by Hunter Rose
“You have got the biggest ego I’ve ever seen on a person before,” she shoots back. “It’s unreal.”
“Sorry it upsets you so much, but it’s my operating room, my rules,” I respond. “If you can’t handle that, then I suggest you request to never be on my rotations again.”
Not wanting this to get any uglier than it already has, I walk away from her, heading for the dorms for that shower and a change I’ve been wanting. I’m confident I gave her enough time to get all of the outrage and indignation out of her system, as well as ensuring she understands the rules of my operating room.
Scarlet is a hell of a nurse; I will never say otherwise. She’s intelligent, thoughtful, intuitive, and she really knows her shit. She just doesn’t seem to get that she doesn’t have any skin in the game. Not like I do. Sure, maybe in this backwater place, it doesn’t really matter. Maybe if I fuck up and cause somebody’s death, that won’t stain my professional record when I rotate home. It’s likely nobody would ever know. Nobody except for me. I would always know that my fuck up cost somebody their life.
I take my work very seriously and always strive to provide the best care for my patients. Even in this place. And to ensure I’m providing the best care; I can only trust myself. The proverbial buck stops with me. And because it does, because I suffer all of the consequences of a poor decision, my say is final. It’s unfortunate that Scarlet can’t understand that. She’s a good nurse, and I appreciate what she brings to the table. She just needs to learn to keep herself in check.
As I close the door behind me, grimacing at the sweltering heat inside my dorm room, I picture her face and that amazing little body of hers. It’s a shame that I’m likely never going to get a chance to see it sans clothing. But my professional integrity and reputation mean a hell of a lot more to me than a piece of ass.
5
Scarlet
“Can you even believe him?” I spit. “I mean, what an arrogant asshole, right?”
Andrea laughs. “Most doctors are.”
I sigh and lean back in my seat, picking off a small piece of naan bread and popping it into my mouth. I chew hard, taking all of my anger and frustration out on it. Andrea and I are sitting in a small café a couple of blocks from the hospital, having an early dinner. After that blow up with Roman, I needed to get away from that place for a while.
The café is small but surprisingly neat and clean. It sits among a row of shops that have somehow managed to remain more or less untouched despite the conflict that seems to grip the streets all around them. It’s as if the hospital and the few blocks that surround it have been deemed off limits to the fighters. I suppose because we treat everybody who comes through their doors, regardless of which side of the fight they’re on, the combatants have the respect to allow us to function. After all, the sooner we get their people patched up and back on their feet, the sooner they can get back into the fight.
The walls of the café are a bright yellow and pieces of Syrian art hang upon them – paintings done by local artists, or so I’ve been told. Some of them are a riot of garish colors, while others are more subdued and somber. They’re all striking in their own way. The floor is made of tile that shows many years of use – it’s the only thing in the place that looks worn. Four small booths line one wall, and the rest of the floor is occupied by half a dozen tables, each covered with a black tablecloth – likely to hide the stains they have collected after years of use.
The wait staff are all friendly and very attentive, and they seem genuinely appreciative of our business. And the aromas floating out of the kitchen are all kinds of amazing. Back home, I was never very adventurous when it came to food but being here has broadened my horizons in the best way possible.
Our waitress, a Syrian woman – a girl really, no more than sixteen – named Asmaan bustles through the swinging door to the kitchen with our meals in hand. She wears a colorful floral head covering over her long, dark hair. Her skin is olive colored and flawless in the way of youth, and her eyes are blacker than midnight. She’s a beautiful girl and is the daughter of the café’s owner – and head chef.
“Your food,” she says in her richly accented voice.
“Thank you,” Andrea and I both echo in unison.
Asmaan sets a plate heaped with food before me. I inhale the rich aroma of the Syrian herbs that flavor the rice and lamb kofta – which is basically a meatball – before me, and feel my mouth immediately begin to water just like Pavlov’s dog. Asmaan brings us both fresh sodas and departs again with a smile. I dig into my meal, only now realizing just how hungry I am. Neither Andrea nor I speak for long moments as we inhale our food.
I tear off a piece of naan and chew, replaying the fight with Roman in my head over and over again. Even now, with a bit of distance and a belly full of good food, the anger in me hasn’t abated in the least. The sound of fingers being snapped draws my attention.
“You with me, girl?”
Andrea is looking back at me with a wide smile on her face. I grin sheepishly and nod.
“Yeah sorry,” I reply. “Zoned out for a minute.”
“Did you win the fight with Roman in your head this time?”
I laugh softly. “Not really.”
Andrea takes another bite of her food and chews, looking at me thoughtfully. I can tell she’s working up to something, so I take another bite of my own meal to give her the time and space she needs to say it. I trust Andrea to give me good advice – and to tell me when I’m acting like an idiot.
“He hasn’t been here for very long, but I’ve assisted him on a good number of surgeries already,” she starts. “And he’s a really good doctor. Maybe one of the best I’ve worked with.”
I push some of my food around on the plate with my fork. His skill isn’t the issue. It’s his God complex and holier than thou attitude. It’s the fact that he treated me like an idiot and dismissed me the way he did. That’s my issue.
“Roman is incredibly anal retentive. He’s a control freak,” Andrea goes on. “No question about any of that.”
I laugh ruefully. “You don’t have to tell me that. And to top it off, he threw me out of the operating room!”
“But he cares. He’s passionate about healing people,” she continues. “He tries to do everything he can to fix what’s broken.”
“He didn’t even try to save that kid’s leg today,” I object. “He barely even looked at it before making the decision to lop it off.”
She nods. “Then that’s probably because there really was nothing he could do,” she says gently. “I’ve seen him fight like hell when there was even the slightest glimmer of hope that something more could be done. He’s not a guy who gives up or quits easily.”
“Sure didn’t seem like it to me,” I argue.
“Trust me, I’ve been around enough doctors to know who’s phoning it in and who actually cares,” she says. “Roman Wheeler is an arrogant son of a bitch, but he cares about his patients. I know it doesn’t seem like it, but he’s one of the good ones.”
She’s right – it doesn’t seem like it. It strikes me as strange how different my perception of the man is than Andrea’s. And I don’t know why that is. Asmaan arrives at our table and clears the dishes, taking them back into the kitchen. She comes back a minute later with two bowls of haytaliyeh – a Syrian dessert that carries a creamy, light flavor of milk and orange syrup. I’ve had it before and absolutely loved it.
“From my father,” she tells us, her voice soft.
“Tell him we are grateful,” I respond.
Asmaan smiles and without another word, she’s off again, leaving Andrea and I to savor the rich, flavorful dessert.
“Know what I think the problem here really is?” Andrea asks.
“Enlighten me,” I respond and slip a spoonful of the cool, rich haytaliyeh into my mouth.
Her eyes roll back into her head as she swallows some of the dessert and lets out a small, blissful moan.
“I think th
e problem – part of it anyway – is that you’re so scared of being burned again that you are viewing Roman through a preset image,” she explains through a mouthful. “You’re basically convicting him of the crimes of others, and because you have these preconceived notions, you’re finding things to not like about him. Or inventing them.”
“And why would I be doing that, O Goddess of Wisdom?”
A sly smile tugs the corners of her mouth upward. “Because deep down, you like him.”
A forceful burst of laughter erupts from my mouth, and I shake my head. She arches an eyebrow at me as she licks some of the haytaliyeh off her spoon, that small, sly smile still on her lips.
“You can’t be serious,” I finally say.
“Oh, but I am,” she replies. “That’s the only reason I can think of that you’ve taken such an instant and automatic dislike to the man.”
“Well that’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?” Her tone is light and amused. “You were salty as hell the second he introduced himself in that bar.”
I laugh. “Oh shut up,” I grin. “I was not. And even if I was salty, it’s because he interrupted us.”
Her laughter is loud and ringing. “That is about the lamest excuse I’ve ever heard.”
I shovel a large spoonful of the custard into my mouth and do my best to keep my cheeks from growing too red. I realized how lame that excuse sounded the second it passed my lips. It’s so bad; I don’t even believe it. But still, that doesn’t mean I like him. Does it? He’s an arrogant jerk, and to me, that’s a huge turnoff.
So why is it that I can’t seem to get him out of my head. Why is it that I took his rebuke so hard and personally? If I didn’t like him, why would his opinion of me matter? My head is a maelstrom of thoughts, and I don’t know how to go about making sense of any of them – which only irritates and frustrates me more.
“You don’t even see the irony here, do you?” Andrea asks.
“Can’t say that I do.”
“You don’t see just how alike you two really are.”
Now it’s my turn to guffaw with laughter. “You are kidding me. We are nothing alike.”
She shakes her head, her expression serious. “Sure you are. He’s a control freak – but so are you,” she says. “The only difference is that while Roman tries to control everything around him, you control yourself every bit as tightly. You control – or think you can control – your response to everything.”
“You’re so reaching.”
Her spoon clinks on her empty bowl hollowly as she scoops up the last bit of haytaliyeh and slips it into her mouth, her eyes never leaving mine and that playful smile never leaving her lips.
“Am I?” she says.
I open my mouth to respond, but then close it again, my words left unspoken as I realize I don’t actually know the answer to that question. Or at least, I’m suddenly not as sure of the answer as I was less than an hour ago.
6
Roman
“Nice work, Doctor Wheeler.”
I strip off my gloves and drop them into the trash can then give her a smile. “Thanks,” I respond. “You did a great job in there, too.”
“Hey, that’s my job, right?”
Scarlet is at the sink washing up when I drop my gown into the bin and step to the sink beside her to wash my hands. It’s been a few days since our blowout, and this is the first time she’s assisted on one of my surgeries. And it actually wasn’t a horrible experience. I’d expected to see icicles forming when she’d walked into the room. Surprisingly, though, she’s been civil. Not warm, but civil. She’s been courteous and even bordered on – nice.
Frankly, it shocked the hell out of me. But hey, better this than the icy alternative. I don’t know what’s brought on the change, but I’m not going to complain. I’d rather be on good – or at least relatively decent – terms with her than in a constant running battle. It makes the operating room run smoother if nothing else.
Standing next to her like I am, I can feel the tension still radiating off her. It’s subtle, but I can see the strain around her eyes and the tension in her shoulders. I can see that she’s doing her best to keep herself in check. She’s obviously still pissed and trying not to show it. Clearly, I have some work to do if I want to smooth things over.
“Listen, would you like to join me for a beer?” I ask.
She turns to me with something akin to shock on her face, as if she can’t believe I’d have the gall to invite her out for a drink. Scarlet quickly looks away and focuses on scrubbing her hands rather than give me an answer – which should be enough of an answer for me. But as Zeke pointed out, I’m not the type who gives up easily.
“What do you think?” I press.
She finishes washing her hands, then dries them off, still avoiding my gaze. I can see her mind spinning and know she’s trying to come up with a reason she can’t go on the fly. I know she’s got some reservations about me. I suppose I can’t really blame her for it given how contentious things have been between us. She’s keeping things civil at the moment, but I can tell she’s been biting her tongue all day and is really fighting to keep her temper in check. She’s just trying to keep the peace. But I’d like to smooth things over enough that she doesn’t have to fake it.
We’ll probably never be best friends. Hell, we’ll probably never be on each other’s Christmas card lists. But it’d be nice if she didn’t walk around looking like a bomb ready to go off.
“Listen, I think we should talk,” I explain. “That’s all. I just want to talk. Clear the air and all.”
I see her jaw clench and an expression of irritation cross her features. But she manages to quickly gather herself again and smooths out her face, presenting me with the same expression of cool detachment she gave me the first night I met her in the bar.
“Fine,” she says. “Sure.”
“Don’t sound so excited,” I grin.
It’s a joke, but I realize it was a mistake a millisecond after it passes my lips. She is quite obviously not in a mood to joke around. Not with me anyway. We’re not quite in the right place for that, so I raise my hands to chest level in mock surrender.
“I was only kidding,” I protest.
She grits her teeth. “I’ll meet you at the bar in an hour.”
She doesn’t need to specify which bar she wants to meet at. There’s only the one bar in our immediate area.
“Fair enough,” I reply. “I’ll see you then.”
She leaves without another word, and as she walks away, I have to stifle a laugh. Even her footsteps sound irritated. I have very clearly gotten under Scarlet’s skin. And while I find it amusing in a way, I want things between us to mellow out for whatever time I have left in this place.
I head off to the dorms to shower and get ready.
“I would kill for a proper martini,” I say.
A small smile touches her lips. “I could go for a cosmo.”
I raise the bottle to my lips and take a long pull of it. “It’s the little things like that, that I miss,” I say, staring at the liquid. “What about you? What else do you miss that you could get at home but not here?”
Scarlet leans back in her seat and stares up at the ceiling for a long moment. This is probably the most relaxed I’ve seen her since I got to this place. While I wouldn’t say her demeanor toward me is warm; the tension in her face and body that I usually see isn’t there.
“A good cheeseburger,” she says, almost dreamily. “I used to get the best cheeseburgers from a little place around the corner from my apartment. Tony’s Burgers. They also had the best onion rings. I miss those.”
“Where are you from?”
“Originally? Minnesota,” she replies. “But I moved to California when I was a kid. Been living there ever since.”
I’m more than a bit surprised by the fact that she’s not just talking to me, but that the conversation seems to be fairly light and easy. It’s in stark contrast to what our int
eractions in the hospital have been to this point. But just as that thought passes through my mind, I see the same realization dawn on her. And rather than embrace it like I have, it’s like a curtain descends over her eyes and I see her withdrawing on me.
She looks from me down to the bottle on the table in front of her. Scarlet tears small strips off the label, dropping them onto the tabletop in front of her as she chews on her bottom lip. I purse my lips, watching that familiar tension slowly creep back into her face and the set of her body.
“So how’d you end up here?” I ask, just trying to re-break the ice.
“I volunteered,” she tells me.
She leaves it at that and doesn’t seem inclined to expound upon her statement. I guess she thinks that should be enough of an explanation. She has a sour look on her face, but there’s something more there behind her eyes. It’s subtle and could be easily missed if you weren’t paying attention, but I can see it. She’s nervous.
It’s strange, given that Scarlet usually seems so self-assured and confident. She’s not the type who gets flustered easily. Or nervous. She’s doing a good job of reining it in, but it’s leaking out around her eyes, making it easy for me to spot. Scarlet opens her mouth to speak, but then closes it again and clears her throat as if she’s trying to gather her nerve to say whatever it is she has to say.
When she lifts her chin slightly and I see the set to her jaw, I know she’s ready to speak, so I sit back and take a long swallow of my beer, giving her the floor.
“I’m not having sex with you,” she blurts out.
I stare at her, completely dumbfounded for a moment, and then can’t stop the eruption of laughter that follows her statement. Her cheeks flush, and her expression darkens as she looks down at the bottle in front of her.
“Somebody’s feeling pretty good about herself tonight,” I chuckle.
“I’m just letting you know,” she insists.