Page 95 of Careless Whisper

“That’s good because you know we nurses have to keep these attendings on their toes”—she tapped the side of her temple—“because we’re smarter.”

She led me to the break room and…surprise! My colleagues had put together a low-key potluck in the break room, which involved too much sugar and a deeply disturbing cake shaped like a heart valve (or the head of a penis?).

I hadn’t expected fanfare or to be ambushed by a full-blown reunion. But I was grateful for it.

“Yo! Is that Nurse Sanchez back in her scrubs?” Luther’s deep voice boomed across the room.

I grinned. “Just checking in to make sure you haven’t scared off all the new residents.”

Nina practically tackled me with a hug, nearly knocking my badge off. “Oh my God, you’re really back! We thought you were going to live in a hut in Mexico forever!”

“Please.” Luther rolled his eyes. “As if! You knew she was going to come back, she can’t live without hospital-gradecoffee.”

“Ugh. That I did not miss at all.”

I looked around at their faces—laughing, grinning, warm. It hit me how much I’d missed them. Missed this. The shorthand language of shared trauma and too many night shifts.

“You ready for this?” Luther asked quietly, nudging my shoulder.

I nodded. “I’ve never been more ready.”

The next day, as I pulled on a fresh pair of gloves and joined the team for rounds, I felt it—not just relief, not just closure, but a sense of rightness. Of being exactly where I was meant to be. I was home.

Some things had changed—I had changed—but Harper Memorial hadn’t. The beeping monitors still sang the same rhythm, the halls still buzzed with clipped conversation, and the gossip was still in full force.

“So, Dr. Graham and you are together?”

I nodded.

“Together, together?” Someone else asked.

“They’re living together, so, yeah,” Luther shut them all down.

Then I got the lowdown on Dr. Maren Loring.

“Mrs. D received plenty of testimony—and they unearthed email exchanges that confirmed Dr. Loring made Dr. Agar file a complaint against you,” I was told by a resident while we were prepping for surgery.

“Dr. Cabrera never said what happened in the closed-door disciplinary panel, but the rumor is he readher the riot act in front of the board. Told her she’ll never work as a surgeon again.” This came from an attending.

Within a week, the news of the day changed when a new attending started in neuro (apparently, she was hotter than hot)—and Elias, Maren, and I were relegated to the archives.

Unfortunately, Maren remained top of the fold for me for a bit longer.

It was Friday night, and I was at the Rob Roy, one of my favorite Belltown cocktail joints, waiting for Elias to wrap up a consult.

With dim lighting, smooth jazz, and strong drinks—Rob Roy was my kind of vibe. I ordered a saffron sandalwood sour and tried not to check my phone for the third time in five minutes.

Where the hell was he?

“Reggie.” I didn’t need to look to my right to see who owned the voice, but I did, schooling my face to show no emotion.

Maren was in a tight designer dress and had a drink in hand that looked like the bar’s amaro cocktail, thesacred twister. Very apropos!

Her makeup was immaculate, not a strand of hair out of place, like someone had personally spritzed her withpolished ambition. She’d obviously walked from a booth or table up to me.

I was so honored!

I considered how to respond to her greeting—andthen decided not to. Instead, I turned away, smiled at the bartender, and caught the drink he slid across the counter. “Thank you,” I said, like she wasn’t even there.

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