It feels decadent, but I stay on the roof for several minutes after Alyssa leaves. After my meltdown in Dr. Westin’s office, I’m pretty sure nobody expects me back quite yet. They’re probably debating if they need to call a psychiatry consult on me.
That might not be an entirely terrible idea, actually.
I take Alyssa’s place on the edge of the roof, watching all the people milling about on the street. None of these people have any idea that Mrs. Jefferson just died. They don’t even know who she is. Why would they?
But I know. And I will always remember. “Don’t jump.”
My breath catches in my throat and I whirl around. I should have known: it’s S*xy Surgeon. He’s standing at the door to the roof, still looking s*xy as all hell in his blue scrubs, his short blond hair being tossed every which way by the wind. He’s smiling crookedly, which is better than the hateful glare he gave me last time I saw him.
“I wasn’t going to jump,” I say, shaking my head.
“It’s still worth saying,” he says, joining me at the edge. He gets close enough that I can feel the heat of his body. “I heard you lost a patient last night. I’m sorry.”
I nod. I turn my face away from him so he can’t see the tears gathering in my eyes. Why do I keep crying? Nobody else here cries when they lose a patient. It must be the lack of sleep.
“I wish I could be more like you,” I say bitterly. “Like, not caring when a patient dies. That would be much easier.”
“I care,” Ryan insists, his blue eyes wide. “Yeah, right.”
“I do.” He hesitates for a moment, then says, “Your patient, Mrs. Coughlin—she died on the operating table right in front of me. The reason I didn’t tell you wasn’t because I didn’t care. I couldn’t tell you because I felt so awful about it.”
I raise my eyebrows, daring to look at him. He seems to be telling the truth.
“The surgeon who operated on her is a complete asshole,” he begins. “Worse than you?”
“Way worse,” Ryan says. “You have no idea. Anyway, I thought he missed tying off one of the vessels and I didn’t say anything because I was scared he was going to ream me out, and I figured I was probably wrong. Then she bled out and she died.” He closes his eyes. “She died right in front of us. It was horrible. And I kept thinking that if only I’d said something, she would have lived.” He pauses, and when he opens his eyes again, they’re wet. “She was a nice lady. It was hard to tell her family what happened. Really hard.”
So the Great Ryan Reilly is actually a human being. Who would have thunk it?
“And,” he adds, “I’m sorry I got pissed off at you the other day. I know I dropped a huge bombshell on you and it’s unfair that I expected you not to react.”
I nod. “It was… surprising.” “I’ll bet.”
We’re both quiet for a minute, staring down at the city below. I can just barely pick out individuals, going about their daily lives. A man hosing off the sidewalk in front of his store. A homeless man shaking a cup of spare change. A lady hailing a cab. Three people waiting for the bus to arrive.
“You know,” I say thoughtfully. “I was just realizing that if you do make it to age 5O, you’re in the clear, right? Probably, I mean.”
Ryan narrows his eyes. “Yeah, so?”
“Well,” I say. “That means when you’re 5O, you can go ahead and get married and have kids.”
I think of Mrs. Jefferson’s husband sitting at her bedside as she passed on, holding her hand. I want Ryan to have that when he dies. Everyone should have that.
“Great,” Ryan snorts. “I’ll be the only 6O-year-old dad at Little League. Just what I want.”
“You’ll just have to find some young, trophy wife to marry,” I say. “But I’m assuming you’d do that anyway.”
“Oh, yeah, of course,” Ryan laughs.
“Your future wife probably isn’t even in kindergarten yet,” I add. “Hell,” Ryan says, “she probably isn’t born yet.”
I warm up to the game: “Her future parents probably haven’t even undergone puberty yet.”
Ryan laughs again, but then he gets quiet for a minute, staring off into the distance.
“Or maybe you’ll be available,” he muses. He smiles winningly and I feel his hand slip into mine. “What do you think?”
I roll my eyes. “If you think I’m waiting for you 2O years, think again, buster. You’re not that good-looking.”
“You don’t have to wait for me,” he says, grinning. “You can just dump whatever loser you’re with 2O years from now.”
And me? I’ll still be Dr. Jane McGill.
Hours awake: Lost track
Chance of a happy ending: At least 5O%
