Rowan had no idea what she expected of Galen’s place, but when she got there, she wasn’t surprised. The apartment was on the second floor of an old brownstone in Back Bay—the most elite part of Boston where all of the old money lived. It was only a one-bedroom but spread out an impressive thousand square feet, with cathedral ceilings and walnut molding. Everything was meticulously decorated and tidy, which Rowan figured was either because Galen had a maid or Galen spent most of her waking and sleeping hours at the hospital. She knew the Burgess family had money. A lot of money. A million-dollar apartment didn’t surprise her. But the decor did. For some reason, Rowan realized she had pictured Galen’s surroundings like a man cave, with antique beer signs and cheesy black-and-white photos of naked women draped on sports cars. She wasn’t sure why she had this sense of Galen as a privileged, overgrown child, but she fully acknowledged she had been more than wrong.
“Galen…This place. I mean, my God.” She realized she’d been gawking.
“Thanks. I’ve put a lot of work into it.”
On the dining-room wall behind Galen hung an enormous mural of a woman from the nineteen twenties, standing on a street corner with a long cigarette and a fur coat. Her silhouette was obscured in an impressionistic blur. Naked women on sports cars. Please.
The sofa was a soft, buttery leather the color of bourbon, and an extremely expensive-looking Oriental rug adorned the floor. It was like a showroom at a high-end furniture store, the only signs of life being a couple of open surgical journals and a coffee cup on the mahogany coffee table.
“You picked all this out?”
“Yeah. Interior decorating is kind of a thing of mine.” For the first time all day, a little color returned to Galen’s cheeks.
“It’s incredible.”
“Please, sit down. Can I get you anything? I have coffee, whiskey…”
“I’m fine, really.”
“I also have water. Lots of water. And I think you’ll find a box of Triscuits in the pantry that are only marginally stale.”
Rowan chuckled. “I don’t need anything, Galen. I promise. Besides, you’re the patient. You sit.” Galen obeyed and took a seat on the couch. “Do you mind if I rummage through your kitchen?”
“Of course not. Just don’t judge me too hard.” Galen pulled a blanket off the arm of the sofa and wrapped up in it. “Hey, Ro?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
* * *
As Galen had warned, Rowan really did find only a little in Galen’s kitchen. It was clear just how seldom she was home. Nonetheless, Rowan had returned to the living room ten minutes later with a cup of hot tea, some chicken broth, and a thousand milligrams of Tylenol. She found Galen still on the couch, minus her usual scrubs, her legs stretched out across the chaise, her feet covered by the throw blanket. She wore a thin, fraying Harvard Medicine T-shirt and a pair of basketball shorts that hung off her straight hips. Rowan had seen her in scrubs in the OR nearly every day for the last two months, but she’d somehow managed to never notice Galen’s arms. They were large—much larger than she expected for someone with Galen’s build. Her biceps were muscled, with a fine line marking her deltoids. They looked strong, like her hands. And all at once, Rowan found herself simultaneously turned on and completely freaked out.
She hardly knew Galen, and here she was, in her apartment while Galen lay on the couch at her most vulnerable, in her pajamas, managing to look helpless yet incredibly sexy. The scene was incredibly intimate yet seemed absolutely normal. Rowan was disturbed beyond belief.
“I managed to find a few things,” she finally said, setting the tray down on the table in front of Galen.
“You’re a real lifesaver, you know that? I don’t know how I’d survive this without you.”
Rowan took a seat next to her but purposely left a foot or two of space between them, “I didn’t realize you had such a flair for the dramatic.”
“Oh, I do. I started a fire in hopes of enticing you to stay a while longer. There aren’t many working fireplaces in Boston, you know.”
“We had four in my house growing up,” Rowan said, teasing her. “I’m unimpressed.”
“You will be. Just wait.”
* * *
When Galen opened her eyes again, the television had kicked into sleep mode, and the last burning embers of the fire glowed a faint orange. She sat up, rubbing the bleariness from her eyes. Her fever had broken, and her stomach was no longer threatening to eject itself from her body. Rowan lay stretched out beside her, her head just a few inches from Galen’s lap. Waking up to find a woman had spent the night usually sent her into a fit of panic. But Rowan’s soft breathing cloaked her in a comfort she had rarely experienced in her life.
It reminded her of when she’d had chicken pox as a child. Her mother had stayed up with her all night watching Winnie the Pooh while Galen scratched and squirmed through the illness. When she awoke, her mother was sleeping next to her on the couch. Galen’s father made her feel strong and capable and important. But he never made her feel safe. He never made her feel cared for. And her mother was usually so busy trying to please her father, she didn’t have many opportunities to either. So she allowed herself just a moment to revel in the security of the scene around her.
Galen had seriously contemplated waking Rowan. But it was two forty-five am, and she couldn’t find much merit in that. After all, they both had to be back at the hospital in a few hours. Instead, she covered Rowan in one of the extra blankets and curled back up on the couch beside her, fighting the urge to run her fingers through Rowan’s stray hairs that splayed across the pillow.
* * *
It was still dark when Rowan opened her eyes, which wasn’t altogether unusual, except that she had absolutely no idea where she was. A hand was gently rocking her awake, which only added to her disorientation.
“Hey, I’m sorry…but we should get to work…”
Holy shit, she was at Galen’s house. Holy fucking shit, she’d slept there?
“I…how?” The fog started to clear, and the evening came back to her. The last thing she remembered was watching this obnoxious couple on the television arguing about hardwood versus laminate.
“You fell asleep. We both did, actually. I would have woken you up, but you looked so comfortable.”
“I appreciate that.” And Rowan supposed she did, although she was utterly unnerved waking up next to Galen. She could only imagine what she looked like—her makeup smeared all over her face and her hair snarled. Oh, God. Did she snore? What if she snored? She shook her head, silently kicking herself for sounding like a teenage girl.
“You can use the shower first if you want. I’ll get you some of my scrubs. They might be a little big, but they’ll work.”
Rowan felt herself blush fiercely as she remembered ogling Galen’s arms earlier that evening. “Thanks.”
Several minutes later, Rowan stepped out of the beautiful marble shower, her head finally clearing.
“Here. Double espresso.” Galen was standing in the kitchen in a light blue, striped, button-down shirt that brought out the Caribbean-ocean hues of her eyes and a pair of dark slacks and boots. She handed Rowan a tiny, red coffee cup and smiled.
“Thank you.”
“I usually make one before I leave in the morning. They go down much quicker than coffee.”
“You’ve really perfected the art of caffeinating. No scrubs today?” Rowan hoped she’d managed to make her voice sound casual enough. But Galen looked good. Damn good.
“Today is the first of the month, which means I get to speak at grand rounds.” She groaned and rolled her eyes.
“I find it hard to believe you’re dreading entertaining a room full of people.”
“Normally, you’re right. But grand rounds means my father will be there. Which means I can fully anticipate anything I say being torn to shreds for a solid hour afterward.”
“Your dad seems like a real jerk.” Rowan instantly wanted to retract her words. She and Galen were not friends. She was in no position to make personal remarks about her family. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“You’re not wrong. Henry Burgess is a varsity-level asshole. I finally learned how to deal with him being my father, but I guess I still haven’t quite adjusted to him being my boss.”
“Why did you decide to do your residency at Boston City anyway? You could have gone anywhere.” Rowan realized she was probing, but she couldn’t help herself.
“That one’s easy. I’m a Burgess. It’s what we do.”
Rowan figured she understood that concept all too well.
* * *
“When a high-energy projectile, like a bullet, travels through the relatively liquid human body, it forms a cavity in its wake.” Galen stood in front of the group of forty-plus surgeons, her white coat now covering her broad, stalky frame. She wasn’t tall, but she was strong. Rowan couldn’t help but notice just how perfectly Galen’s outward appearance coincided with who she was inside. “And, although we still primarily see blunt trauma, with gun violence spiraling out of control in this country, we need to make sure we are on the front lines of the treatment options for penetrating injuries like this.”
When Galen spoke, the room was still. Every eye focused on her, and electricity sparked the air. Rowan supposed she was the living definition of charisma. It was probably why women seemed to line up for a chance to be near her. She moved with an untouchable confidence, and every word she spoke sounded like gospel, even if it wasn’t. It was a gift. And Rowan didn’t succumb to it any less than everyone else did. She smiled, proud she’d arrived with Galen at work that morning. But embarrassment quickly replaced the pride. Galen was not a celebrity. And Rowan was most certainly not a fan girl.
* * *
Rounds had gone well. Galen had done what she deemed to be a sufficient job discussing hemostasis techniques in penetrating trauma. People seemed engaged enough, although she was certain her father would beg to differ.
“Galen.” As sure as the sun coming up, Henry Burgess was waiting for her outside the doors of the auditorium. Galen bit the inside of her cheek, a nervous tic she’d developed as a child whenever her father used her name.
“Sir.”
Her father’s face looked pale and worried. Something was very wrong. “It’s your mom…”
Galen’s heart sank to her feet. “What happened?”
“The ambulance brought her in about an hour ago. She’s not doing well.”
She shook her head, trying to make sense of the words. “What? I don’t understand—”
“They think it may be a leaking aortic aneurysm.” Even in the height of tragedy her father’s tone sounded callous and cold.
“What? Is she okay? Why are you here? You should be with her! Why didn’t you come get me? Why didn’t she call us? Why—”
“Dr. Burgess. Galen. Stop. Take a breath. She’s okay.” Her father touched Galen’s elbow in an awkward attempt at comfort, but the anxiety continued to bubble up inside her until she was either going to run or cry. And crying wasn’t really an option.
“She’s not okay. She’s alone. You should have stayed with her. You should have told me right away. You should have—”
“Come on. We’re going right now.”
* * *
Margaret Burgess lay on the hospital gurney, two nurses, an emergency-medicine resident, and an attending physician at her bedside. She looked at least ten years older than the last time Galen had seen her, which was only two months earlier. It shouldn’t have been that long. Not when her mother lived only a few blocks away. Tears threatened their way to the surface, and she wished she’d decided to run instead.
“Mom….”
“Hi, baby.” Her mother smiled weakly. “You look thin. Are you eating enough?”
Galen laughed as her eyes throbbed from holding back the tears. She couldn’t let her mom see her scared. She had to be the strong one again. “Typical. Always worrying about everyone else.” She sat on the corner of the bed and rubbed her mom’s frail leg.
“I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”
“How long have you been having pain, Mom?”
“A couple of days now.”
“Why didn’t you tell anyone?”
“It was nothing. Just a little backache. But today, when I passed out—”
“Jesus, Mom! Why didn’t you call me? Or Dad?”
“I didn’t want to bother you two. I know how busy you are. Especially your father.”
Galen turned and scowled at the man standing uncomfortably in the doorway. Henry Burgess was, in all senses of the word, a stranger. Galen had never really known him. “That’s ridiculous. You have a leaking triple-A. You could die!”
“That’s just fancy medical jargon. I told you, I’m okay.”
She moved closer to her mother and placed both her hands around her face. “No. You aren’t okay. Listen to me. Your aorta is leaking. It’s like a fire hose filled with blood, sitting right in your belly, that’s slowly squirting all your blood volume into your gut. You need surgery. Right now.”
“Galen Henrietta Burgess, don’t you patronize me. I may not have gone to medical school, but I’m no dummy.”
“I’m sorry.” Galen bowed her head. She hated her middle name. She hated just how connected she had to be to that asshole who had contributed to half her genetics. “Mom. You need an operation. Will you agree to that? If you don’t, you’re going to die. And you can’t do that to me.” The dam in her eyes suddenly broke, and enormous, hot tears spilled onto the sheet covering her mother’s chest. “I need you.”
“Don’t cry, baby.”
Galen sat up straight, sniffed once with finality, and wiped her eyes. She would not give her father the satisfaction of seeing her break down—not when he looked so stoic and heartless. This was his wife. This was the woman he’d been married to the last thirty-eight years. This was why Galen didn’t get close to anyone. “Dad. When is she going to the OR?”
“In just a few minutes. We’re almost ready for her.”
“Did you just say ‘we’?” Galen’s fear and sadness turned to a rage so blinding the room flashed white.
“Yes. I’ll be doing the operation.”
“Like hell you will,” she shouted.
“Excuse me? You better watch your tone right now, Doctor. Remember who you’re speaking to.”
“Remember? Oh, I remember. A frigid, empty shell of a man who would rather be a surgeon than a husband, even when his wife is about to die!”
No one in the room dared to take a breath. Never in her life had she spoken to her father that way. And she couldn’t bring herself to give a single fuck. All she cared about was her mother—the one person who’d ever shown her love and affection, even when she was busy catering to her husband. “Galen, honey. I’m going to be fine. Your dad is the best in town. You know that. I’m in very good hands.”
“He should be holding your hand when you wake up, not checking your incision sites.”
“Mrs. Burgess?” Two anesthesiologists showed up in the doorway, surgical masks hanging from their chins. “It’s time to go.”
“I’m ready. Let’s just get this over with, huh?”
The men unlocked the gurney and wheeled it away.
“Mom. I love you.”