Happily Ever After: A Romance Collection

by Amelia Wilde

  “What’s so funny?” Unfazed, he crosses his arms.

  Well, I’m not making any new friends today. I look from Hugo to him and laugh again. “You don’t resemble the pictures of you that Sophia has around the house.”

  His frown, turning upward to one cheek. It’s not a smile, but progress. “Well, I’m thirty-eight, what did you expect, lady?”

  “My favorite is the one where you’re seven and eating an entire cake with your dog.” I hold my stomach unable to stop chuckling. “It’s adorable.”

  “Mom didn’t think so at the time.” The corner of his mouth twitches into his cheek, his eyes brighten, and the smirk appears. “What brings you here?”

  “I live here?” I move to pull out the chair to take a seat, but he reaches faster.

  “My lady.” The rough looking man pushes it lightly after I sit, taking a seat right in front of me.

  Hmm, a gentleman. “Thank you kindly, sir.”

  Grabbing my mug from the table, he smiles. “I’m a doctor because superhero isn’t an official title?” He reads.

  I shrug, sighing at the goofy mug Dad gifted me. One of the last presents he gave me before we lost him, fucking cancer. A pang hits me, how is Anderson’s mom doing? I haven’t seen her all day. “Why are you here? Is Sophia back?”

  His face falls faster than leaves during fall, his jaw twitches and his green eyes sadden. I’ve been in his shoes, doing the impossible to find the cure. It’s a race against the clock. In those moments, there’s no past or future. Every minute is measured by the progress and setbacks, by good news and not so good news. Some patients have a favorable outcome, while others realize that not everyone can escape the fatal end.

  Sophia was diagnosed a couple of months back with stage four pancreatic cancer. Meaning it spread to some of her other organs. She’s been searching for alternative procedures, experimental treatments, and different opinions. As her friends and neighbors, Brynn and I hope she’ll beat it. As doctors, we know the survival rate of pancreatic cancer has been improving, however, is still considered largely incurable.

  “Is there something we can do for her?” I ask while sipping my tea, slightly lowering my eyes. He serves me with a severe glare I don’t understand. “Sorry, it’s part of my profession.”

  “Being nosy?” He half smiles, sadness remains behind his eyes.

  “No, I worry about others. I like finding ways to save lives...” I lift a shoulder slightly dropping it as I give him an “I can’t explain” look.

  “Mom mentioned her neighbors are doctors. She never told me what kind.” He pulls out a packet of gum from his front jeans pocket. “Want some.”

  I shake my head, sipping my tea, staring at him. There’s something familiar about this man that feels—different. It’s some kind of connection. Yes, a link pulling us together. Like the combination between comfortable and edgy. I’m not crazy about it. Feelings are on my list of “must never handle”. Searching around I find Hugo observing us. I pat my thigh and he moves closer, laying right beside me. After scratching his ears affectionately, my eyes go back to the stranger.

  Looking closer at him it hits me. Anderson feels like an old friend. There aren’t many people I trust entirely. I have plenty of acquaintances but only a handful of the people I frequent are considered friends. “I’m an ER doctor. Brynn—my roommate and best friend—is a trauma surgeon. We specialized in pediatrics when we started, then we moved into the fast-paced world of the ER.”

  “Like in Code Black or Chicago Med?” His face is dead serious as he compares my career to some television show. I frown, I can’t imagine a guy like him in front of a television watching medical dramas. “You run around blurting words, bossing nurses and sleeping around with other doctors?”

  My eyes go half-mast. I growl. “Those things only add unnecessary drama. A hospital is different.”

  He nods a couple of times. “Same gig, different wording. I’ve seen it all.”

  “You’ve been in an ER or watched the shows?”

  Anderson throws another nod with that cocky grin. I’m starting to dig it. “Both. A hospital and a production studio while they filmed a show about doctors.”

  I sit back, crossing my leg on top of my knee, grabbing my mug as I watch him enthralled by the conversation. “Are you going to explain a little more about your experiences?”

  He pushes his sleeve up showing the scar tissue on his left bicep. “I have a couple of these.”

  What? That’s his explanation. This man with his short answers is killing me. “So they sent you to an ER reality show? That’s how you came up with the comparison?” Leaning, I reach for his bicep looking at the angry looking scar. “Shitty work, I do much cleaner stitching.”

  “Next time I get shot, I’ll make sure to look for you.” He winks at me.

  I chuckle, finishing my tea, avoiding his magnetic gaze and observing the starry night looming above, so beautiful it makes my heart skip. That or Anderson’s presence continues to shift my axis.

  “If you do get shot, make sure you tell them not to kill you and to avoid any major organs.” I chew on my lip, leaning over and whispering, “It’s safer.”

  He chuckles, bobbing his head. “So, why are you out here so late at night?” Checking his phone, he turns it around pointing at the screen. Three twenty-five.

  “I could ask the same thing,” I retort.

  “Late meeting.” He pops another piece of gum inside his mouth.

  “What is it that you do?” I raise an eyebrow wanting to know more, his short answers are a killer. There’s much more there than having a “late meeting”. What does a guy like him do? “Assassin, super-secret agent, or you just went to the gun range and accidentally shot yourself? Never use a gun unless you’re trained to do so.”

  “Another great piece of advice, you’re a wise-ass, aren’t you?” I can’t help but smile at the easy exchange we’re having.

  “Deterring a conversation seems to be your strong suit, isn’t it?”

  Glancing at the black ink decorating his left arm, he grins. “I’m a tattoo artist.”

  Lines peek under his t-shirt. Looking closer to the ink of his left forearm I make out the words written De Opresso Liber. There’s no shield or anything distinctive, but I know the words. Mike taught me the different mottos to each Special Unit. That’s Delta Force. Mrs. Hawkins had mentioned that her son was in a select unit of the Army and retired a few years back. She’s vague about Anderson and his whereabouts but adores him.

  “What is it with you and your short answers?”

  “I could say the same about you.” He checks his phone as it beeps. “Fuck. Time to work.”

  “A late tattoo emergency?” I chuckle.

  He shrugs. “Exactly, shouldn’t you be asleep?”

  Yawning and rubbing my eyes I nod, “Probably.”

  Taking the mug from my hands, he walks to the door, sliding it open for me. “Tomorrow I’ll check the perimeter, make sure you have enough flood lights to illuminate the backyard when you’re outside.”

  Rolling my eyes, I walk inside my place, Hugo following behind. Turning around, I copy the contagious smirk drawn on those perfectly sculpted lips. “You can say more than five words at time—impressive.”

  “I have a few skills,” he admits, shrugging. “Lock the door behind me. You need an alarm system too.”

  He scans the house. I’m not sure how much he can appreciate it through the darkness. “It was nice meeting you, Aspen.” Sliding the door closed, he pivots and disappears through the backyard.

  “Thank you for helping avert my crisis,” I whisper. When I was outside in his company, everything went back to normal. My heart rate, my breathing, even... No, don’t think again.

  I head to the guest room, where Scarlett will reside for the rest of her stay.

  3

  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 ho
me 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.”