Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
The patient instantly recognized me and wanted pictures, wanted an autograph, wanted to Instagram Live—which I turned down. And then she called her friends, who showed up ten minutes into the exam. I had to run through the whole parade again.
It’s not the same as patients gawking at my tattoos and piercings. I was used to that.
Being famous. Not so much.
I’m recognized every single day, sometimes minute-by-minute. I’m stopped walking down the hall. I’m stopped when I eat lunch in the cafeteria. When I’m minding my own fucking business during rounds.
If it’s not the patients or their families, it’s the nurses, technicians, doctors and hospital staff. They want to gossip with me about the Hales, Meadows, and Cobalts like I’m their direct outlet to secret information they’ll never be allowed to have.
Every day I have to brush them off. I’m perfectly fine with a bad reputation. I don’t give a flying shit if people call me cold or arrogant or an entitled bastard—but when it affects my job, when it affects my ability to be the best at what I do, then I fucking care.
I hate knowing that I’m not contributing enough. That I’m taking the spot of someone who could potentially do better work than what I’m doing.
I could tell Shaw about this morning.
When I had a patient who refused to give me a medical history. He said he didn’t trust me. Not with that kind of personal information, and I tried to explain how there’s clear patient-confidentiality laws, but he didn’t want to hear it.
In his eyes, I have too many ties to the media and public and the things that I say aren’t just a whisper in the night.
Hell, that wasn’t the first time I had to hand over a patient to another intern. Or be reprimanded by the hospital board for not carrying as big of a load as the other residents in my year.
And I can’t argue with them. It takes me three times as long to do a job that they can do in under ten minutes.
I thought it’d be different coming back to finish my residency, but I didn’t imagine this kind of struggle. I’m not sure I could have.
I’ve become a “celebrity” doctor, and that’s hindered my ability to help people inside Philly General. And I feel worthless here.
Three years. It’s what I keep telling myself. That in three years I’ll be worth more again. I’ll be out of this hospital and working for the famous families.
But that’s three years of running at a brick wall and not being able to breathe.
I haven’t been able to talk about this with Maximoff. I want to protect him from feeling at fault, or from blaming himself. Broaching the topic means that I’m reaffirming his worst fears: I’ve lost an immeasurable source of happiness by being with him, by being famous. And that’s not how I see it.
He’s my happiness, and I’m fighting for the day where I go back to him. And fuck, it’s right there. The day is right in front of me.
Just go.
I sit up, boots dropping to the ground. I glance back at Shaw. “Just a long shift,” I tell him, my mind racing.
Just go.
“Tell me about it.” He downs his coffee and then disappears into the locker room.
When the door swings closed behind him, I stack the charts from my lap and place them onto the coffee table.
Quickly, I push into the locker room. “Hey, Shaw!” I shout.
“Yeah?” He sticks his head out, past a few cedar lockers. Bare-chested, he pulls on a Polo shirt.
“Who’s on-call tonight?” I ask while I yank open my locker.
“Morris, Kim, and Bakshi.” He narrows his eyes at me while I take off my scrubs and change into black pants and a plain shirt. “I thought your shift ended at ten.”
In an hour. “It does.” I tuck my black V-neck in my pants and buckle my belt. For me, that hour will be stretched to three depending on how many people will stop me and ask for pictures.
It’s why I’m always late. To everything.
Shaw hangs on his locker door. “Is it Maximoff Hale?” he asks. “I can keep a secret if you need to talk or something.”
“I’m good,” I say.
“You know I’m not like those other people,” Shaw continues. “I’ve watched Maximoff Hale on TV since I was about ten. He’s practically a real person to me, not just a celebrity.”
I’ve heard the same speech a hundred different times, a hundred different ways.
“Shaw,” I say, grabbing my backpack and shutting the locker door. “I’m good.”
He nods, but he blisters beneath my words. “Yeah, Keene. Of course.” And he coldshoulders me as he returns to his locker.
I pass him silently out the door.
Just go.
By the time I reach the parking garage, my pulse is racing. I drove the Audi to work, and I find the car where I left it. I don’t slide into the driver’s side. Immediately, I climb into the back, lock the car doors, and lie down on the stretch of the seat.