Page 1 of Love Sick

Julian

JUNE, YEAR 1

What torture-loving freaks burn bonfires for pleasure in the muggy heat of a Texas June? We don’t do this back home—and I’m from Florida, the land of the crazies. The conversations around me hum as I stare into the flames. My thumb rubs a slow trail along the neck of my beer bottle.

I take a swig and frown.

Warm IPA.

Yum.

“Yo, Santini.” Maxwell DeBakey offers me a cold bottle. “You need a refill?”

I pour out the dregs of mine and take the new one. “Thanks.”

Maxwell settles next to me, the firelight flashing gold over his dark sweaty skin. “No problem.”

“Why are we having a bonfire in June?”

He shoots me a smile. “BrOB-GYN tradition.”

A flicker of amusement stills the bottle halfway to my mouth. “BrOB-GYN?”

He chuckles and shrugs one massive shoulder. “Male residents stick together. Otherwise, the women would eat us alive.”

Hmm. Would they, though? Would they really?

My lips press together to keep the instinctual sarcasm tucked neatly inside. Probably unwise to make waves before I’ve even started, but I can’t quite stop the sardonic grin at the irony clattering through my head—beware the assembly of females, for they will destroy the world!

I take another swig, and cold hops bubble down my throat. Maxwell starts his fourth year—hischiefyear—in a few days, whereas I start at the bottom. The lowly intern. My first year of residency, and one of only five admitted to the small Texas University OB-GYN program at TUMC.

I’m still not sure how I scraped by with a spot here. It’s a good program, and I wasn’t a shoo-in. Not only did my scores leave something to be desired, but the initials after my name aren’t the revered MD.

Julian Santini, DO.

Doctor of Osteopathy. The redheaded stepchild of the medicine world, thought to have chosen osteopathy because we couldn’t get into the more traditional allopathic schools.

I’m the only DO in the program. One of three in the entire hospital.

Back in March, thirty-five hundred doctors vied for fifteen hundred OB-GYN spots across the country, and somehow, I got one. Was it my interview? My letters of recommendation? Blind luck? Regardless, the stark awareness that I don’t deserve this means I need to tread carefully.

I have a lot to prove and very little faith that I can do it.

“You ready for next week, man?” Maxwell asks. “Labor and delivery is hopping. July first comin’ fast.”

My gaze strays to the fire. “I think so. Who decided to punish the runt of the litter by putting me on L&D first?”

I can’t help but wonder if they’re testing me. All service lines—labor and delivery, surgery, specialty rotations, etc.—are assigned by month, constantly rotating, and for some reason,I’mthe first intern to cover the L&D floor. It’s not only the most arduous rotation, but also the one with the longest hours. Trial by fire.

Maxwell snorts. “Runt of the litter? Doubt it. Besides,I’myour senior. That ain’t punishment, bro. We’ll have fun.”

The ungodly heat rolling off the flames distorts my view of the men on the other side, all chatting with beers in hand. To my left, one resident regales two others about a surgical case from earlier that week. To my right, Maxwell settles deeper into his chair.

The house and backyard belong to Asher Foley, a soon-to-be third-year, and clearly a bachelor. I suspect he was in a fraternity at some point. The entire property is tricked out—fancy deck he claims to have built himself, gaming room with surround sound, full bar that takes up half his kitchen, and a cookie jar of condoms on top of his fridge.

Subtle.

The statement piece of his living room is a poster with elaborate and colorful cursive letters that reads I’m Not a Gynecologist, I’m a Vagician. Beneath the phrase is a rainbow watercolor cartoon of a hand pulling a uterus from a top hat. When I pointed at it, eyebrow raised, Asher insisted it was his Secret Santa present last year. Maxwell gave his head a subtle shake, then accused him of buying it on Etsy.

---