Page 12 of Ten Day Affair

I wrap my fingers around the cold cup, the condensation sliding down the side as the chill bites into my hand. It's a relief in the heat.

He settles across from me, his posture relaxing slightly. "So, Sullivan's still trying to claim he invented the modified Whipple technique?"

A laugh escapes me. "You heard about that? He presented it at M&M like he'd personally revolutionized pancreatic surgery."

"That man hasn't had an original idea since 1995."

We fall into easy conversation. Because these are our favorite subjects. We focus on hospital gossip, the Marlins' dismal season, and the new coffee shop at Mariner's Reach that charges eight dollars for a latte.

We steer clear of anything important. Dad is the patriarch,and in many ways, I'm still the dutiful little girl. By doing my residency here, and likely staying for my career once I'm done, I've chosen this, in a way.

"Dr. Richardson's son is starting his residency next term."

"Oh, yeah. I can't believe he is already done with med school. Time is flying. Do you know what he matched in?"

Dad blows across his coffee. "Cardio, following in his father's footsteps."

I stare down at my cup. "Legacy babies everywhere."

I said that to mean we have a head start. Most days, though, it means I have more to prove.

"You were never just a legacy, Sam."

My jaw tightens. I don’t look up.

“Grimaldi’s making Kip first assist on everything,” I mutter. “He tanked a basic appy last week and still got the gallbladder yesterday.”

Dad shrugs. “Politics. His father paid for the hybrid OR. You know how it works.”

Oh, I do.

I glance toward the Evelyn Taylor Wing. The sunlight catches on the glass, blinding me for a second.

Kip’s handed opportunities, and no one blinks. I work twice as hard, and somehow it’s still either “She only got it because she’s a Taylor,” or “She should be better than this by now.”

There’s no winning for me, really. Except starting somewhere completely different, where the name Taylor means nothing.

“Grimaldi’s tough on you,” Dad says.

“She expects perfection.”

“Smart woman. She reminds me of your mother sometimes.” A smile flickers.

"You know..." Dad starts, then stops himself. He never pushes. Not about Mom. Not about the wing with her name that I orbit like a planet that can't escape its sun.

He rests his hand on my shoulder, the weight familiar and steady. I don’t lean into it, but I don’t pull away either.

We sit like that for a second, long enough for the moment to settle between us. Then I check the time.

“I’ve got Grimaldi in two,” I say, standing.

“Lucky you.”

“Tell me about it.” I smile faintly and grab my cup. “Thanks for the coffee, Dad.”

He lifts his own in a silent toast. “Go show her what a real Taylor can do.”

I ploponto Arden’s couch and tug my hoodie sleeves over my knuckles. She’s been my best friend and unofficial therapist since kindergarten.