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The morning after her first shift at the Pitt, Trinity stands in her kitchen before dawn, eating a bowl of cereal and staring at her dining room table.
It’s as spotless and plain as it was when she moved in five months ago. It doesn’t see much use. Usually, it’s familiar and unassuming enough that she doesn’t focus on or even notice its presence. Now, with its symmetry disrupted, even when she looks away it looms in her periphery. She isn’t going to let a fucking table intimidate her, so she stares it down as she spoons another bite of cereal into her mouth. The empty spot where a dining chair should be stares back at her innocently.
The sudden creaking of an opening door pulls her abruptly from her staring contest. Trinity grits her teeth at her own jumpiness as Whitaker emerges from the spare bedroom. He winces and gestures at the door behind him, more specifically the hinges. “I could put some oil on those, if you want.”
Trinity chews and thinks, I’d rather have the warning. Whitaker nervously shifts his weight from foot to foot as she crunches. Trinity swallows. “As long as I pay for the oil, you mean.”
Whitaker ducks his chin. He’s still in the same clothes she found him in last night on the eighth floor of the hospital. Between that and the frankly indecent bags under his eyes, Trinity wouldn’t be surprised if Whitaker hasn’t sleep at all. Pretty stupid of him, since they have another shift starting in an hour.
Trinity spoons another bite of cereal into her mouth but only gets milk. She carries her now cereal-less bowl to the sink and starts washing it out to put in the dishwasher. In her periphery, Whitaker shuffles timidly down the hall to join her in the kitchen. After checking two cabinets, he finds a glass and waits until she moves to the dishwasher to fill it up with tap water. When she reaches for the paper towels next to the sink, he slides backward a foot or so, keeping a careful distance between them.
Good, Trinity thinks as she balls up the paper towel in her hands. “I’d ask if you slept okay, but you look like shit, so I’m gonna guess not.”
Whitaker gulps down a mouthful of water too quickly and coughs. “I slept fine,” he says hoarsely. Trinity raises a skeptical eyebrow, tossing the balled-up paper towel between her hands. “Really,” he insists. “It’s been a while since I’ve slept without keeping one eye on the door.” He ducks his chin again, all “gee, shucks” farmboy sheepish, and the tops of his ears are pink. “Thank you for…all of this. It really means a lot.”
The earnestness makes Trinity want to poke meanly at his stomach until he curls over it protectively. She squeezes the paper towel tighter instead. “Whatever. I had the room. It’s no big deal.”
Whitaker somehow looks up at her despite being taller. His eyes are big and wet like an old, sick dog’s. “It’s a big deal to me.”
Trinity huffs and breaks away, moving toward the door. “I’m taking a shower,” she says too loudly and throws the paper towel into the trash as she exits the kitchen. “Don’t flush the toilet while I’m in there or I’ll cut holes in the nipples of all your scrubs, got it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Trinity stutters to a stop in the mouth of the hallway and darts a glance at him. He stares back with the same giant-eyed, pathetic innocence as always. She squints for a moment, then turns away with a shake of her head. For a second, she could’ve sworn she heard a tinge of sarcasm in that yes, ma’am, but she must’ve imagined it. This wet cat of a med student couldn’t snark at her if he tried.
Trinity doesn’t stop again until her bedroom door shuts behind her. She stands in the middle of the room and surveys the state of it. Nearly every surface is cluttered with stuff—hair ties, skincare products, clothes, both dirty and clean. The pile spilling out from the hamper tells her she has a week at best before she’ll be forced to do laundry, but she has a day off before then, so she can leave it for now. She completes her perfunctory assessment and eventually lands on the one clean surface in the room—the seat of the dining room chair she stole from the table last night.
Like the set it comes from, the chair is perfectly banal and unassuming, but as the sunlight peeking through her curtains hits the finish on the smooth, wooden seat, it glints at her tauntingly. A wet cat of a med student, it sneers. That’s what you’re afraid of?
I’m not afraid of shit, she glares back. No longer wanting to look at it, she grabs the chair and wedges it back into the spot it stayed all night—tucked under the doorknob. Satisfied, she turns away and doesn’t look at it directly as she readies herself for her shower, but it looms in her periphery just like the table, unignorable until she closes the bathroom door behind her.
Knowing the water takes a bit to warm up, she goes to turn it on before stripping, but just as she bends over to reach the tap, the creaking of the guestroom door pierces the thin walls. She shoots upright, whipping toward the sound and, as a result, the mirror. The mirror reflects her wide-eyed fear back at her until it shifts into loathing. She clenches her hands into fists and waits until they stop shaking to try turning on the water again.
*
Forty-five minutes later, freshly showered and dressed in a pair of dark blue scrubs, Trinity emerges from the bedroom to find Whitaker sitting at the dining room table with a bag at his feet and a phone in his hand. Her door doesn’t squeak like the guestroom’s, so he doesn’t look up until she steps out of the hallway. As she ties her hair back, he hurries to stand, nearly fumbling his phone as he shoves it into his pocket, and only realizes after he’s up that he has to bend back down to grab his bag, which he does just as clumsily.
Trinity tightens her ponytail, drops her hands, and huffs a sigh. “You didn’t have to wait for me.”
Whitaker shrugs like a puppet getting jerked by its strings. “I started looking for directions to the hospital from here, but I figured you would know the best way to get there, so.”
Trinity crosses to the kitchen and starts putting together a lunch for the day. As she opens the fridge, she tosses over her shoulder, “We walked here from the hospital last night. Didn’t you pay attention?”
“It was dark, and I was pretty beat.” The idea of going somewhere with someone Trinity just met without paying meticulous attention to their exact route makes her scoff.
“Your lack of self-preservation astounds.” She throws the leftover breakfast burrito from yesterday morning into her lunch bag, along with an orange and an extra bottle of water. When she’s satisfied, she straightens up, closes the fridge, and turns back to Whitaker, still standing awkwardly at the table with his backpack clutched in his hands. “Fine, I’ll walk you there, but we should go in separately unless you want people asking questions.” She figures the hospital gossip mill will have enough to talk about with Langdon’s absence and the hand she had in it. She doesn’t need them thinking she’s fucking a med student on top of that.
“That’s probably a good idea.” Trinity nods curtly and moves to the foyer to finish packing her bag for the day. Whitaker follows belatedly and says, “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d prefer if you didn’t tell anyone about my whole…situation.”
“Like I would.” She tugs her zipper closed. “I don’t want people thinking I’m some soft touch, taking in every pathetic stray I come across.” She shoulders her bag and turns to find him staring at the floor, ears red and shame twisting his expression. Despite herself, guilt turns over in her stomach. “Relax, okay? I’m not gonna tell anyone.”
“I’ll keep looking for a place,” Whitaker says to the floor. “I’ll get out of your hair as soon as I can.”
“Sure, whatever.” She jerks her chin at the door. “If we don’t leave now, we’re gonna be late for rounds.”
Whitaker nods quickly and hurries to slip on his shoes. Trinity shoves her feet into her sneakers, tugs on her jacket, and reaches for her keys hanging on the hook by the door, only to stop as she notices the spare key she hasn’t touched since she moved in. As she stares at the spare, Whitaker finishes getting ready and goes to stand in the hallway beyond the front door with his thumbs tucked under the straps of his backpack. It shouldn’t make him seem as young as it does—people of all ages wear backpacks—but it reminds her of the kids at her gym back home, all packed up and ready to go, waiting as their moms finished talking with the coaches about their progress. As with all memories of her gym back home, it has teeth, and she tears her eyes from Whitaker only to end up back on the spare key.
It hangs in the same spot she put it five months ago. Every day of those five months, Trinity has returned to this apartment, locked both the doorknob and the deadbolt, and hung her key on the hook next to the spare with the knowledge that no one could enter without her knowing about it. Her little protective ritual, more secure than prayers or magic. The deadbolt catching sounds nothing like the lock on the coach’s office clicking shut and the smooth, wooden front door looks nothing like the sturdy, paneled bathroom one Trinity uselessly threw herself against until the firefighters and paramedics showed up too late. This door and its lock have been the guardians of her only true haven these past five months and now she’s giving that away for some random Nebraskan farm boy she met a mere 24 hours ago.
I’ll keep looking for a place. What bullshit. Trinity knows how being a fourth-year med student works. You only get a set amount of loans for living expenses. If Whitaker didn’t have enough money for rent before, she doubts that will change until he graduates. Nothing about this will be temporary unless Trinity kicks him out, which—It’s been a while, he said, since he slept somewhere safe. Yeah, she won’t be kicking him out. Giving him a key doesn’t change the permanence of the situation, and yet it still constitutes a question. His actual safety or your idea of it?
Trinity snatches the key off the hook before she can second-guess herself and holds it out to Whitaker with a harsh, “Here.” Whitaker turns to her expectantly and his eyebrows furrow at the key. Trinity shakes it at him impatiently. “Take it.”
Whitaker does and holds the key in both hands with unnecessary care.
Trinity hurries to get out the door and lock it behind her with her own key. “I don’t need you calling me every time you need to get in,” she says flippantly as she double-checks the door is locked and stashes her keys in her bag.
Whitaker still has the key in both hands, running his thumb over the round part with a reverence that unnerves her.
“Let’s go.” She starts walking without waiting for Whitaker to catch up, but he does after a few steps, slipping the key into his pocket. “Don’t lose it,” she says harshly, nodding at his pocket. “Or I’ll put the cost of changing the locks on your tab and charge you more interest than your loans do.”
“I won’t lose it,” Whitaker says, his eyes shifting across her face. She turns forward and picks up her speed. Whitaker keeps pace with her and says, somewhat jokingly, “I’m in enough debt as it is.”
Aren’t we all, she thinks but doesn’t say. She has her own loans to pay off, but the monthly payment is less than the interest she makes off her trust. There’s rent and food and stuff to buy, too, but with her resident’s salary, she has enough money to cover her lifestyle. She’s self-aware enough not to compare her monetary situation to Whitaker’s.
It’s unseasonably warm as they step out onto the street. Trinity wrinkles her nose and considers taking off her jacket, but then she’d have to take off her bag first, and carry her jacket for the duration of the walk, and it’s only like ten minutes to the hospital, so she leaves it. The streets are quiet, even for the early hour. Yesterday at this time, there were people setting up vendor stands, tourists getting an early start on their vacation day, but today the only people on the street are dressed for work and walking with purpose. Makes sense after yesterday’s shooting.
Trinity glances sidelong at Whitaker. He doesn’t seem any more nervous than his baseline of jumpy. She squints at him. “You own a gun?”
Whitaker startles—see? Jumpy—and asks, “What?”
“Do you own a gun?” she repeats with unnecessary enunciation.
Whitaker blinks a few times. “Uh, no. My family owns some, but not me.” He frowns. “Why do you ask?”
She shrugs. “Just making sure I didn’t give my spare room to a gun nut who’s gonna pull a Pittfest 2.0.”
Whitaker’s eyes go wide for a second, then he huffs and gives her a flat look. “Wow.”
Trinity makes a face. “What? Too soon?”
“Some might say so, yeah.”
Trinity cracks a smirk. “Oops.” Whitaker shakes his head, but he seems more bemused than offended. “So your family owns guns. What for?”
“Protection, mostly.” He gestures pointlessly, probably a nervous thing. Most things about Whitaker seem to be nervous. “We’re a ways away from the nearest police station, and we’ve had some wild animals try to eat our livestock a few times.”
Trinity tilts her head. “You ever shot anything?” Whitaker nods, glancing at her sideways. Trinity leans closer. “Ever shot anyone?”
Whitaker’s lips twitch. “No. But my neighbor on the next farm over once shot what he thought was a trespasser, but it turned out to be his brother who’d been sleeping off a hangover in his car.”
Trinity snorts. “He kill him?”
Whitaker shakes his head. “He would’ve missed altogether if it hadn’t been a shotgun. His brother took two pellets to the ass and still doesn’t let Mr. Paxton forget it twelve years later.” Trinity’s grin widens despite herself and Whitaker smiles more confidently in response.
Trinity pauses to direct Whitaker to turn onto the next street, but once they’re set on their new course, she says, “Mr. Paxton, huh? Do you know everyone in your town by name?”
“Not everyone. Broken Bow isn’t that small.” He says it with a bit of self-aware humor that diminishes as he scans the height of the buildings around them. After a moment, he shakes his head and says, “Mostly I just know my neighbors, and the kids I went to school with, and the people at my church.”
The word “church” brings memories of itchy dresses sliding against smooth wooden pews as she shifted onto her knees a beat after everyone else, following her lola’s lead as she clasped her hands together in front of her. The memories are vague, as she only went when she was pretty young. She made it through her first communion, but as she got more serious about gymnastics, her meets often took her out of town on the weekends, so no more Sunday mass. Her lola took her on holidays sometimes, if her mom allowed it, but the last time Trinity was in a church was for her lola’s funeral almost a decade ago now.
“—mom keeps me up to date on all the gossip,” Whitaker is rambling when Trinity tunes back in to the present. “It’s a holdover from when I was a kid. I think she coped with being the only woman in the house by kind of treating me like a daughter? Now she has my sister-in-laws, but I guess it’s just a habit, I don’t know.”
That surprises Trinity. “No sisters? Huh.”
“What?”
Trinity shrugs. “Nothing. You just give “had older sisters” vibes.”
Whitaker’s face contorts briefly. “How so?”
“I don’t know, it’s just vibes.” She nudges his shoulder with her fist. “Don’t worry, it’s a good thing.”
Whitaker rubs at his shoulder like it hurt—which come on. “Well, no sisters, just three older brothers.”
Trinity mimes pinching Whitaker’s cheek and coos, “Aw, you’re the baby.”
Whitaker pushes her hand away. “Yeah, okay, none of that, thank you.” When she relents and drops her hand, he nods at her. “What about you? Any siblings?”
“Nope.” She rubs absently over the scar on her thumb, remembers the fleeting pain and their thumbs slipping against each other from the blood, until it started to dry and stick them together. Remembers the whispered, this makes us sisters now, forever. No take-backs. “You close with your family?”
“Not geographically,” Whitaker says with forced humor, then ducks his chin when the joke falls flat. “I don’t know. I mean, yesterday a patient asked me if I had a best friend, and my first thought was my brothers, but—” Horror abruptly displaces the awkwardness in his face as he stops. “Shit.”
“What?” Trinity quickly scans the street they’re on—two business-y types are walking on the other side of the road and a cafe worker is in the process of setting up some tables out front—but nothing immediately concerning catches her eye. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, I just.” Whitaker presses his mouth into a thin line. “I promised a patient’s wife I would visit her in the ICU last night after I got off shift, but with everything that happened.” He shakes his head. “I forgot.”
Trinity relaxes her shoulders—she hadn’t realized she’d tensed them. “That’s it?” She waves dismissively. “Unless she’s a raging bitch, she won’t hold it against you. Yesterday’s shift was hell.”
“She’s not a raging bitch,” Whitaker says huffily, but quiets on the last word. Trinity can’t help the amusement that tugs at her mouth at Whitaker whispering the word “bitch.” “I don’t think she’ll be mad, I just feel bad.” He fiddles with his backpack straps. “Her husband got caught in a gas tank explosion, had burns over most of his body. We got him stable before he moved to the ICU, but the chance that he’ll die in the next week is like 90%.” Whitaker’s mouth screws to the side. “Amy, his wife, is pregnant. Langdon said he probably won’t live to see his kid.”
Trinity blows out a long breath. “That fucking sucks.”
Whitaker nods morosely. “Yeah.”
Trinity doesn’t really know what else to say to that. Part of her wants to warn Whitaker off of getting too attached to his patients, but she thinks of Alana and Max and the dreams she’s been trying not to remember from last night, and bites her tongue. As they come into view of the Pitt, she settles for clapping Whitaker on the shoulder. “Good luck with that.” She nods toward the doors. “I’ll see you in there.”
With that, she leaves him on the sidewalk, somewhat satisfied from their brief conversation that Whitaker poses even less of a threat than she had initially assumed. Now if only she could make her fucked-up nervous system believe it.
*
As Trinity steps out from the locker hallway, the first thing she hears, in Tagalog, is, “—told boss man to trust him and boss said, “We’re way past that.”” Immediately, Trinity locks in on Perlah, sitting behind the nurse’s desk with Princess, their heads bent toward each other with their backs to Trinity.
Princess responds, still in Tagalog, “Jason told me he was out having a smoke in the ambulance bay when they got into it again. Boss yelled, “Fuck you,” real loud.” From behind, Trinity can barely see the curve of one of Princess’ eyebrows arched high on her forehead.
“Golden Boy fucked up,” Perlah says, nodding meaningfully. “I bet you it was New Girl that found out what he did and ratted him out to the boss.”
“Which new girl?”
Perlah glances around the ER before quietly saying, “Santos.”
Princess drops her voice even lower but it doesn’t hide her burgeoning excitement as she demands, “What do you know?”
“Ellis went around asking the night nurses if they knew about any beef between New Girl and Golden Boy. She said they were getting into it in front of her last night.”
Someone bumps into Trinity from behind and she stumbles from the impact.
“Oh, sorry, Dr. Santos, I didn’t see you there,” comes McKay’s voice as two hands steady Trinity by her shoulders. Princess and Perlah spin around, their eyes wide as they notice Trinity for the first time. Trinity turns her back to them to flash a tight smile at McKay.
“My bad,” she says. “I shouldn’t stop in the middle of the hall like that.”
McKay offers a gentle smile, squeezes Trinity’s shoulder once, and drops her hands. “No harm done. I know I’m pretty out of it before I get some coffee in me.” She nods in the direction of the staff lounge. “You want to grab a cup with me?”
Trinity nods too quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, that would be great.”
McKay leads the way and Trinity follows, keeping her eyes forward. While the ER is never quiet, the silence from behind the nurses’ desk rings loudly in Trinity’s ears. Only once they’re inside the staff lounge, with the door shut behind them, does she let herself relax out of her stubbornly confident posture. McKay sets to brewing a fresh pot of coffee, picking out two mugs, one with a chip in the handle. Trinity stays quiet aside from muttering “yes,” and “no,” in response to McKay’s questions about cream and sugar. When the coffees are done, McKay gestures for Trinity to join her at the table, sliding the unchipped mug across. Trinity wraps both hands around it despite the stinging heat, her fingers somehow cold now even with the unseasonably warm weather. Probably the air conditioning.
“I should thank you,” McKay says as she lifts her own mug to her mouth. She blows gently across its surface and takes a small sip.
Trinity raises her eyebrows. “Thank me for what?”
“I thought for sure I’d be the star of today’s gossip mill after the whole show with the ankle monitor yesterday.” McKay inclines her head. “But I’m more than happy to share the spotlight.” Trinity pulls her mug closer until she can feel the heat of it against her sternum. She’s fairly sure that McKay doesn’t speak Tagalog, which means people other than Princess and Perlah are talking about Trinity’s role in Langdon’s absence.
Trinity tries for a light tone when she says, “Glad to be of service,” but it comes out clipped and bitter. Annoyed with herself, she takes a sip of coffee to busy her mouth and immediately scalds her tongue. She chokes down a swallow, hoping the pain doesn’t show on her face. Her hopes must be for naught, though, because McKay’s expression twists into one of pity, the kind you’d give a particularly pathetic patient.
“It sucks,” McKay says. “I’m not going to pretend it doesn’t. But take some comfort in knowing that, as fast as news spreads around here, it moves on just as quickly.” Her mouth tugs up on one side. “This time next week, they’ll be gossiping about the hot new lab tech, or the next messy patient breakup in an exam room.”
“Maybe for you,” Trinity mutters. “Not for me.”
“Oh?” McKay’s eyebrows lift in amusement. “Think you’re that special?”
“Not like that.” Trinity huffs. “Drilling an IO into an ankle monitor so you could keep helping patients during a mass casualty isn’t the same as dethroning the Pitt’s golden boy on your first day.” She gestures at McKay. “You were badass.” She returns her hand to her mug. “I fucked over the entire department.”
“Hey.” McKay reaches out and gives Trinity’s forearm a warm squeeze. “If anyone fucked us over, it was Langdon, not you.”
Trinity’s eyebrows pull together. “You know what happened?”
McKay releases her forearm. “Only rumors. I got in a bit late today.” McKay shrugs. “Whatever it was, I know it had to be his fault if Robby sent him home.”
McKay takes another sip from her coffee and Trinity wants to say, but Robby let him come back. She runs her burnt tongue along the inside of her teeth instead of speaking. From what Princess and Perlah said, Robby didn’t seem happy with Langdon last night, so Trinity can only hope he keeps Langdon gone. Of course, putting her hopes in men with power has never ended well for her before.
“And hey, for the record?” McKay sets her mug back on the table. “You were pretty badass, too.” She smiles the way the older girls at the gym would grin before secretly teaching them cool, advanced moves the coaches wouldn’t let them learn yet. “It takes real guts to call someone out like that. You did the right thing, even when it was hard. The Pitt needs people like that.” She searches Trinity’s face for a second. “Remember that, okay?”
Trinity swallows around nothing. Her concern from before pushes its way to the front of her mouth. “Do you think—” she starts to say, but a knock at the door cuts her off and turns both their heads toward the sound.
Javadi stands in the doorway, gesturing over her shoulder with her thumb. “Sorry to interrupt, but Dr. Robby is here for rounds.”
“Thanks,” McKay says as she starts to stand. She nudges Trinity’s shoulder as she goes by, and between that and the deep breath Trinity takes, she figures she’s as prepared as she’ll ever be for the shift in front of her.
As they gather for rounds, Langdon is nowhere to be seen. Instead, Mohan steps in beside Collins to present their cases to Robby and the group of doctors trailing behind him. None of the cases are particularly interesting—two drunks on IVs, one fracture in need of a splint, an unknown stomach pain already claimed by Mohan, and a bunch of people waiting on beds upstairs. After a lap of the ER, they end up back in front of the patient board and Robby takes up his usual spot to address the group.
“Welcome back, everyone. I’m surprised and relieved to see you all haven’t quit after yesterday.” Some polite laughter fills the pause. “But seriously, you were all amazing yesterday, and I can’t thank you all enough for what you did. I know, for some of you, that was your first day with us.” Robby’s eyes pass briefly over Trinity and jump from Mel, to Javadi, and finally Whitaker. He nods shallowly. “I can’t promise that we won’t have more days like that, but after yesterday, I have no doubt that you can handle whatever this ER throws at you.
“Now.” Robby claps his hands together. “We’re down a senior resident for today and the next few days until we can rework the schedule.” He nods at Mohan. “Dr. Mohan will be stepping in as a temporary senior resident until then. Even so, we’re going to have our hands full, so let’s get out there.” As the group starts to break up, Santos turns with the intent of grabbing a headache she saw on the board when Robby says, “Santos, hold up.” She stops in place, waiting as Robby approaches, and even though she keeps his gaze, she can feel other eyes lingering on her. Once in front of her, Robby says in a quieter voice than before, “I need a resident to cover triage for the morning. Think you’re up for it?”
Trinity blinks. Her first instinct is to argue. I’m fine, she wants to say. You don’t need to exile me to chairs like I’m Crash. But the sensation of people watching her itches between her shoulder blades. A quick glance around the ER has several pairs of eyes skittering away, pretending like they weren’t watching her conversation. The thought of spending her morning like this exhausts her before she’s even done anything.
“Yeah, I’m up for it,” she says, looking back to Robby. He peers at her for several long moments, assessing. She nods firmly, trying to reassure him. “I can do this.”
“Alright. Come talk to me if you need anything.”
I won’t, she thinks as she turns, ignoring the renewed stares, and makes her way to chairs.
*
Trinity gets back to the ED proper around lunch. Or after lunch, going by the way her stomach is growling. She scans the board, finds a case she sent back earlier that hasn’t been picked up yet, and resolves to do it herself right after she eats something. She grabs her lunch bag from her locker and makes her way to the lounge, only to find someone else had the same thought as her, because she isn’t alone when she enters the room.
Whitaker looks up from his sandwich like a stereotypical deer caught in headlights. A glance down explains why. The sandwich in his hand is wrapped in the same paper as the sandwiches from the patient bin, and not only has he nearly finished it, but the crumpled ball of paper next to him tells Trinity this is not his first one.
She can’t help her smirk. “You took sandwiches from the patient bin?”
Whitaker swallows and rubs at his mouth with the back of his wrist. “I forgot to pack a lunch.” Whitaker couldn’t have taken more than fifteen minutes to get ready this morning, so he had a full half an hour waiting for Trinity during which he could’ve easily made himself a lunch.
She raises an eyebrow. “Alright,” she says skeptically as she approaches the table. “But two of them?”
“I, uh.” His jaw shifts from side to side. “Didn’t eat breakfast.”
Trinity scoffs as she sits across from him. “What, my cereal choices too adventurous for you, Huckleberry? I’ll make sure to get something boring enough for your farmboy taste buds next time I go to the store.” As she peels back the wrapper on her breakfast burrito, she glances at Whitaker to find him pink-cheeked and staring at his lap. “What?”
“I, uh. Your cereal choices are fine, I just, uh.” He shakes his head. “Didn’t want to assume.”
Trinity lowers her burrito. “The fuck do you take me for?” Whitaker flinches. His fear annoys her further. “Even if I wasn’t willing to feed you indefinitely, I’d have to be a dickwad to get mad at you for eating my cereal after the day we fucking had.” Whitaker continues maintaining eye contact with his lap, so she kicks out at his ankle under the table. He startles, looking up. “You can eat my fucking food, alright? Jesus.” Whitaker’s eyes have gone all ASPCA commercial again and Trinity scowls. “Unless you prefer day-old sandwiches from a bin, then what do I care? Just don’t fucking starve yourself, alright?” With that, she tears a bite out of her burrito.
Whitaker opens his mouth, probably to say something sickeningly earnest, but a nurse pops his head in to say, “Cardiac arrest coming in, three minutes out. Robby wants you helping with the STEMI, Whitaker.”
Whitaker nods and hurries to clean up from his meal. Trinity sighs as she’s thankfully left alone in the room. With no eyes tracking her every move and no nervous little roommates to say sappy, sad bullshit, she spends the next five minutes simply enjoying the fuck out of her burrito.
*
Toward the end of shift, as they’re wheeling a gurney into the elevators, Trinity’s phone buzzes in her pocket. She waits until the elevator doors close with the patient behind them to pull out her phone. It’s a text from her mother. I heard there was a shooting in Pittsburgh.
“Everything okay?” Trinity reflexively pulls her phone closer to her chest and Dr. Robby’s eyebrows lift. She imagines this is what it would’ve felt like to get caught doing something forbidden on her phone by her father, if he’d still been alive by the time she got a cellphone.
“Yes, everything’s fine.” She slips her phone back into her pocket.
Robby tracks the movement. “We can lose you for five minutes if you need to go handle something.”
“Only thing I need to handle is the tender belly in South Fourteen.” She points two fingers in the direction she’s going in a half-assed, pseudo-salute and books it to the exam room. She manages to pick up two more cases before night shift shows up to relieve them, keeping herself busy enough that she doesn’t think about the text again until she’s waiting for Whitaker a block away from the ER and takes out her phone for something to do.
I heard there was a shooting in Pittsburgh. No, “Are you okay?” No, “Did anyone you know get hurt?” No evident concern. It doesn’t surprise Trinity. Worse, it reminds her of all those times she almost said something on the car ride home from practice, almost asked, “Is it weird that Coach touches—” only for her mother to say something like, “I heard you finally landed that aerial twist.” Trinity would bite her lip and nod, smother the discomfort with that prickle of pride in her mother’s tone. Remind herself that being the best was more important than anything else.
Out of the corner of her eye, she notices a figure approaching. She slips her phone into her pocket, nodding at Whitaker when he’s close. He stops next to her, thumbs tucked under his backpack straps. With a small smile, he says, “You waited for me?”
Trinity huffs. “Don’t feel special, I just didn’t want you getting lost and calling me for help.” Whitaker’s expression pinches in the middle, equal parts confused and amused. Trinity turns and starts walking faster than she needs to for the satisfaction of making Whitaker catch up. They walk in silence for a few blocks, but that does nothing to keep her from thinking about her mother, so eventually she says, “Did you end up visiting that patient in the ICU?”
“Teddy,” Whitaker says, “and yeah, I went this morning and just now. He’s still stable, but sedated. Amy said his parents visited today, but it looked like she’d been there all night.”
“How pregnant is she?”
“About seven months.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.” Whitaker rubs at the side of his face. “I only stayed with her for ten minutes, but she must’ve thanked me a dozen times while I was there. I didn’t know what to say.” He drops his hand and shakes his head. “I didn’t even do anything.”
“Hey.” Trinity bumps her shoulder into his, possibly more aggressively than she meant to because he stumbles briefly before righting himself. “You did do something.” He glances sideways at her, skeptical, and she holds his eye. “You made sure she wasn’t alone. That’s not nothing.”
Whitaker stares back silently for a long moment, then his lips twitch toward a smile.
Trinity scrunches her nose. “What?”
“Nothing, just.” His smile stretches a little wider. “When you’re not pretending otherwise, you’re very kind, Santos.”
“Ew, the fuck?” Trinity reels back, disgusted. “Don’t get your sappiness on me, it’s gross.” She speeds up her steps, putting Whitaker a few feet behind her, in the hopes that he won’t notice how warm her cheeks are. Fucking farm boys and their earnestness.
Whitaker catches up in a few paces but thankfully changes the subject with, “How was your day? You like triage?”
“Oh, yeah, treating food poisoning and shallow lacerations beats out a real trauma any day of the week,” she says dryly, but then shrugs. “It was whatever. If it helps me get back in the Pitt’s good graces, it’s fine.”
“Back in? When did you fall out of them?”
Trinity adjusts her bag on her shoulders. “You don’t have to pretend. I know everyone’s talking about how I got Langdon fired.”
“I mean, yeah, a few people are, but mostly they’re talking about what he did to get fired, as far as I heard.” Either he’s a better liar than Trinity would expect from a Huckleberry or he’s actually telling the truth. She lowers her shoulders slightly. Whitaker continues, “I only heard your name a few times, and one of them was when a surgeon came down for a consult and said they heard an intern did a REBOA yesterday. Dr. Robby himself told them it was you.”
“Was the surgeon Garcia?” she asks before she can bite her tongue. Going by the glance Whitaker sends her, he didn’t miss her over-eagerness.
“No, but I’m sure she’s heard about it by now.” Whitaker hesitates a moment, then says almost carefully, “Maybe it’s even cool enough to make her forget about the whole, you know.” He mimes a scalpel falling through the air with his finger, whistling an accompanying sound effect.
Trinity wants to be offended, but she finds herself almost impressed. “Wow, Huckleberry.”
Whitaker actively fights a smile. “Too soon?”
Trinity bites back her own smile. “More that I didn’t think you had it in you. That’s a bold thing to say to the person whose guestroom you’re squatting in.”
Whitaker’s smile falters. “I’m sorry, that was—I shouldn’t have—”
“Aaaaand you flubbed the landing. Keep practicing.” She claps him on the shoulder and turns to enter her building. “You’ll get there eventually.”
As they start up the stairs, Whitaker stutters through some speech about how he really does appreciate her letting him stay with her, and how he gets that she’s a big joker, but if she could possibly maybe refrain from making jokes about kicking him out because it’s really hard to know if—
Whitaker’s phone goes off as they reach their floor, thankfully stopping his speech in its tracks. He answers it with, “Mom? Hi. Yeah, I’m sorry, I forgot to call with all the craziness. I’m fine. Good.” Whitaker trails behind Trinity into the apartment. She slips off her shoes and Whitaker nearly trips when he does the same, off-balance with one hand holding his phone. “No, yeah, it was—a lot, but today’s shift was a lot calmer. Yeah, I’m back home now.”
Trinity glances his way, wondering what his mom thinks “home” is, but he isn’t looking at her. She leaves it be and makes her way to the couch to collapse onto it. As Whitaker continues reassuring his mother, she pulls up her favorite Thai place on DoorDash. She puts in what she wants but checks back in with Whitaker’s conversation instead of submitting the order.
“—try to get some sleep. I’ll call you on Sunday, that’s my next day off. Yeah. Love you, too. Goodnight, Mom.” Whitaker ends the call and Trinity holds her phone out to him.
“Pick what you want and send in the order. My card should already be in there.” He stutters over a thank you so she gestures impatiently with the phone until he takes it. While he picks out his food, she shuts her eyes and lets her head fall back against the couch cushion. Now that she’s stopped moving, the bone-deep ache in her legs pulses unignorably. She’s done a dozen rotations at this point—most of them as a med student, but still—and none have kept her on her feet as much as the ER. It’s the first time since she quit gymnastics that her body has been this exhausted with the accompanying, satisfying surety that every bit of energy she expended went to perfect use.
“Uh, Santos.”
Eyes still shut, Trinity says, “If you’ve never had Thai food before, just order pad thai. Unless you’re allergic to peanuts, then get pad see-ew.”
“Uh, no, I ordered the drunken noodles, but, uh, your mom texted you?”
Trinity’s eyes snap open and she grabs her phone out of Whitaker’s hand. He already submitted the order—the app says it shouldn’t be more than thirty-five minutes, thank fuck—and whatever message her mother sent has disappeared from the top of the screen. She taps over to her messages, heart beating too fast. Given your proclivity for parties, confirmation that you were not at this festival would be appreciated.
Trinity huffs out a pissed laugh. She types out, i was not at the festival, i was in the ER taking care of the victims. She hits sends and tosses her phone onto the coffee table, where it thunks loudly. The room goes quiet for a beat, then—
“Are you—”
“No.”
“I was just—”
“Don’t.”
Whitaker thankfully doesn’t speak again, but Trinity can still feel him hovering nervously behind her. She crosses her arms over her chest, squeezing her biceps with her hands until it hurts. Her forearms rise and fall with her deep breaths as she tries to slow her heart rate. Whitaker shifts his weight behind her and she grits her teeth.
“I’m gonna take a shower,” she says, forcing her tone level. “When the food gets here, I’m going to sit on this couch and watch reality TV until I pass out. You can join me, or don’t, I don’t care, but under no circumstances are you to bring up the text again. Got it?”
“...alright.”
Trinity nods, stands, and doesn’t look back at him as she walks to her room. She takes a quick shower without washing her hair and considers putting on the usual boxer-like shorts she likes to wear around the house, but ultimately finds a semi-clean pair of long pajama pants instead. When she emerges from her room, she can hear the shower running in the guestroom bath. She starts flipping through Netflix looking for a show that will suitably distract her, but she hasn’t picked one by the time Whitaker comes out of his room with his hair plastered to his forehead. He looks at her with his sad dog eyes, no doubt gearing up to say something that’ll piss her off, but her phone buzzes, announcing the arrival of the food, and saves them both. Trinity sends Whitaker down to get it with a cash tip for the driver and when he returns upstairs, he grabs a fork and retreats to his room with his dinner.
Trinity thinks, good choice, and settles back onto the couch with her own food. She picks the next show that looks halfway interesting and shovels food into her mouth without worrying about looking like a pig. The show is predictably kind of terrible, but engaging enough to keep her mind off of anything but the stupidity of it. As the first episode ends and shifts into the second, Whitaker emerges from his room with an empty container and his fork. As he walks by the coffee table, he pauses and gestures as if to ask, “are you done?” Trinity sweeps her hand in a “go ahead” motion and Whitaker silently collects her containers and cutlery.
With an ear turned toward the kitchen, Trinity listens to him put away the leftovers, rinse out the empty containers, and wash the cutlery from dinner. She has to raise the volume on her show slightly as Whitaker turns on the kitchen faucet, but she isn’t going to complain about his little maid act.
“Santos?” he calls after a few minutes. “Will it bother you if I run the dishwasher?”
“Nah, go for it,” she tosses over her shoulder. The dishwasher rumbles a bit pathetically, like a car turning over instead of starting, but eventually it settles fully into its cycle. With it running, she can’t hear Whitaker moving around anymore, so when he huffs a short laugh from only a foot behind the couch, Trinity startles. She covers it with a scowl. “Don’t stand there like a creep, Jesus Christ.”
“Sorry, sorry.” Whitaker shifts awkwardly and gestures toward his room. “I’ll just—” He nods to himself and makes for the hallway. Trinity almost lets him leave—she should let him leave—but he must’ve been amused by the show, and she doubts he has his own Netflix subscription to watch it with, and whatever, the company wouldn’t suck.
Trinity bites out, “Just sit on the fucking couch.”
Whitaker pauses and glances back at her skeptically, but when she gestures harshly at the cushion next to her, he hurries to follow her direction. He sits gingerly, poised to leave at any second, but as time goes on, he settles in further. Eventually, he even dares to speak. “These people are…interesting.”
“Anyone self-absorbed enough to go on reality television has to be a nut,” Trinity says, and makes a face as the guy on screen boasts about his giant dick. “This one’s pretty tame, though, comparatively. There’s one show where a bunch of twenty-year-old dudes go to a mansion with their moms, and the guys are supposed to, like, fuck the other moms.”
After a beat of horrified silence, Whitaker says, “Freud would have a field day with that one.” Trinity huffs, mildly amused, but then Whitaker ruins it by hurrying to qualify, “Not that there’s any scientific merit to any of his research, but. You know.”
“Your jokes will hit better if you don’t undermine them with qualifications,” Trinity tells him. “Confidence is half the battle, Huckleberry.”
“Confidence isn’t really my thing.”
Trinity snorts. “Really? Hadn’t noticed.”
They watch in mostly silence after that, until halfway through the third episode, when Trinity realizes she’s seen this season before—she must’ve had it on in the background or something—and proceeds to spoil everything she can remember for Whitaker. Whitaker doesn’t seem to mind, beyond pointing out that she’s nullifying any reason they have to continue watching.
“I should probably get to sleep,” he finally says at the end of the third episode. “But thank you for letting me watch with you.”
Trinity lets her head loll back against the cushions. “We’re gonna have to put a daily limit on the “thank you’s” or I might die of excess gratitude.” Whitaker gives her that look again, the one he gave her before calling her kind, and she hurries to nip whatever sentiment he has brewing in the bud. “I’m turning in,” she says as she stands and stretches out her limbs. She flaps a disinterested hand in his direction as she starts for her bedroom. “Don’t let the bed bugs bite or whatever.”
She stops in the mouth of the hallway as Whitaker responds, “Goodnight to you, too.”
Trinity shakes her head and continues to her room. The door shuts behind her and she eyes the dining room chair still sitting by the door like a dare. She leaves it be and shucks her pajama pants—she sleeps too hot for that—turns off the light, and gets into bed. Whitaker must still be in the living room, because the hallway light peeks under her door and the sounds of his footsteps come through, too. Trinity listens for a minute, maybe two, as she holds herself perfectly still.
Then the guestroom door creaks loudly and she jumps out of bed, wedges the chair under her doorknob, and gets back under the covers with her back to the door.