before we began running tests, but her little body gave up without a fight.

The mother is crying. I feel her loss. No parent should face this painful moment. However, I am angry at her too. According to the paramedic who brought the kid in, she wasn't restrained in her car seat. She's not the first child I've lost due to negligence. One minor click would've saved her life. Instead, I have to give my condolences to a woman I want to punch in the face. I wish someone could give me some practical advice on how to handle her without facing assault charges and losing my job.

"Aspen," Brooklyn grabs my arm. "We're needed in the OR. Sorry for your loss, ma'am."

Entering the changing room, I turn around and glare at her. "Why did you do that?"

"You stared at her for way too long. We explain what happened. Give them our condolences and move on." I shake my head looking at the floor. "Yes, you're pissed at her. I am too. There's nothing we could've done. You're done."

"I'm what?" My eyes fix on Brynn, shocked by her words. My fingers touch my parted lips.

"Remember what we promised?"

She must be talking about our earlier discussion. During breakfast, the three of us agreed to finally take vacations outside of Seattle. "Vacation in Maui?"

"No, the one back when we were working on our residency." I shake my head in response. "When working in the ER becomes a burden and isn't as rewarding?" She angles her head, crossing her arms.

Our mentor said it several times, "It's fast-paced and rewarding but also overwhelming and draining. You'll know when it's time to retire from the ER and into a less hectic medical environment."

Brooklyn and I promised that when one of us felt that way, we'd open our own pediatric practice.

My shoulders slump because maybe she's right. "Is it time to start our own practice?"

What am I supposed to do now? I'm good at what I do. Understanding that sometimes I'm going to lose my patients is getting harder. Lately, the diplomas hanging on the wall of my room don't have the same feel I believed they would when I got accepted to Baylor all those years ago. Brynn is onto something. What's next? Lease an office, hire nurses, tend to children from nine to five?

But what's going to happen after five o'clock? "No, a practice won't keep me occupied for as long as I need it."

"Keep doing this and you'll make a mistake while working due to exhaustion," she huffs. "Worse, you might have a car accident on your way home and kill someone."

The slam of the truth leaves me breathless. Driving sleep deprived is almost as dangerous as drunk driving. The voice of reason, aka Brynn, knows how to get through my thick head. "I'll think about it." I finish changing my clothes as we head to the car. Tomorrow is our last day off, and I plan to spend it wrapped in a blanket in front of the television without moving.

I don't love my life. I don't hate it.

If I have to compare it to something, it'd have to be with that piece of stealth pizza we found under my bed the day we were moving out of the dorm during freshman year. By then it didn't smell bad, it only looked sad, hard and wasteful. The discovery explained the foul odor we endured for a couple months. Pathetic and gross? No, just pathetic. The foul smell compares to the pain and anxiety. I know they're there, but I try my damn best to ignore them. I'm settled into a pattern that worked for me for years. I'm a goldfish swimming around a small tank, hiding behind the sad little green plant that decorates my house. It's less gross, but still pathetic.

Sighing, I lean my head against the headrest of the wicker couch that lays on the porch. Closing my eyes, I try to see my future. Something different from what I've done in the past years. Have I become dull? Scarlett said so earlier when she insisted we go out to party, hit a couple of bars, search for a karaoke place or a pub to score.

"I have a boyfriend," I reminded her. She frowned, rolling her eyes.

"You need to live a little more. You're thirty-three, not sixty."

I have no energy to join my besties for another late night. Scarlett is right. I'm frozen in one place working hard for…for what? Dad's favorite saying was, "work hard for the life you want to have." What do I want? My obsession to save every single person who walks through the ER is diminishing. Is that because I'm losing my passion? My entire adult life has been spent inside a bubble. The biggest question is, do I want to come out? Or should I find my comfort zone within the life I have created?

"You have no sense of personal safety, do you, Aspen?" I jolt as the deep voice from yesterday calls out my name. "Another sleepless night?"

Anderson pins me with his fierce gaze. Something about those eyes captivates me and distracts me from everything. The irony in his words drags out a giggle. My entire life is based on keeping myself safe and away from change.

"You have no regard to other's people's privacy, do you, Anderson?" I feign a husky tone, coughing after I string his name longer than I should have to. Sitting up straight, I sip some water leaving the wine for later. "Another tattoo emergency?"

Anderson grabs a bag of M&Ms from the grocery bag, handing it to me.

"No? You have a secret mission—a terrorist organization you're infiltrating."

His eyes scan me, his jaw rigid and those vivid green eyes, staring as if weighing my words or his response. Did I say something wrong? My body stills at the sound of his laugh. "Are you sure you're a doctor?" His signature smirk draws a smile on my lips. "You have quite an imagination."

"Or I'm the first one to guess what you do for a living," I counteract playfully, reaching for his arm, tracing each letter of his tattoo. Our eyes meet, his narrowing. He's wondering if I'm playing or calling him out on a lie. "The artist gig is your alter-ego."

"Where's my buddy, Hugo?" He reclaims his arm, opening the bag again and digging out a bone.

"Around, Hugo is a free dog. He comes and goes as it pleases him." I pour myself more wine. "Would you like some wine?"

He shakes his head. "I'm a beer and scotch kind of guy."

"And short answers," I offer, not hiding my snarky tone. I tear open the bag of candy, emptying it on my lap so I can separate them by colors. "Thank you, how did you know?"

He shrugs, taking a seat on the chair and twisting open a beer. "Mom mentioned it while making the tater tots."

I rub my stomach, recalling my dinner, tater tots and carrot sticks. There's nothing more satisfying than coming home to the rich aroma of fried potatoes. I can't resist the delightful sensation of those crunchy golden nugget potatoes Sophia prepares for us.

"You're welcome for finding those packets of ketchup," he says, staring oddly at the table where I set the M&Ms I won't eat.

Anderson glances upward, his mouth pursed but slightly open and loose, eyebrow raised, while he is running his thumb and index finger along his scrubby chin. Curiosity holds his attention for several seconds as I continue plucking out the red ones before I eat the rest. "What are you doing?"

"I don't like to eat red colored food," I explain pushing them out of my reach.

"What happened to all that ketchup I brought for the tots? You mean to say that you don't eat apples, cherries?—"

"Those are fruits. I don't eat artificially colored candy," I correct him, placing the unworthy candy on a napkin where I can save them for Brynn or Scarlett. "Ketchup is a vegetable and highly necessary to coexist."

His stare is unmoving. Those green eyes pin me, asking for more information about my crazy habits. At least, that's what I think. "When I was young my mother said something about red and yellow coloring being bad for your brain. My brother has ADD. It became a habit to avoid them. Now I just can't eat them."

"Aspen, they use the red coloring to create the other colors. Ketchup has so much of that red dye…" he warns me, the damn cocky smirk plastered on those lips. I bite the inside of my cheek faking anger. He shrugs. "I just want you to be informed."

"Oh, I know, it's all in my head." I shrug, the inquisitiveness in his eyes grows. If I could read minds, I would understand what he's thinking. I imagine different scenarios. Anderson is bored and has no one to talk to at nights. No. Maybe he's curious about me, just like I am about him. "In fact, when I can, I go to the mall to buy purple, light blue, and light pink M&Ms. Those are my favorite colors."

He sits back drinking his beer while his eyes never leave me. "Now that we know each other better, can you tell me what's the deal with Hawthorne C. Foster?"

"What?"

"He parked his Mercedes right outside Mom's home, what was I supposed to do?" That smirk-shrug combo eases my shoulders. Why was I concerned about his question? My imagination running wild, thinking that my boring boyfriend could be some kind of spy or drug dealer. Nope, he just parked in front of the wrong house. "I had to run his plate."

I pop a handful of candy inside my mouth, enjoying them as I consider my answer. "Hmm." Tilting my head, I observe him.

"Hmm." I stop to think about his bizarre question. Who is this guy? A stranger parks his car outside his property and boom, he has the swat squad on speed dial. "Curiosity, huh?"

He shrugs. "He waited in the car for thirty minutes, then he came over and sat right where you are sitting for another thirty. Mom lives right next to this house, I had to do something."

"So you like to snoop around and play secret agent." A chortle burst from my lips. I'm finding this exchange amusing. He reminds me of Dad. The man used to scare boys. He asked too many questions when they picked me up for a date and threatened them with his riffle—Dad owned a riffle. For a quick moment, I imagine an older version of Anderson with a teenage daughter, him following her around and running backgrounds on any guy who dares to walk close by her. "There's no deal with Heath. What's the deal with you?"

His eyes open wide, he touches his chest lightly with his left hand and mouths, Me?

"Normal people don't run plates just for the sake of it." Finishing my glass of wine, I ponder how much he found out about Heath. "Wait, I get it's next door to your Mom, but you're trespassing. I don't think I like you very much."

"Oh, but I like you, very, very much." His voice is lower, his eyes playful.

I squeeze my eyes briefly, hiding the fluster.

"So, are you ready to tell me about your years in the army?" His face is unmoving. Then I toss my head back, raise my hands, shaking them, and controlling my laugh. And my curiosity. How much is that bitch getting for alimony? Not your place or your business, Aspen. "We're among friends, your secret is safe."

"Secret?"

"Yes, you used your connections with the Delta Force to find out about Heath, didn't you?"

"No. I have other resources."

He doesn't deny the Delta Force suggestion, but damn him and his fucking five-word answers. "What's the story?"

"He's my boyfriend," the last word sounds like a whisper. Damn, Aspen, what is wrong with you? You are not the flustered, giddy kind of girl. "There's not much to say. There is nothing magical about our relationship. We met a couple of years back at the hospital's annual Christmas party…" I shrug thinking about the explanation. How did it happen? He arrived into my life when I felt the need to show the world that I was over Mike. That's a pathetic explanation. "We make sense, you know? He doesn't have expectations, and I have a peculiar schedule?—"

He raises his hand for pause. "You explain a lot more than necessary."

"I make up for all the words you save."

The corner of his mouth twitches. "You sure do." He stands up, offering me his hand. "Let's take a drive."

I squint. "A drive?" Our eyes catch, "This late at night?"

"Yep."

I twist my lips, frustrated with his short answer, but wanting to go for the drive because his company brings me comfort. There's something so compelling about him that makes me want to gravitate to him. I hate to call it attraction, the simple thought chokes me. The air turns dense and it makes it hard to breathe.

Shaking my head I force the words, "I'll pass, thank you." Why would I want to go on a ride?

"It helps with insomnia," he states, answering my inside questions without a prompt. Gently, he runs his fingers along the dark circles under my eyes.

Despite the heaviness in my back, my stomach flutters at the feeling of his skin touching mine.

"Driving helps me clear my head." He smooths the wrinkle lines on my forehead, his eyes hypnotizing me.

"Okay," I give in ignoring the loud voice in my head.

"Next time, I'll bring my bike to take you along the highway. The speed, the wind, the breathtaking sights would distract you."

For seconds, I'm lost in his eyes, engrossed by his husky voice. I want to spend time perched behind him while riding that bike he mentions. Bad idea, my voice of reason continues blabbing while I stand and begin picking up my stuff.

Really bad idea. I can't think of why it would be, but it feels right. Unless he's like wine: incredible while drinking but a fucking pain if you finish more than three bottles in one night. Note to self, make sure to drink Anderson in small doses. Drink Anderson? No, wait. He's a friend, kinda. Only a friend, Aspen. You have a boyfriend. A handsome, thoughtful…

"Your chariot awaits, my lady." Anderson opens the door of his car, bowing slightly. His voice has a fake English accent.