Page 55 of Third Time Lucky

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Chapter One

EVE CASSIDY

‘Morning, Eve.’ One of the emergency surgeons I see regularly greets me with a lift of his coffee cup as we pass each other in one of the endless employee-only hallways.

The walls of the hospital are crisp, sterile white, with shiny black marble-looking floors, and local photography, or healthcare signage, hanging every ten to twenty-five feet.

I’ve worked here long enough that I’ve got the photos memorized but I still glance at each one to verify I haven’t forgotten a single one.

‘Good morning, Doctor Sully,’ I say. ‘I hope I don’t see you today,’ I tease, glancing back at him as I pass.

‘Amen to that,’ he chuckles.

I wouldn’t want to put money on whether or not we’ll meet, but I would love for today to be as low-key as possible because it’s my Friday, and it’s easier to roll into a weekend without the unsettling feeling of turmoil lingering from the day before.

As usual, the morning shift-change employees crowd the in-hospital Starbucks with a line to the doors of the tiny coffee shop.

I claim my spot behind a face I don’t recognize, which means small talk is unnecessary, and pull my phone from my scrub pocket – might as well catch up on social media while I wait.

I scroll through Instagram first – nothing new since I left for work.

So I flip to Facebook. Immediately I double-tap my sister Jess’s most recent story (she gets auto likes): a rambling about home remedies rumored to help evict a stubborn fetus.

At thirty-six weeks pregnant and confined to her bed via doctor’s orders (but hesitant to do so since this baby looks to weigh in the double digits, judging from the size of her), she’s giving all the labor-inducing wives’ tales a try.

Her latest attempt: consuming castor oil from a spoon.

Ick. I shiver at her near-gag on screen.

Why didn’t she have a trigger warning, jeesh? Note to self: never get pregnant.

‘Well, well, well, isn’t it my lucky day,’ the barista chirps as I approach the counter. ‘What can I get the girl who completes my story?’

I cock my head, rolling my eyes. ‘Every day, Adam?’

He grabs a clear Venti cup, scribbling my name on the side, complete with a heart. ‘God would be disappointed if I didn’t at least acknowledge fate,’ he says with a sly smile.

Adam has asked me out at least once a month for the last few years he’s worked here.

He claims it’s fate that we end up together.

But I’m pretty sure he’s only in it for the puns.

My answer is always no because after a couple of dud exes, I no longer date, and I definitely don’t date the under-twenty-five crowd.

As Adam swirls my usual iced latte to perfection, I lean against the counter, watching him work his magic. He slides the cup toward me with a wink. ‘On the house today, Eve. Consider it a bribe for future consideration.’ He chuckles, his eyes playful.

I shake my head. ‘Have I ever told you that I don’t believe in fate?’

He gives me a mock pout before moving on to the next customer.

I take my drink and head toward the exit, my mind drifting back to my sister’s impending motherhood.

Jess has always been the brave one, ready to leap into any adventure without hesitation.

I mean, do you know what castor oil is for?

Constipation. She’s trying to shoot that baby out of her vajayjay explosive-diarrhea style.

Ouch. She’s been talking for months about doing this life-changing event medication-free. Double ouch.

Not once, in any relationship, have I ever considered procreating.

I made that decision when I unexpectedly delivered a baby at the front entrance of the ER a couple of years ago.

The expectant mother and I just happened to be walking in at the same time (for once I’d gotten a good parking spot!) when I realized what was happening in front of me as she dropped to the filthy ground.

I knew it was either medically trained me or the wide-eyed, horrified-looking security officer standing in the breezeway to my left.

I stepped up. Not one ounce of that disgusting mess was beautiful, as soon-to-be parents claim.

I wish my eyes could unsee it because my brain has it filed in the ‘3a.m. file’ and nothing in that sleepless mess is a good time.

The bravest thing I’ve ever done is mistakenly get married on a whim.

I swipe my badge over the magic lock that keeps society out, and employees safe. The doors swing open, revealing people scattered here and there, meandering between ER departments.

Time for my morning pep talk. ‘Please God, since I’m your OG human, give me an easy day today, would ya?’

‘Morning!’ Catalina calls while in motion.

I lift my coffee, acknowledging I’ve heard her.

‘Hello, Miss Cassidy.’ Dale, today’s charge nurse, greets me with a sleepy smile – even though I know darn well he’s probably on cup of coffee number three.

He gets here an hour before the rest of the morning shift so he can give room assignments and catch up on who’s still lingering from the overnight shift.

‘You’re in Trauma 2 today,’ he says, glancing at the giant whiteboard on the wall behind his counter.

‘My favorite room,’ I say, lifting my cup. Cheers to that.

‘It’s weird you have a favorite trauma room.’ Genevieve, my work bestie, appears at my side from a hallway to my right.

‘It’s weird you wait to get out of bed until fifteen minutes before your shift with your hair looking like that,’ I tease.

‘What’s wrong with it?’ she asks, patting the oversized messy bun perched on top of her head – her favorite pen, the one she takes to and from work with her, pokes out of her hair.

As usual, she’s wearing a set of scrubs from the in-house scrub shop’s ‘that’s so eighties neon line’ (named by moi ).

She can pull off highlighter pink. I cannot.

I went a little lighter with my already light blonde hair this month, and even though it’s nearly fall, I still don’t have that summer glow that I usually do, so I feel like neon scrubs are only going to attract attention to that.

I’d look like a glow stick. I’m perfectly OK sticking with my boring ‘cool’ colors scrub wardrobe, mixing and matching – mostly because I don’t turn on my closet light on my way to the shower – and hope the pairing isn’t too wild.

I got lucky today with navy pants and a pastel purple top.

‘Your hair looks fantastic, I’m just teasing you. Also, there is nothing weird about preferring the single bay over the multi-patient. Less chaos,’ I say, my reasoning sound.

‘You know what else prevents chaos?’ Genevieve asks.

‘Huh?’ I reply, sitting my coffee on the desk in front of me as I read through the electronic room board, familiarizing myself with my patients.

‘Not working eighty hours a week,’ Gen says, giving me a knowing look.

‘It wasn’t eighty last week,’ I confess.

‘What was it then?’

‘Um.’ I sit at my computer, typing in my unique login. ‘Seventy-six.’

Genevieve chuckles, shaking her head in disbelief. ‘You seriously need a vacation.’

‘And saving for that is exactly what I’m doing with all this overtime.’

‘Who’s going on vacation?’ Dr Bradly, our assigned physician, asks.

A very full backpack hangs off one shoulder and a dark green Stanley cup, the biggest size they offer, is in one hand, filled with black coffee to keep himself focused.

He’s wearing his usual dark blue scrubs and by the look of his tousled hair, I’d say he just woke and ran. ‘And did I approve it?’

‘HR approves vacations, not doctors,’ I remind him.

‘Thank God,’ Gen mumbles behind me.

She’s right. Most doctors I know are also workaholics, partly because the healthcare industry is severely understaffed right now. So putting the fate of our vacation days in their hands would be a terrible idea.

‘But nobody is going on vacation,’ I reassure him. ‘Gen is just dreaming again. I mean, look at her monitor background.’

Troy (aka Dr Bradly) glances at Gen’s workstation. ‘Bahamas?’

‘Fiji,’ Gen says with a happy sigh. ‘Honeymoon shot.’

Troy chuckles, shaking his head. ‘You’re not even dating anyone, Genevieve.’

She shrugs playfully. ‘A girl can dream, can’t she?’

I finish scanning through the patient charts for Trauma 2, mentally preparing myself for whatever may come through those doors today.

As we settle in for our shift, the ER starts bustling with activity.

The chaos – also known as controlled pandemonium – is oddly comforting to me.

Saving lives is a dance I know well, the steps familiar even when the music changes.

A couple of fender-bender patients – one with a broken nose from hitting his steering wheel, and another with ‘claimed’ whiplash – fill my morning, and after lunch seems to be the calm before the storm.

After checking in on a couple of patients still awaiting a hospital room, I pull up my email to make sure I haven’t missed anything.

And by anything, I mean extra shifts I could take via the internal employee-only hospital site. Nothing.

I grab my phone, sipping my coffee as I scroll through socials again.

My mom’s ‘book post’ on Facebook stops me as I read her thoughts on the most boring book alive – Moby Dick – her favorite.

She’s always described the novel as the perfect example of the monster your mind can create if you let it.

‘An idle mind is the devil’s playground,’ she used to say.

A lesson she learned after being married to my father for ten years too long (her words).

I scroll again. Kait got her Botox redone and is announcing it to the world, which is weird.

Then I stop… a Facebook memory. Crap. I hate these.

I scroll to the post, sucking in a breath at the sight of it.

I glance at the date on the top of our patient board – September 27.

Christ on a motorbike. Suddenly, I remember why I prefer Instagram to Facebook.

The latter enjoys taunting me with the anniversary of past nostalgic happenings that I’ve tried really hard to forget – along with all the feelings that come with them.

They’ve been sufficiently buried under my heart for five years now.

I bite my bottom lip as I tap the photo. Wow. Not gonna lie, twenty-two-year-old me looks so incredibly innocent. This version of me still believed in love. I’ll never be able to get that back, and the reminder feels like someone twisting the knife.

With a deep sigh, I scroll through the comments on the photo. I do this every year and each time, my heart beats a little faster as I read each one. They’re all from the same person, and all the exact same comment: ‘xx, Fost’. Once each year this memory probably pops up on his Facebook as well.

‘Fost’, also known as Foster, is the guy who broke my heart into a million pieces and left me questioning everything I thought I knew about love and trust. Five years have passed since we last spoke and even though I’m the one who decided to walk away without a second glance, my mind sometimes wanders to what would have happened if I’d stayed.

The memories that have always slightly lingered flood back as I stare at the photo, the pain still raw beneath the surface.

I quickly scroll to see if he’s added this year’s comment yet but don’t see it, so I close the app with a shaky hand.

Gen shoots me a concerned look from across the nurses’ station, but I only offer her a weak smile in response.

‘Everything OK?’ she asks, leaning over the counter that separates us.

‘Yeah, just a little unwanted social media trip down memory lane,’ I reply, trying to sound nonchalant.

Gen’s expression softens with understanding as she glances at the date board. ‘Happy anniversary?’

I nod slightly, my attention now on my badges attached to my scrub top pocket. I straighten them, then grab my stethoscope from the desk, draping it around my neck and overly adjusting it to my liking.

‘Thanks,’ I say, only slightly bitterly. ‘It’s such a happy day,’ I joke.

She frowns. ‘You know you don’t have to torture yourself like this. Just delete the original post.’

‘I can’t,’ I admit, a hint of regret in my voice. ‘I hate it, but I also don’t know if I’m ready to forget it.’

‘You’re—’ With her mouth open, the sound of commotion near the ambulance entrance catches our attention. We both turn to see what the fuss is about.

‘Trauma 1 crew to the bay,’ I hear Dale’s voice echoing from the ER overhead speakers through the halls.

‘Sucks to be them,’ Gen says, leaning back in her chair and tossing a piece of SkinnyPop into the air, catching it in her mouth as we watch multiple patients being pushed past us toward Bay 1.

‘Don’t curse us,’ I warn, grabbing my now buzzing phone from my scrub pants pocket.

I glance at the screen, blinking rapidly as if there’s something wrong with my vision. No. He. Didn’t. But I see it with my own eyes. He did. Again.

xx, Fost

Comment made, one minute ago.

I scrunch my face. Why, Foster? Why every year?

I inhale deeply, exhaling slowly. Do I respond to this?

No. It’d be weird (like having this exact conversation with myself every year is normal).

I reach across the screen and tap the thumbs up with my index finger.

It’s what I do every year in response to his comment.

Passive-aggressive is our new vibe as we play a silent game of ‘You still alive?’, ‘Yep, I acknowledge you’. I just wish I knew what it meant.