Third Degree

  The air is warmer in Nashville and the sun would normally be welcome, but my lack of sleep means the brightness causes a shooting pain right between my eyes. I pinch the bridge of my nose, and Kelsey must have taken that as me being annoyed, because she turns a glare in Carson’s direction.

  “How about we focus on the music this morning and let Izzy relax?” she snaps. “No more doctor shit.”

  Marshall’s lips touch my ear again. “Think he slept on the floor last night?”

  “Well, apparently I slept on top of H diseases,” I remind him.

  “True.” He reaches for my hand and laces our fingers together. “But then I got to carry you to bed. I liked that part.”

  Yep. Superman complex.

  “You really made this yourself?” Kelsey leans closer to examine my fake ID. “It’s perfect. Way better than mine.”

  I comb my fingers through my hair in front of the bar restroom mirror. “I watched a YouTube video.”

  We’ve listened to two bands already. Both weren’t bad at all. I think being a “novice musician” in Nashville means something completely different than it does everywhere else. Despite the warmer-than-home weather, it’s still windy out, and chilly enough to get cold after a few hours. Hence the need to escape to the nearest bar.

  “So Marsh is okay, right?” Kelsey asks, tentatively. “I mean, health-wise.”

  She’s been too pissed off these past couple of weeks to ask me for specifics, and I guess that now that he’s off her blacklist, she’s worried. “He’s improving compared to where he was during fall break. But nowhere near a hundred percent. Just don’t tell him that. He’ll do everything he can to prove you wrong.”

  “It’s insane, the things people can conceal,” Kelsey says. “Even when they live fucking ten feet from you and share plumbing and dining areas.”

  I think about hiding my own identity and about the fears that I’ve stuffed away. “This is true. Very true. Now, tell me about Carson … is he really that bad?”

  Kelsey snorts a laugh and pushes the bathroom door open. “Um, no, he’s not that bad. I just don’t want him to know that.”

  My eyebrows shoot up. “You like him …? Holy shit, he’s a weirdo.”

  “So are you,” she snaps.

  “Also true.” I spot Marshall and Carson at the bar, both with a beer in front of them. I slide up next to Marsh and point to his glass. “You’re drinking?” For someone with Crohn’s disease, alcohol can feel like fire in the stomach.

  He shrugs. “One beer. I had that big sandwich first, so it’ll sit better in my stomach.”

  “You just wanted to use your twenty-one status, didn’t you?” I wave at the bartender, requesting one of whatever Marshall has.

  “And according to Yelp, this beer is a must-try.” He gestures around the bar. “This place is fucking awesome. I want to get the full experience.”

  The bartender delivers my beer. I take a sip and nearly spit it all over the countertop. “What the hell is this?”

  Marshall grins at me. “PBR.”

  “Pabst Blue Ribbon?” My nose wrinkles. “That’s not a must-try drink. That’s cheap beer. The cheapest beer, actually.”

  He places a finger over my lips and leans in closer. “Shh … don’t be a beer snob here. They’re not fancy. They can spot a cocktail girl a mile away.”

  He drops his finger and closes the gap between us, kissing me. I reach out and touch the back of his neck, holding his mouth against mine. “I promise not to embarrass you.”

  Kelsey tugs on the hood of my jacket. “Let’s get a table before the music starts and everyone floods inside.”

  After we’re seated at a small round table with high-backed chairs, watching the band set up, I turn to Kelsey. “I never would have guessed that you liked country music.”

  “I don’t,” she says. “I don’t dislike it, either. I like culture. I’ve never really been anywhere, so I’m trying to experience everything I can.”

  “I haven’t done much traveling, either,” I admit.

  Carson’s face fills with surprise. “Why the fuck not? Your dad’s a heart surgeon. How much does he make?”

  Marshall smacks him in the chest, and Carson shakes his head. “Sorry, that was rude. So … no traveling, huh?”

  I laugh, liking him about 2 percent more than this morning. “Guess it just never seemed appealing to me. I can learn everything I need to know about a culture from the Internet. And Google has better pictures than I could ever take myself.”

  Both Kelsey and Marshall are gaping at me. “That’s just sad,” Marshall says. “Trust me, real life is a thousand times better than the Internet. It’s like sex—technically we can do it alone, so why does anyone bother doing it together?”

  “Listen to him.” Kelsey points a finger at Marshall. “He’s been to something like three different continents. I’m still working on two. But I applied for a semester in London next year.”

  “Seriously?” I say at the same time Marshall says, “What about your cheer scholarship?”

  She shrugs. “I’ll figure something out. There are other scholarships for minorities studying abroad. Or I’ll get loans. The experience will be worth any potential debt.”

  “Maybe,” I say, thinking about how moving to Baltimore had been the worst part of potentially being a resident at Johns Hopkins. But it was different when I thought my parents and my house would still be there waiting for me. I’m actually pretty proud of myself for surviving this long stretch of living two hours from home.

  A middle-aged blond woman begins to sing an upbeat country-sounding song, a dude with a banjo playing beside her. I glance down at my phone, resting on the table and catch an incoming text from my mom.

  Having fun in Nashville?

  I quickly type a reply. Drinking PBR at a bar. My homemade fake ID turned out perfect.

  OK, sorry I asked for details. Going away now.

  I scrub my hands over my face, wishing I could stop being angry and tossing out sarcastic, even mean replies.

  Marshall’s leaning into my space, reading the messages on my phone. His arm drapes around the back of my chair, and he whispers, “I’m afraid to ask … but what are you doing for Thanksgiving in two weeks? Is it gonna be awkward this year?”

  I laugh, shaking my head. “Awkward doesn’t even cover it.”

  “But you have plans, right?”

  “I definitely have plans.” I lean on one elbow, angling myself to face him, creating an intimate space for us to have this conversation. “So, you know how the University of Chicago hospital has a clinic?”

  “No, but I do now.”

  “Well, every year for the past six years my family—as in my mom and dad—attend the Thanksgiving dinner put on for the clinic patients and families, mostly a lot of people who don’t have anywhere else to go or don’t have the means to provide a meal for themselves. Plus the doctors and nurses that are on duty for the holiday usually join us, too, or at least grab a plate of food on their break.”

  He reaches out and takes a strand of my hair, tucking it behind my ear. “So you’re not doing that this year? Or just not all three of you?”

  “We have to,” I say with a groan. “Guess who started this event and who does all the planning for it every single year?”

  “You?”

  I roll my eyes. “My mom. So instead of a nice, non-confrontational separate divorced-parent Thanksgiving, I get to deal with having them both in the same room. For like five hours. Can’t wait.”

  He holds my hand against his cheek and then turns his head, planting a kiss inside my palm. My stomach flutters, and I have to close my eyes for a second and breathe in deep to make the tremors stop. “Want some company? Or maybe backup might be a better word.”

  “That’s a really nice offer.” I brush his cheek with my hand, feeling the sexy scruffiness. “But I’d never subject you to that when you have a nice, accepting, and quite large family to be with.”

  “I don?
??t mind.” He takes a long gulp of his beer, then sets the glass back onto the table. “I’ll be there.”

  “Seriously?” Okay, so I’m selfish for pulling him away from his family, especially after I’ve met them, but I could totally use backup. And if things get really bad, we can always sneak off to an on-call room …

  “Seriously.” He grins, then nods toward the dance floor in front of the stage. “Dance with me.”

  My mouth falls open. “Dance? Um … no thanks.”

  Kelsey’s ears perk up, but she looks at Carson, and he shakes his head vigorously. She sighs. “Marsh?”

  The two of them join three other couples swinging around the dance floor.

  Carson scoots his chair closer to me and points at our dates. “Them cool.” Then he wags a finger between the two of us. “Us weird.”

  “Agreed,” I say, watching them move with such confidence. Kelsey I expected that from, but not Marshall.

  “But I did write a character who was proficient at ballroom dancing in my most recent novel.”

  “I think that counts as dancing about as much as my Google Images searches of London count as traveling,” I say. “But whatever. We are who we are.”

  Carson lifts his glass and stares at it. “Maybe if we finished these and did a few shots …”

  I straighten up, my interest already piqued. “Like an experiment?”

  “Yeah.” He nods. “An experiment.”

  We look at each other, then start chugging our beers, my face wrinkled in disgust the whole time. A few minutes later, we’ve ordered and drunk a shot of pineapple rum (Carson’s choice) and have ordered another of blueberry vodka (my choice).

  Marshall returns just as our new drinks are being delivered. He grabs my hands, pulling me off the chair. “Come on … it’s a slow song.”

  I glance at Carson, who holds up his shot glass and nods. “To being cool.”

  “To being cool.” I down the vodka, making another awful face, chug some water, and then turn to Marshall. “Okay. Dancing. Let’s get this over with.”

  “Don’t sound so excited.” He takes my hand and leads me out to where he and Kelsey were.

  “I’m not, believe me.” The lady singing has a great voice. It’s soothing and vibrates through the floor and then through my skin, joining with the buzz I’m just now beginning to feel.

  Marshall places an arm around my waist and then places our hands together. He brings us so close his mouth is perfectly level with my ear. “See? This is easy, right?”

  I suppress a shiver rushing up my spine. “It’s nice, but is it preferable to being naked back in our hotel room? Maybe not.”

  “Maybe not.” He laughs, his breath tickling my skin. “But think of it as foreplay.”

  “Foreplay?” I lift my chin, studying his face. “I thought this was more about skill. Or like a performance.”

  He shakes his head and tugs me closer, his mouth moving up and down my neck. “It’s not a performance. Just me and you.”

  “That doesn’t sound too bad.” But the idea of people watching us, of being here in the center of this room, is still intimidating, so I busy myself massaging Marshall’s hand, hitting all the key pressure points. I know he has a lot of joint pain and stiffness. These past couple of weeks, I’ve watched him shake out cramped hands while typing on his laptop. I press my thumb diagonally across his palm. “According to reflexology experts, massaging this part of the hand has healing effects for the colon.”

  “Huh.” He tightens his hold on me, but I feel an instant sag of relaxation in his muscles.

  “And this spot,” I say, pressing my thumb against the very center of his palm, “heals the small intestine.”

  He laughs gently in my ear. “Is this like the Greek mythology of medicine?”

  I hold his hand to my heart and lift my head enough to kiss his lips. “Shh … the healing gods will hear you. They don’t like being mocked.”

  Marshall closes his eyes and deepens our kiss, and the room finally dissolves around us. “You are so pretty,” he whispers against my mouth. “And smart. I’m not all about the looks, you know?”

  I reach between us and smooth my hand over his hard abs. “Well, I am. Totally.”

  “Such a shallow girl.” He sighs. “But I accept. I’m pathetic like that. At least I get dually rewarded with you—smart and hot.”

  “You are so much smarter than me in about five dozen different areas—” I stop abruptly, a tunnel forming around my vision, and suddenly I’m back in our hotel room staring at the pieces of yellow paper spread all over the desk. “Wait … what did you say?”

  “That I’m dually rewarded?”

  “Yes, that.” My heart slams against my ribs. “Shit … oh shit.”

  Marshall stiffens, then shakes my shoulders a bit. “What? Did you forget something or—”

  The music and the smell of beer and the lights return. I look up at Marshall and swallow a hard lump in my throat. “I know what’s wrong with Justin’s patient. The three-year-old girl …”

  Chapter 23

  I tear myself from Marshall’s arms and move quickly across the dance floor. Kelsey and Carson are back at the table and both start to ask what’s going on, but I’m too busy snatching my phone and heading for the door so I can make a phone call.

  The chilly wind hits me right in the face, but Justin picks up after only half a ring. “Please tell me you have a diagnosis, because my interns have been on the case for thirty-six hours straight and they’re starting to smell—even the hot one. And one just broke down crying and I had to provide comfort.”

  “Gross,” I say, and then add, “It’s Kawasaki—”

  “Are you drunk? We’ve already treated her for—”

  “Would you shut the hell up and let me finish!” I exhale and pace in a straight line along a crack in the sidewalk. “We’ve been busy searching for one infectious disease to explain all the symptoms, and something kept not fitting—the high white blood cell count, the anemia, the rash, the aneurysm …”

  “So what?” he demands. “It’s not infectious?”

  “The Kawasaki is,” I say. “But the leukemia isn’t.”

  There’s a long moment of silence, then Justin swears under his breath. He must have pulled the phone from his mouth because his voice sounds distant when he says to whoever is nearby, “Order a platelet count and a bone marrow test on the patient in six-twelve.”

  Suddenly I’m watching the rest of today play out at the hospital—what I would do or see if I were there. Justin will page oncology for a consult, then page my dad for another consult to come up with a plan to address the girl’s heart problems, which are complications of Kawasaki disease. They’ll suggest a bone marrow test to the child’s parents without explaining exactly why, but everyone will feel the word cancer floating around in the air. By tonight, they’ll most likely have confirmation of the diagnosis. Tomorrow, a cancer team working with cardio will meet and develop a treatment plan that will require hours upon hours at the hospital. If immediate heart surgery isn’t required, then Justin will pass the case to oncology and be done with this patient and her family.

  “Hey,” Justin says, breaking me from my trance. “Nice work.”

  I don’t have any memory of compliments from Justin, nor do I feel anything positive about this answer, but I do feel the instant relief in my mind of no longer searching for it. However, that’s quickly ruined by knowing what lies ahead for this little girl and her family.

  “Yeah, okay, whatever,” I mumble, and then we quickly hang up. I’m still standing on the sidewalk when I feel someone bump into me from behind. I fly forward, my phone spilling from my hand and hitting the ground, the battery popping out, and then I’m on the sidewalk, too, my hands and knees scraped up from the concrete. “Hey! Watch where you’re going!” I shout at whoever carelessly rammed into me.

  I’m picking myself up from the ground when I hear the sound of a couple of guys laughing. “Oops … sorry, sw
eetheart.”

  Obviously no one is sorry based on that tone. I pick myself up and turn around and sure enough, two big guys are grinning drunkenly at me. I open my mouth to say something, but the door to the bar flies open and Marshall takes two giant steps toward the bigger of the two guys, grabbing him by the front of his T-shirt and slamming his back against the glass window of the bar.

  “What’s your problem, man?” Marshall says to him.

  The other guy reaches for Marshall, but Carson is right behind him, grasping the back of his shirt. The guy is drunk enough to lose his balance from that.

  “Just trying to make a love connection,” the guy against the window says.

  Marshall’s face twists with anger. “Wrong answer.” And he slams him again. This time the guy’s head bangs hard against the glass.

  Kelsey’s right behind Carson. I look over at her and mouth, “Help.”

  “Marsh!” Kelsey worms her way in front of the guy Carson’s holding back and elbows him right in the gut. “Just don’t hit him. Then it’s not assault.”

  “I thought you were going to help,” I snap at her.

  Lucky for all of us, the bouncers at the bar come rushing out the door. They each grab one guy. The bouncer holding the one they pull from Marshall’s grasp glares at the drunk guy and says, “I saw you knock this lady over.” He nods in my direction. “That was not an accident.”

  Marshall shakes his arms out, then heads over to me, taking my hands and assessing the scrapes on them. “I should have come out here with you. Too many crazy drunks walking around. Are you okay?”

  “Um, yeah.” I can’t help cracking a smile. They all look so intense and serious. I guess I missed the real drama by having my back turned when the guy shoved me. And really? A love connection? Yeah, right.

  Kelsey bends over and retrieves the pieces of my cell phone, snapping them back together. “Well, I think it’s time to hide out in the hotel, maybe get some pizza.”

  Carson reaches out and grasps her shoulders. “I’m down with that.”