Page 8

Greer

“This is all very Grey’s Anatomy , don’t you think?” I dig my thumb into the seam of the worn leather couch, my other hand toying with the stethoscope hung haphazardly around my neck. “Me, sitting here on your therapy couch on my lunch break, a few floors up from where I perform lifesaving surgeries?”

Rav cocks his head and taps his pen against the edge of his oak clipboard. It’s pretentious. I tell him that at least once a session, and I offer to trade him for one of the cracking plastic clipboards we keep downstairs.

He smiles at me, lines around his brown eyes crinkling, and sometimes, depending on how exuberant he is, a curl might flop down onto his forehead.

But he’s not exuberant right now. His mouth pulls into a tight line, and he raises a brow knowingly. “Deflection, Greer.”

I sit up straighter, tipping my chin. “This is my place of work; you should call me Dr. Roberts.”

“Oh?” He grins, nodding. “Alright, let’s go from Rav back to Dr. Mardhani then.”

“Great. Very professional.” I give him a thin smile and sink back on the couch.

He waits—he’s great at waiting.

But today, I win, because his nostrils flare and he looks down at the watch on his wrist. We only have forty-five minutes. “Okay, Dr. Roberts. Tell me, did anything out of the ordinary happen this week? You called and moved your session up.”

“Can’t a girl just want to see her favourite psychiatrist slash colleague on a...” I pause, looking down and checking my watch. “Tuesday?”

He taps his pen again. “She can, but you don’t. Out with it. I, too, would like to get to lunch.”

I inhale, and I think of my sister. She sits across from people like me—like us—on couches like this all the time. She’s endlessly patient, and she doesn’t mind sitting with people who’re just trying to understand or trying to unpack something. People who maybe don’t even know why they’re sitting where they are.

But I know why I’m here.

And I value Rav, his time, his expertise, his field of medicine. I really, really do. So I stop picking at the seam of his couch, I blink at him, and shrug one shoulder before I speak.

I don’t want it to, but my voice cracks. “I took a kidney from a perfectly healthy teenager the other day. They gave me permission to take it. No coercion, as far as I could tell. They gave it up willingly. All so their cousin could live a better, easier life, after years and years of cancer treatments. What do you make of that?”

The tapping stops and his nostrils flare. Rav sets his clipboard beside him on the arm of his chair and leans forward, hands finding his knees. “I think that people can be wonderful, generous, and kind in a very cruel world.”

I nod, lower lip puckering, and I blink again. My eyes burn, and there’s this phantom sort of twinge across the bottom of my right rib cage. “Do you think it’s fair that we take organs from people who aren’t even fully realized adults yet?”

“You tell me.” Rav raises his hands, gesturing towards me. “You’re the transplant fellow. What do you think?”

“You know what I think,” I whisper.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing. But he’s not annoyed or angry, I know him enough to know that. He seems sad. “What’s this really about, Greer? We’ve talked about this. We’ve established what you want to work on. Your boundaries.”

“Boundaries,” I repeat. But the word feels heavy on my tongue, like it might slip down my throat and choke me under the weight of its expectations. I gesture around the room, mimicking him. “Come on. How good am I at those? Look around. I dedicated my entire life and hundreds of thousands of dollars to the thing that practically destroyed whatever semblance of family I had?”

Rav has this air of maddening patience about him—he always does. He nods along before he speaks, his words quiet. “Boundaries can change, and they can be established long after they were needed. You save lives, Greer. That’s what you do. Whether you want to rewrite history or not.”

I wish someone would have saved mine.

I don’t tell him that because I’m alive and breathing and whole, and that counts for something. Instead, I tell him about the other day. “I had a particularly bad panic attack a few days ago. Just outside, I’m sure security caught it on camera.”

“Brought on by . . . ?”

“Noises. A few different ones. A car backfired. Sirens. A friend was showing me this commercial and he turned the volume up when he leaned in and—”

“A friend? Beckett Davis?”

My eyes pinch at Rav. “Yes. How do you know?”

He gives me a flat look before pushing his hands into his knees and leaning back in his chair. “People in this hospital talk, Dr. Roberts. It’s not uncommon knowledge he’s doing some sort of PR volunteer image-rescue campaign here, nor is it uncommon knowledge that he’s been spotted with you doing your rounds.”

I’m tempted to offer him a slow clap, but I feel more tired than mean. “Who needs a psychiatry degree when you have gossipy hospital staff?”

“Could have saved me a few hundred thousand dollars, too.” He smirks, nodding along. “Are you reconsidering what we’ve been working on? The idea that you want to prioritize yourself? Live for you?”

“Reconsider? Why would I reconsider the very thing that made me come see you in the first place?” My fingers twitch against the arm of the couch.

“Maybe you’re lonely.” He shrugs, like it’s a nothing statement and not something that someone might find insulting. “You ended your last relationship in pursuit of your goal to live for yourself, like you say.”

I purse my lips, and my nostrils flare. “I’m not lonely. I have my sister. I have my dad. I have Kate and Willa.”

Rav doesn’t look impressed by the mention of my two family members and my two best friends who don’t even live in Toronto, so I push against the couch and straighten my shoulders. “And I have Beckett. He’s my friend.”

“Oh?” Rav crosses his arms, looking amused, as he leans back in the chair. It doesn’t feel like a terribly professional pose, and I feel a bit like taking his clipboard and smacking him with it. But he cocks his head and continues. “The Near Miss superstar is your friend?”

“Near Miss?”

“That’s what they call him, in the media. Online.” Rav studies me, like he’s waiting for some sort of reaction, and I don’t want to give him one—even though my nose wrinkles, my stomach knots and I think my heart hurts at hearing that. “Beckett ‘Near Miss’ Davis.”

“That’s rather cruel,” I whisper.

Rav nods, fingers flexing and drumming against his bicep. “I agree. So, if he’s your friend, have you talked to him since you had your panic attack in front of him? Or did you run away and avoid all contact since?”

I don’t give him the satisfaction of answering, because we both know he’s right.

The silence falls again, and Rav waits. Fingers occasionally tap against his arm. His eyes glance to the clock on his coffee table, until he finally exhales. “Well, you’ve bested me again in these last fifteen minutes, Greer. So I’ll leave you with some parting words of wisdom I hoped you’d arrive at yourself: There’s a difference between setting boundaries to protect yourself and being alone.”

My mouth parts, indignant. I’m not sure what I’m about to say. I don’t like the feel of those words either. They hit too close to home—they touch that phantom ache under my right rib cage and they crack the bones my body worked so hard to repair.

But my phone starts going off. I glance down. It’s an emergency page. I hold it up, triumphant and vindicated, like the session wasn’t ending anyway. “I have to go.”

“That you do.” Rav leans forward again and raises his eyebrows at me before picking up his abandoned clipboard. “Think about what that page means, Greer. It might just be an insignificant noise, something you’re used to now, so it doesn’t startle you or hurt you. But it means something. However you want to think about and categorize all the events in your life that made you, well, you . They all led here, and there’s a real, living, breathing person on the other end of that phone who needs you to save them. Regardless of whether or not someone was there to save you.”

Rav’s psychoanalysis works.

Not for the first time, something he said worms its way into my brain, like some sort of unwanted parasite, and festers there until I can’t think about anything else.

He was right—I practically sprinted away from Beckett, and I responded to his one check-in text with nothing more than a thumbs-up emoji.

It wasn’t a very nice thing to do to a stranger, let alone one you promised to help, or a “friend” as I called him, in a sad attempt to provide something to Rav.

It wasn’t just the idea that I’d somehow maybe done myself a disservice that permeated my brain and caused all my neurons to misfire in Beckett’s direction—it was the idea that there were people out there cruel enough to craft some stupid nickname for him that was kind of a double negative and didn’t really make a lot of sense.

I texted him last night and asked if he had time to come in this afternoon. I actually had a patient who was interested in meeting him. A teenage boy who hadn’t shut up every time I came to round on him, asking whether Beckett Davis was coming in.

I think I lied when I said he was my friend—it wouldn’t be the first time I lied to Rav. I lie to him on a semi-regular basis, at least when he opens up a door to a room I don’t particularly feel like looking into.

He says I lie a lot, about a lot of things, to a lot of people.

My father. My sister. My friends.

Myself.

I justify this one as a white lie, though. A fib, maybe. Because we might not exactly be friends—but we were friendly, and even though I don’t know Beckett Davis terribly well yet, I know he doesn’t deserve that.

I never bothered to ask what kind of coffee he liked in return—so I’m standing in front of the hospital, squinting against the late-afternoon sun, clutching two perspiring iced lattes in either hand, staring at the pedestrian exit from the parking garage, waiting for him to appear.

And he does.

Beckett jogs up the steps—golden all over. Except for the mop of chocolate hidden under a backwards hat. Not a nondescript one today, but one with the number nineteen stitched there. Thigh muscles tense under linen shorts that fall a few inches above his knees, and those muscles in his forearms, finely dusted with hair, somehow look even more impressive today.

He grins when he sees me—and I think it’s a real one. He lights up, and even though they’re hidden behind sunglasses, I imagine those green eyes do, too.

Beckett raises a hand, like he’s trying to make sure I see him. General good looks aside, I’m not sure how it would be possible to miss someone as effervescent as him.

“Dr. Roberts.” He’s still grinning, and he stretches out a hand for me to shake, but I raise the plastic cup. His eyes cut down to the latte that probably isn’t a latte anymore because of how quickly the ice melted, and he glances back up, one eyebrow lifting behind his sunglasses. “For me?”

“For you,” I confirm.

He flexes his fingers, and they brush against mine when he grabs the cup.

It’s just a touch, but it lingers against my skin. Against me, against the lines around my heart, and it feels nice.

But then it brushes across the right side of my ribs, and it feels more like this nefarious thing that’s going to take something from me.

Beckett cocks his head, dimple digging in. “To what do I owe this surprise? Did you see my triumphant return to preseason football? Now you’re sucking up to me so you can say you knew me when I was downtrodden?”

I roll my eyes and watch as Beckett smiles—seemingly becoming this lighter version of himself, bringing the straw to those full lips like he doesn’t have a care in the world, even though I’m starting to suspect he has too many.

A drop of perspiration rolls down the plastic straw, and I stare at it for a moment, the way it looks poised right below his lips, but I blink, and my eyes snap back up to his.

He looks at me expectantly.

“Sorry, I didn’t even know you had a game.” I shrug one shoulder, taking a sip of my own latte and clamping my teeth down on the straw. “Did you ... kick well?”

Beckett snorts, shaking his head. “Sure, yeah. I kicked well. Three field goals. And a spectacular kickoff, if I do say so myself. SportsCentre even referred to it as a ‘startling comeback.’”

I wave my hand around, like I could possibly gesture to the way he’s carrying himself differently, how much happier he seems. “That’s really important to you?”

“Playing well?” He pulls his sunglasses off, narrowing his eyes when he tips his elbow towards the revolving lobby door. “Of course it’s important. It’s what I’m paid to do.”

I shake my head, glancing up at him as we step through the door together. “No. What other people think. You don’t play for you?”

He pauses, a confused sort of look crossing his face—brows furrowed, jawline somehow softer, and lips almost in a pout with the straw still poised there. “Huh. No one’s ever seen through me quite like that before.”

Dropping into a brief curtsy, I raise my eyebrows at him. “I was the star of my psychiatry rotation.”

“Were you really?” He looks amused, eyes all alight and even though his legs must be killing him—he’s walking like he’s all so much lighter.

I snort, reaching out my elbow to hit the button for the elevator. “No. That’s my sister’s department.”

Beckett holds out a hand so I can walk in the elevator first. “Oh? Is she a doctor, too?”

Shaking my head, I chew on the straw again. I can practically hear her—telling me that sort of behaviour is indicative of a deeply anxious, unsettled soul. “No. Stella’s a social worker. She loves people. She’d spend all day talking to anyone about anything.”

“And do you ... not love people?” Beckett kicks one foot against the wall of the elevator, tilting his head as he leans back against the mirrored wall.

The straw still sits there, right on the precipice of his lips.

I give him a flat look. “What do you think? Half the residents see me in the hallway and they turn the other way. They used to keep count of how many tears I’d caused. They said I drank them for breakfast.”

“Oh, come on.” Beckett laughs. “You’re not serious.”

“I’m too serious, some might say.” I give him a rueful smile and a tiny shrug. “I don’t do it on purpose. It’s just ... important. That’s all.”

My hand drops to my side, and my fingers press against the bottom of my rib cage. Beckett blinks, and when he does, I feel like maybe he’s trying to peel off these layers to understand me, but I don’t think I’m ready for that so I dig my fingers in and hold on to them for dear life.

The elevator stops, and the doors slide open.

Beckett gestures for me to walk out first, and I think it’s all safe—that he doesn’t know me, not really—that he doesn’t see right through me. But he grabs the crook of my elbow, all of it fitting into the palm of his hand. And he does look right through me when he whispers, “It is important.”

I glance down to his hand, the way his fingers feather against the sleeve of my scrubs, and I swallow, offering him a small nod before taking a measured step back.

If it bothers him, he doesn’t say. The usual friendly mask slips back into place as we fall into step beside one another, winding through the halls peppered with carts and empty cots and abandoned IV poles. He keeps up easily, one stride equaling two of mine, a bit like a puppy, bounding along beside me. “Who are we here to see?”

“Theo.” I glance down at my watch. “His parents told me yesterday he’s a big football fan. They heard you were volunteering and asked if I could put in a good word.”

Beckett falters, a furrow creases his brow, and a muscle in his cheek twitching. “He’s a kid? And he wants to see me?”

“Oh—” I stop, pausing in the middle of the hallway. “I’m sorry, I should have asked. I know this is a weird place for you. I wasn’t thinking about your sister. I was just excited that he wanted to see you. He’s a bit shy, but he’s almost eighteen, if it makes a difference.”

He shakes his head, and those worry lines around the corners of his eyes disappear. “Nah, it’s fine. I’m just happy I played well this week. The last thing I need is for someone to throw a subpar hospital meal in my face.”

“I’ll have you know the food here is actually pretty good. It’s a point of pride.” I gesture towards the door at the end of the hallway.

Beckett cuts me a look, his strides more purposeful again. “I’ll be the judge of that. You can take me to the cafeteria sometime.”

“So you can make fun of our cuisine?” I arch an eyebrow, raising a fist to knock on the open door. “I don’t think so.”

There’s this tiny voice calling from the room, one that doesn’t seem like it would belong to an almost-eighteen-year-old, but I think there’s something about this place that reduces us all to nothing more than children. “Come in.”

Theo sits propped up on his hospital bed, brown curls pushed off his face and hidden under a hat that’s not unlike the one Beckett wears, eyes firmly glued to the iPad in his hands.

“Hey, Theo. How are you feeling today?” I smile softly at him, and I mean it. “Can I come in?”

Theo’s eyes flick up. “Did you bring him?”

“I did.” I nod in confirmation, hiking a thumb over my shoulder. “Theo, this is Beckett. Beckett, this is Theo.”

I don’t wait for Beckett—I know enough about him to know he’s going to come right in and make himself at home.

He does. He strolls in, grinning and looking like he doesn’t have a care in the world when I sit down at the computer and start to pull up Theo’s labs.

“Theo.” Beckett nods. “Great to meet you.”

“Nice field goal Saturday. The one in the third.” Theo looks at him for a minute before looking back down at his iPad.

Beckett’s smile splits. “It was nice, wasn’t it?”

He turns to look at me, giving me an obvious thumbs up before he grabs the chair beside Theo’s bed and swings it around. Beckett drops his arms over the back of it, the picture of casual, and he leans forward, looking at something Theo points to.

They’re in their own little world, I think. Neither seems to care that I’m supposed to be rounding and checking on Theo’s vitals and his incision. Beckett’s childlike in his exuberance, and Theo nods along, pointing at different things on his screen, eyes all wide.

But Beckett looks back up at me and my eyes find his instead of all the things I need to be looking at. His features soften, and the left corner of his lips kick up, that dimple in his cheek pops, and he mouths the words thank you .

I swallow, and I feel my heart beat in my chest—this irregular sort of pattern that would usually scare me. But it doesn’t. I blink at him mouthing, You’re welcome , and before I can glance back to the screen, Beckett gives me another exaggerated thumbs up.

I roll my eyes, like I’m bothered by him and his presence has been this great, big nuisance.

Theo starts talking loudly about the start of the season—and I remember what Beckett said. That he’s only here until regular season starts.

I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but now I think I might miss him when he leaves.