When I was sixteen, I won the all-stars swim meet for my high school.
I swam faster, made cleaner strokes, and controlled my breath better than all my peers. On my last lap, however, I hit the wall too hard and banged up my wrist. By that point, I already had the lead, so I was still able to book it to first.
My teammates congratulated me, and so did my coach, and they gave me a trophy the size of my arm. But even dripping wet, panting for breath, I could still feel my father’s ice-cold glare from the stands.
“What happened out there?” my father asked me when we got into the car.
“It was a mistake,” I told him.
“What do you think happens when I make mistakes in the OR?”
“People die.”
“That’s right. People die.” I remember focusing on the blinking of the turn single light, just zeroing in on it, because as long as I kept my gaze there, I didn’t have to look at him. I didn’t have to see the disappointment in his face. And if I focused hard enough, I could detach my emotions from my body, flying them high above me like a kite, and save the tears for later.
“Kings can’t afford to make mistakes,” he told me. “Do better.”
I still swim. In case you’re curious.
You might think something like that would’ve turned me off water, but I can’t help it. Swimming is in my blood. It’s one of the few places where I can completely clear my brain.
Lighthouse Medical has a long pool in the rehab wing. It’s heated and keeps the same temperature all year around. At 9:30 every morning, there’s a group exercise session for certain patients in physical rehab. So at 8:30 a.m., I steal some time vanishing into the water and do laps.
For a few minutes, the world is gone, and all I can hear is the rushing in my own ears. The raggedness of my own breath as I push myself to my own limits, just because I can.
When I’m in the water, no one needs me. Water doesn’t put demands on me. All I have to do is put one arm in front of the other and keep breathing.
I lose track of time. When I come up for air, clutching the side, I’m eye-to-toe with a familiar pair of dress shoes.
I blink water from my eyes. My father crouches on the platform above me, the edges of his white coat brushing against the damp tiles. He’s holding out a white towel.
“We need to talk,” he says.
“Coming out.” I rub my hand over my face and then sink underneath again. I push off the edge and rocket to the stairs.
I make a point not to come up for air until I reach the steps. Even then, I stay under water as long as I can, until it feels like my lungs will burst from the empty pressure.
What could we possibly need to talk about?
Word travels fast in Hannsett. Everyone knows everyone’s business. Does he know?
It’s been two weeks and three days since New Year’s Day (but who’s counting?), and still Donovan, Kenzi, and I haven’t actually defined what this is. Sure, our schedules don’t help—Kenzi rarely gets a second to herself, and Donovan and I are nearly always at the hospital. When the three of us do hook up, it’s a secret, private thing, something that’s ours and no one else’s.
I guess I like that aspect about it—having something that’s mine. But there’s a large part of me that wants to scream about it from the rooftops.
Maybe it’d be okay if my dad found out. Maybe it’s better to let this secret out than crush it deep down inside.
At least, those are the words I use to reassure myself to keep my heart from launching out of my chest.
When I exit the pool area, my father is waiting for me. I thank him for the towel and pat myself dry. He’s wearing a pale blue button-up and dress slacks underneath his white coat, and I feel exposed in only my swim trunks, but I try to shake the feeling off.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“I’ve been talking with one of the producers on the Dr. Mazie Show. They saw the promo images, and they’re ready to pull the trigger on this. But there’s a couple details we need to discuss first.”
“Okay…”
“Come over to the house. Friday. We’ll have dinner.”
I rub the back of my neck with the towel. “I, uh—have something going on this weekend. With a couple of friends.”
“Bring them. It won’t take long. You know Clara cooks for a small army.”
“Sure.”
“Seven. Don’t be late.”
I dry off. Put my uniform back on. And walk into the general care unit—to an incredibly irate Donovan.
“All good?” I ask.
He’s leaning against the receptionist desk, bitching with one of the nurses. When he sees me, his scowl deepens.
“Ask your friend,” he says and then tosses his patient file on the desk. I glance at the name. NICK THATCHER.
Of course he’s giving Donovan trouble.
“I’ve got this,” I tell him. I take the file. “Which room?”
Donovan lets out a tight sigh. “This way.”
I follow him to the exam room. We go inside, and there’s Nick, sitting on the table.
We were tight. For a long time. He’s an asshole 90 percent of the time, but when he cares about you, he’s about as loyal as they come, and I can respect that in a guy. But we’ve grown apart since—especially since—my divorce from Nadine.
Which is funny, because she never liked him, either.
The first thing I notice about him is he looks like he hasn’t slept. His hair is scraggly, and his eyes look bloodshot. When he sees me, he grins and lifts a palm. “My man!”
“Sup, brother?” I clasp hands with him, keeping it friendly, even as I can feel Donovan’s disapproval behind me. “You doing alright?”
“Yeah, healthy as a horse. Just getting my yearly.”
“Well, you’re in good hands.” I pat Donovan on the shoulder. “Donovan’s the best doctor in the hospital.”
Nick’s smile doesn’t drop, but his eyes harden. “Nah, man,” he says. “He’s not touching me.”
“What’s the problem?” I push.
He snorts on a laugh. “You’re kidding me, right?”
“We don’t have to do this,” Donovan mutters beside me and shifts his weight from one foot to the other.
But I can’t let it go. I lift a palm. “Hold up. Donovan is literally the best doctor in this entire hospital.”
“Who, dick boy?” Nick says, with a jagged grin, and the words hit my ears strange.
I’d forgotten we used to call Donovan that.
Worse—I’d forgotten I was the one that coined the term.
It’d seemed funny and harmless when we were teenagers. It feels like chewing on pebbles now.
Donovan goes red at the old nickname, and I feel anger start to boil in my gut.
I try to keep my voice controlled. “If you don’t want the best of the best, that’s fine, but you can check yourself in somewhere else.”
Nick’s gaze flickers between the two of us. “Oh, yeah. It makes sense now. Why you stopped hanging out. Why you left that fox of a wife of yours. You two are too busy sucking each other off now, huh?”
My lips thin. “You’re overstepping, Nick.”
“I’m overstepping?” He sneers. “You think no one saw you two pawing at each other on New Year’s? Makes me fucking sick. Does your dad know about it?”
I set my jaw. Donovan lifts his hands. “Alright, I’m out. You two have fun.”
Donovan starts to leave, but that must get under Nick’s skin, because he hisses, “Sure, just run away, you fucking—”
And then he says that word. My father’s favorite F word. And my blood goes cold.
My pulse quiets. The hospital vanishes around me. I stop thinking about Donovan, about Nick, about anything. All I can think of is that word. I turn to him. “What’d you say?” I ask him.
“I just called your boyfriend a—”
Before he can say it again, my fist meets his mouth.
Donovan and I cool our heels in the courtyard outside Lighthouse Medical.
Being the kid of the CEO of the hospital has perks. For example, when security escorts you out, you know that you’re not going to lose your job in the morning.
Probably.
The cold is bitter. The grass has iced over, and it crackles under my boots. We sit side by side on the landing, just taking a moment to breathe after everything that went down.
“You didn’t have to stand up for me,” Donovan finally says. “I’m capable of taking care of myself.”
“I know. But it felt good.”
Donovan lets out a half laugh. “So much for meditation.”
I shrug. In the summer, the courtyard is filled with people—people in wheelchairs sitting under the trees, patients recovering from physical therapy doing loops around the center, and doctors and nurses sipping on coffee between shifts. But in January, no one’s outside.
It’s just the two of us. And I’m feeling close to Donovan now, so maybe that’s why the next words slip out. “Hey. I’m going to dinner at my parents’ house on Friday. You want to come?”
Donovan turns to me, eyebrows lifted. “You’re inviting me to family dinner?”
“Yeah.”
He thinks about it. “What about Kenzi?”
“Yeah, of course. I’m inviting her, too. But I’m asking you first.”
Donovan stares at me for a long time, then he turns away. “Yeah. Okay.”
“Cool.” I keep my voice cool, but my heart is hammering and my nerves are all bundled up in my throat. I’m freezing my balls off, but instead of complaining, I shove my hands into my armpits.
Donovan glances at me, then knocks his hand against my shoulder and stands. “I’m starving. Let’s go get something to eat.”
