Page 3 of Dr. Attending

I should probably start with an explanation as to why I named my son after her dead brother. Or why I even have a son in the first place. But I can’t seem to get the words out. It’s like the truth is buried in so much pain and regret that even if I wanted to unearth it, I’d be digging for hours.

Fortunately, my kid is a natural charmer. He waves at the door and breaks the awkward silence with a noise that sounds like “Ba.”

Cassidy’s eyes snap to me, wide with amazement. “Did he just?”

I let out a laugh. “Yep. Started last week.”

The first time that Carter said it, I thought he was asking for his bottle. But then the daycare staff sent me a video of him waving at the door after I dropped him off saying, “Ba. Ba. Ba,” and it all made sense—he was telling me bye.

Even though I know returning to Midtown Memorial was the right decision for both of us, it killed me that my son’s first word was goodbye. It’s not like I have to work. I could easily stay home and raise him since I have more than enough money sitting in my trust to last a lifetime. But I’ve had to remind myself that I can’t be the best dad for him if I’m not happy . . . and the truth is, I’m happiest when I’m in the OR. I’m happiest when I’m here.

Carter must sense that we’re talking about him because he turns to me with a smile and babbles, “Ba. Ba. Ba.”

He reaches for me like he wants me to pick him up, so I hoist him into my arms, careful to avoid touching his elbow. As a doctor, I know that he isn’t in pain now that the joint is back in its socket. But as a dad, my years of medical training don’t seem to hold the same level of importance because all I can think about is how I don’t want anything to hurt him.

I cross the room to grab the navy diaper backpack from the chair against the wall.

“We should probably get going,” I say, adjusting my son on my hip as I sling the bag over my opposite shoulder.

I brought Carter to the hospital immediately after his private swimming lesson, so I’m still wearing my trunks and a sweaty Lululemon athletic shirt. I feel just as disgusting as I probably look, and as soon as I’ve got him fed and taken care of, I’m going to rinse off and pass the hell out.

“Wes . . .”

Cassidy’s tone sounds just as anguished as her expression. I can tell that she wants to say more, but is holding herself back as she watches us from across the room.

“He’s mine,” I say, bridging the gap because I know that she won’t. “In case you couldn’t tell.”

Most of the time I feel like Carter is a carbon copy of me, but occasionally I’ll pull out the picture I have of his mom from Thanksgiving a few years ago and see glimpses of her too. We never got the chance to know each other properly before things went south, but I know she’d be proud of how he turned out. He’s a healthy, happy baby, which is pretty much all you can ask for as a parent.

Cassidy snorts with amusement. “I can definitely see the resemblance.”

I study her for a moment, feeling a wave of guilt wash over me. “You want to know what happened.”

She doesn’t have to ask. I can see the question—and the hurt—written all over her face.

When we met up after I had just moved back to Atlanta, I didn’t want to share the reason why I was back. My son had just been born, and I was still clinging to the hope that he wasn’t mine.

That idea is ludicrous now because I can’t imagine life without him. But at the time, I was terrified, and I wasn’t ready to talk about it with anyone, especially the one person who has always seen the best in me.

“More than anything,” she answers.

I smile because I wonder the same thing almost every day. As I’m about to open my mouth and provide a condensed version of how my son came into my life, he starts to whine in my arms.

“A story for another time,” I promise, bouncing Carter up and down to distract him from a meltdown. “Been a long afternoon, and the little man needs some rest.”

I pause as I’m almost out the door, glancing back because I know that if I don’t ask now, I’ll regret it.

“Hey, Cass . . . do you think Parker will come around?”

She shrugs but her lips tilt into an encouraging smile. “There’s only one way to find out.”

Chapter 2

Caroline

When my mom died last year, someone gifted me a book that listed thousands of things to be happy about. It didn’t have a signature, just a note scrawled on the inside of the crisp cover which said, “Memories made with someone you love.”

At first, the gift felt like a mockery. Like it was rubbing salt in the deepest crevices of my grief-inflicted wound. I had just become an orphan at twenty-two years old. There were a thousand things I could think of to besadabout, not happy. So I tossed the book onto a pile I keep on my nightstand, where it sat and collected dust for months.

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