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Samira’s never been one for the winter– once the Christmas lights come down and New Year’s resolutions fall apart, it’s just frigid, dead darkness waiting for the first whispers of spring. February feels like the worst of it, the cold landing blustery and bitter every time the ambulance bay doors slide open. She knows she’ll miss this when it’s ninety-seven degrees and humid in the summer, but for now, she misses the sun.
Most holidays in the Pitt bring some sort of intrigue– firework injuries on the Fourth of July, fried turkeys gone wrong for Thanksgiving. She doesn’t even mind cleaning up fake blood on Halloween. Valentine’s Day, though… It’s a bit useless.
Her mom used to call it a Hallmark holiday, side-eyeing the lovesick sycophants clutching bundles of roses. “It’s a holiday invented to sell candy,” she’d say, walking through the drugstore when Samira would gaze longingly at the aisles of heart-shaped boxes. Samira would sigh, shove down her yearning, and follow her mother into the laundry detergent aisle.
She’s not a total Valentine’s scrooge like her mom– she intentionally put a magenta tank top beneath her scrubs this morning– but she wouldn’t call herself a Valentine’s Day fan. It just feels like any other day, but with more personal emergency cases. A lot of sex injuries, usually. The most exciting thing that rolled through last year was a man asphyxiating on a pair of edible panties, which he requested to keep once extracted. Not exactly the stuff of medical dreams.
It feels like everyone around her is obsessed with Valentine’s Day, though. There are tiny cardboard boxes with everyone’s names on them littered throughout the break room, paper hearts strung up under the TVs at the hub. There’s half a box of Lofthouse cookies with heart-shaped sprinkles sitting on the break room counter. Samira has probably been staring at them for four full minutes, trying to decide if she wants one even though they’re never as good as they look.
Someone opens the door, derailing her train of thought.
“Samira, got one for you in South 14,” Bridget calls. “She’s got a posse with her.”
Samira nods, standing from the table and leaving the cookies for someone else.
A posse is an understatement– there are six girls in tiny, sparkly dresses flocked around the bed. Each of them has a construction-paper heart dangling from their neck. Zach in a loopy, romantic script, on one of them. Jawan, in bold, blocky handwriting on another. Isaac, Marissa, Devin, Steven, on the others. Josh sits on the gurney in a plunging red dress with a purpling ankle the size of a grapefruit.
“Hi, I’m Dr. Mohan,” Samira says, assessing the situation.
“Molly,” the girl on the gurney supplies, eyes glassy. “I busted my ankle getting off the bus.”
“It was our crush party,” one of the other girls says. She’s a bit more frazzled than the rest of them, who are all in various states of intoxication. “I’m Alyssa. Sober monitor tonight. She rolled it pretty badly and then couldn’t put weight on it afterwards. We tried to keep it elevated on the way here, see if the swelling would go down.” Samira nods, moving towards Molly on the gurney. “I’m pre-med,” Alyssa adds, shrugging her shoulders.
“Okay, Molly, let me take a look.” Samira gently examines Molly’s ankle, taking note of where she winces. The gaggle of girls chatters, one of them stroking Molly’s hair, one of them claiming she’s going to “kill Josh, seriously, he should be here right now to help his girlfriend. Honestly, Molly, you’ve gotta dump his–”
The curtain slides open, and the crowd is suddenly silent, a single nervous giggle breaking through. All eyes have shifted to their newest visitor.
“Hi, I’m Dr. Abbot. What do we have here?” Dr. Abbot holds the curtain, scanning the area with amusement. He quirks an eyebrow when he lands on Samira. She straightens, gesturing to Molly, who is now smiling earnestly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Molly Davis, twenty years old, twisted her ankle getting off the bus after a sorority formal.”
“Crush party. Formal’s in April,” Alyssa says.
“Crush party.” Samira corrects herself. “I was just about to tell Molly that I think it’s just a sprain, but we’re gonna take her up for an X-ray to confirm. Dr. Abbot nods in understanding.
“May I?” He asks Molly, gesturing towards her ankle.
“Please. I mean, sure,” Molly says, eyes betraying nothing. Her gaze catches on Dr. Abbot’s forearms, the flex of his bicep. “I, uh, my boyfriend– ex… boyfriend ditched me. On Valentine’s Day. Can you believe?”
Dr. Abbot shakes his head.
“Sounds like a loser,” he says, turning Molly’s ankle slightly. She grimaces with the movement, but quickly fixes her face when Dr. Abbot looks up.
“Well, maybe I should just date someone older,” Molly says, her intentions very clear from her tone and the way she blinks up at Dr. Abbot through her lashes. “What do you think, Dr. Abbot?” He chuffs, ducking his chin as a flush crawls up his neck. Molly smiles.
Dr. Abbot stands, hands finding his hips. Samira watches the collective group of girls catalogue the sliver of skin that reveals itself right above his waistline. She swears she sees Molly lick her lips. Have they no shame?
It’s not like Samira doesn’t get the appeal. Dr. Abbot’s handsome. Objectively. His commitment to t-shirts that wrap tight around his chest and biceps has kept Samira awake at night before. But honestly, he’s not even doing his normal Dr. Abbot act– Samira’s watched him flirt with old ladies to keep them occupied during an exam, bounce crying babies on his hip until they’re giggling, and have extensive conversations about model trains with uncooperative six-year-olds. He charms the masses. But he’s been all business with these girls, barely even making eye contact with anyone other than Molly.
“As expected, I agree with Dr. Mohan. Probably just a sprain.” He turns to Samira. “Go ahead and get her in line for an X-ray before it backs up again. Good luck, Molly.” “Nice work, Dr. Mohan,” he says, nudging Samira on the shoulder, and he’s gone as quickly as he came. A second of silence, and then chatter fills the space.
“Oh my god, did you see his thighs?”
“Molly, he was totally flirting with you.”
“He literally blushed. You have to shoot your shot when he comes back.”
“Imagine you go to formal with a DILF. That would really show Josh.”
“Do you know if he’s into younger girls?” one of them asks Samira. Everyone waits with bated breath, eyes wide like a pack of hungry lions. Samira resists the urge to scoff, something curling low in her stomach.
“He’s married,” Samira says, her voice coming out sharper than intended.
“And… working on Valentine’s Day?” Molly asks. “Doesn’t sound like a happy marriage to me.” The group dissolves into giggles, no doubt planning a way to sabotage Dr. Abbot’s marriage. Samira scrunches up her nose. He wasn’t even doing his normal… thing with them. No jokes, no wry smiles or hushed voice. Dr. Abbot-lite, really.
Samira excuses herself to get Molly in line for an X-ray, leaving the girls to plot a seduction.
The thought sticks around. Through the next four hours of her shift, Samira ruminates on the situation herself– doesn’t his wife miss him?
Maybe she thinks Valentine’s Day is a Hallmark holiday too, but don’t married people celebrate anyway? If the way he drops a coffee on Samira’s workstation any time she has a double, or sends her case studies he thinks would interest her, or lends her his jacket on the coldest nights is any hint to how he treats his wife, surely they’d be celebrating. And he’s always fidgeting with his wedding ring, spinning it around his finger when he’s delivering tough news or figuring out a tricky diagnosis. Anyway.
She’s thinking about it as she clears more beds, as the clock ticks past midnight, Valentine’s Day dipping into February 15th – just another day of seemingly endless winter. She assists Dr. Abbot with a hip reduction (excellent, Dr. Mohan), sutures up a maimed maitre-d (you’ve got our best mind sewing you back together), and is able to sit down and work on her charts by the time the day shift starts to roll in (our cavalry’s arriving, Dr. Mohan. Daylight awaits).
“Any good Valentine’s cases?” Princess asks, dropping her bag behind the hub and resting a hip against Samira’s workstation. Her hair is in two pristine braids, untouched by whatever today will bring.
“Hmm, nothing too crazy. Had a group of girls who came in and tried to seduce Dr. Abbot, so that was… something.” Princess snorts, mutters something about kids these days. Samira, against every instinct she has, keeps talking. “You know, I thought it was so weird, too, because the ring is so obvious.”
“The ring?”
“Dr. Abbot’s wedding ring. He’s always messing with it.”
“Oh.” Princess raises an eyebrow. Samira keeps talking.
“I told the girls he was married, and then they said something about him working on Valentine’s Day, so maybe it wasn’t that happy of a marriage, and I was just… so shocked. I mean, who says stuff like that? Maybe the culture’s just different now, but when I was their age–” Princess places a hand on top of Samira’s, and the look in her eyes is grave. “What?” Samira asks.
“Abbot’s wife died like, six years ago.” Samira’s eyes widen. “So like, technically he’s not married.” Princess is studying Samira’s face closely, like she’s expecting some grand reaction.
“Oh,” is all Samira can seem to say. Princess smiles a bit wickedly.
“Yup,” she says, popping the p loudly. “I can’t believe you didn’t know that.” Samira’s staring at Dr. Abbot now, brows scrunched together. He looks over, and she ducks her chin. “Good to know you care about fidelity, though.”
“Right. Um, I should… go home.” Samira pauses, staring at the Epic homepage. “Don’t, um, don’t tell anyone that I didn’t know that.”
“Secret’s safe with me,” Princess says, with the smile of someone who could win a lot of money with this information.
Samira drives home in silence, the contrast from beeping machines and background chatter soothing. All she really wants to do is fall into bed and sleep until her next shift, but she drops her Valentine's box from the break room on her rickety kitchen table and removes the lid.
There are four in there– one from the PTMC culture committee, one from Victoria (purple, heart-shaped, covered in stickers and loopy handwriting), one from Emma (who Samira saw diligently stuffing valentines in every single box so no one would go empty-handed), and one in an envelope with no sender listed on the outside. Samira opens it. On the front, It’s Snoopy and Woodstock drawing a heart– inside, scrawled in spiky, familiar handwriting:
I tried to find a doctor-themed Valentine, but all the jokes were terrible, even by my standards. It’s a privilege to witness your mind, and I would never want to cloud it with terrible Hallmark jokes. Happy Valentine’s Day, Dr. Mohan.
- JA
Something swells in Samira’s chest, a thousand platonic interactions recontextualizing in her mind. The coffees, the case studies, the jacket that smells like sandalwood dropped over her shoulders. The wedding ring. The valentine.
Oh.
Samira stares at Snoopy and Woodstock, stares at his handwriting, stares into space until her vision blurs.