Page 54 of Scars of Anatomy

Strike a Match

I curse my hands for trembling as I run them over the skirt of my maroon dress, smoothing it out. I’m going to be a neurosurgeon for crying out loud. I can’t have my hands shake this much with silly little nerves.

But today is a big day. A life-changing day , I remind myself.

My face is more defined, despite the fourteen pounds I’ve gained since undergrad. My natural golden skin has only gotten a half shade darker, despite living in California. I guess that’s my fault; I spent too much time inside studying instead of soaking up the beautiful sunshine.

Lastly, I note how much older I look. It’s most likely due to stress, and I don’t look like my eighty-year-old grandmother yet. I just look more mature and wise. At least that’s what I tell myself.

But there’s something off . . .

I stare long and hard at my reflection before scanning the bathroom counter, finding nothing that sparks my intuition.

When I open up the medicine cabinet, the first thing I spot is my contact lenses case, and then it dawns on me.

I take the small case out and set it on the counter before walking into my bedroom to grab my signature thick-rimmed glasses off the nightstand. I take them back to the bathroom and wash my hands before removing my contact lenses and putting on my glasses instead.

There.

Now I feel more like me.

Ever since second grade I’ve had to wear glasses—since my eyesight is pure and utter crap. I’ve worn glasses all my life because contacts sort of freaked me out, but I had to suck it up once I reached medical school.

Once I hit rotations in the operating room, I decided to ditch my glasses for contacts because my glasses would slip off my nose, or they’d frequently fog up when I wore a mask. Though I despise contacts, they have made working in the OR easier.

Plus, wearing contacts sort of makes me feel like Superman. By day, I’m in the OR helping save lives, while at night, and on my rare days off, I’m like mere mortal Clark Kent in my beloved thick-rimmed glasses.

Running my fingers through my dark shoulder-length curls one last time, I can’t help but smile at my reflection in the mirror—at the brilliant and resilient woman staring back at me.

I’ve worked my ass off my whole academic career to get to this moment, and I’ll be damned if it doesn’t go how I always dreamt it would.

A soft rap on the bathroom door tears me away from my thoughts, and I turn to see my momma standing in the doorway.

She’s also dressed up for the occasion, wearing a forest green dress that complements her warm, golden skin tone.

She gives me a soft, meaningful smile, knowing I’m freaking out in my head.

“Ready?”

I let out a shaky breath and flash her a wary smile. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

She extends her hand to me, and I instinctively place mine in hers, savoring her touch.

Since moving away for undergrad and medical school, I haven’t been able to see my family much. Especially when I moved all the way to the West Coast for med school.

At least in undergrad I was only a five-hour drive away from home—four and a half if I sped—so I could go back home every once in a while.

But med school has only allowed me to go back home and visit on major holidays.

So to say I’ve missed my momma would be a huge understatement.

I’m super grateful she and my daddy were both able to fly out to be with me on my special day. Not that they’d miss it for the world.

She pulls me close, grabbing hold of my other hand and squeezing it.

“Delilah Kareena Harper, I am so proud of you,” she states, her voice soft but strong and proud, pricking tears in my eyes.

“You’ve become the woman you’ve always dreamed of, and no matter what happens today, no matter where you end up, you’re going to be the best neurosurgeon the world has to offer. ”

I try my best to swallow the lump in my throat, but my voice still comes out strained. “Thanks, Momma.”

She gives me a tight smile and I can tell she’s holding back tears of her own. “I want to give you something,” she whispers, letting go of my hands. She reaches for the dainty gold ring on her right hand, sliding it off.

My throat grows uncomfortably tight. “Momma, n—”

“Shhh,” she hushes me, already knowing I’m going to object. “I want you to have it,” she insists, grabbing my right hand and sliding the small ruby on my ring finger.

I admire the ring my daddy gave my momma years ago when they first started dating. He bought it for her on their third date, at the market where they’d first met in India.

My momma is originally from India, while my dad is from the States. He was studying abroad and claims it was love at first sight when he found her—even though she rejected him multiple times before he eventually wore her down and scored a date.

It’s a long-running joke that my momma rejected my daddy so many times because she thought he was just some horny American college boy trying to find a fling to keep him occupied for the semester.

Little did she know he was head over heels for her and that he’d worm his way into her heart with his “undeniable charm and wit” (his words), and she’d end up marrying the weirdo and move with him to a whole new country to start a family.

While the ring is simple, it’s beyond beautiful and makes me think of my parents’ perfectly imperfect and humorous love story.

My momma used to catch me sneaking into her jewelry box all the time as a kid to admire the ring, and I’d make her tell me their love story every time. She’d always promised to give me the ring when I was older, I just didn’t think today would be the day.

“Momma,” I say, and she gives me a warning look, daring me to protest. “Thank you.”

She kisses my cheek before grabbing my hand to lead me into my tiny apartment living room where my daddy is sitting on the couch, pretending not to be wringing his hands in anticipation.

Once we have everything, we run downstairs to the parking garage and jump in my car.

I lead my parents through one of the many academic buildings I’ve come to know like the back of my hand over the past four years.

We walk down the long stretch of hallway before finding the correct auditorium, a sign outside the door welcoming us to McCord University’s Match Day Ceremony.

Butterflies instantly swarm my stomach, everything becoming that much more real.

I peek inside the auditorium and find people still setting up. Reaching into my small cross-body purse, I pull out my phone to check the time. Forty-five minutes early. In true Delilah Harper fashion.

One of my many personality traits is being early.

To class, to appointments, to functions, and especially to match day.

While it may have only been a ten-minute drive over from my apartment, you never know when the world is going to throw you a ten-car pileup or a doomsday-apocalyptic situation of some sort.

Therefore, it’s always good to have a totally sensible and reasonable forty-five-minute cushion.

You know, because doomsday-apocalyptic situations typically include flesh-eating zombies that are certain to cause a traffic delay.

“Looks like we’re the first ones here,” my dad comments, a teasing lilt in his voice. He knows and loves to mock my arrive-unnecessarily-early policy.

“Not quite,” a deep voice rumbles from behind us, smooth and rich. There’s also a teasing, amused lilt to the voice.

Of course. I don’t even have to turn around to know who that voice belongs to.

Bradly Gallow, aka the biggest pain in my ass.

Since day one of medical school, Brad and I have had some sort of silent agreement to be sworn mortal enemies—the pair of us fighting to be top of our class.

Throughout these past four years, we’ve been neck and neck, putting in the most hours while managing to kick and kiss all the appropriate asses.

We’re both gunning for the same highly competitive residency, and I’ll be damned if he gets picked over me.

“Oh, hello,” my daddy says, surprised that someone could be even earlier than his daughter. He sheepishly runs a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, now embarrassed that his teasing me is invalid.

Reluctantly, I turn around and I’m immediately embraced by the cool, clean, delicious scent of Brad’s cologne.

I have to tilt my head back to look up at him, and I silently curse myself for not wearing heels today.

But I feared that I would end up falling and busting my ass if I tried walking up and down the auditorium steps in anything other than flats.

Hell, I’m so jittery I may even trip in flats.

“Delilah.” My name rolls off of Brad’s tongue as soon as my brown eyes meet his.

I cross my arms tightly over my chest, hating that I always have to look up at him because he’s so freaking tall. Heels would have only helped so much. “Bradly.”

A triumphant grin graces his full lips as he realizes he’s already got me agitated. “I’d like you to meet my parents: Dr. Kalani Gallow and Dr. Anthony Gallow,” he says, gesturing to his left where two other people are standing behind him.

Of course both of his parents are doctors , I think, somehow managing not to roll my eyes.

Politely, I turn to the middle-aged man and woman and flash them a smile. They look nice enough, and it’s no surprise they’re both gorgeous and well-polished. “Nice to meet you.”