Right, Ali, she chided herself. A year wasn’t long enough?
“How I felt about Michael is irrelevant.” She slammed her files onto the table and turned from him. “You took him out, got him drunk and sent him home with Wanda from Pediatrics. You knew she had a thing for him.”
“I didn’t force him into the car, Ali. I didn’t strip off his clothes and push him into her bed, either.”
Heck, there was a visual she could have done without. “And you most certainly didn’t try to stop him. What kind of friend are you?”
Not hers, that’s for sure. She could have had a nice, stable life with Michael, who, until Jared had come to town, never stayed up past eleven unless he was working, never went out drinking with the boys and never showed an interest in any woman but her. She’d have done her best to make him happy, to have the quiet, anonymous life she’d dreamed of since childhood.
“Over the past month we have beat this to death.” With an uncharacteristic disregard for his appearance, Jared ran his fingers through his hair. “If I thought Michael was making a terrible mistake, by all means I would have stopped him. But he and Wanda are good together.”
A point Michael had made four weeks ago, during what was supposed to be his apology for cheating. The one thing Ali would not forgive. Usually sedate, Michael hadn’t been able to tamp down his new-romance exuberance as he’d extolled all the attributes that made Wanda perfect for him, inadvertently identifying all the areas he’d found Ali lacking. No breakup remorse there.
“They’re happy together,” Jared said.
Yeah. The only one not happy was her.
“Michael was a great study partner in medical school,” Jared went on. “He’s a good friend. But he’s the most boring person I have ever met. He’s plain old vanilla ice cream, and you’re chocolate fudge ripple with rainbow sprinkles. He’s high-fiber cereal and skim milk for breakfast. You’re blueberry pancakes with warm maple syrup. You lost your spark when he came around. He’s so dull, he tarnished your shine. Are you so desperate to get married you’d settle for a lackluster, routine, boring life?”
“I am not desperate to get married.” Holy cow. She’d actually stomped her foot. Well, she wasn’t desperate. Really. But after all her unstable mother had put her through, bringing a lineup of losers into their home, dozens and dozens of destined-for-failure relationships, new-romance euphoria followed by bitter breakup histrionics that enticed nosy neighbors out to gawk and brought the police around several times a year; a stable life, free from drama, with one trustworthy, committed man, held great appeal. “And my life is none of your concern.”
“Over time he would have made you miserable. In return you would have made his life a living hell. I’ve seen it happen. Hell, I’ve lived it.”
“The only one around here who’s making me miserable is you, Dr. Padget.”
“You need a real man, Ali. Someone as passionate as you are, not Mr. missionary position, lights off, once a week on Wednesday night Shefford.”
Ali gasped, couldn’t believe Michael had shared that with his friend.
“Let me show you what it’s like to be with a real man,” he said with the cocky confidence that made him so appealing.
He lowered his voice, adding, “And you will never again settle for mediocre.”
God help her, she wanted to take him up on his offer. Every cell in her nervous system tingled with frenetic energy at the thought of spending the night in his strong arms, allowing his experienced fingers full rein over her body. Damn him! She refused to belittle herself for one night of pleasure, to allow him to assuage his lust with her, when any woman would do. “That hey-baby-I-want-to-fill-your-cannoli-with-my-cream personality get you a lot of dates?”
Jared laughed.
Ali plowed on. “If you ruined my relationship with Michael so you could have a crack at me, you’ve wasted your time. Because as wrong as you think Michael was for me, no man is more wrong for me than you.” A man like her philandering father. A flirt. A schmooze. A woo-a-woman-into-bed-using-any-means-necessary man.
The door to the lounge opened, ending their private conversation. Tani, the E.R.'s unit secretary, popped her head in, her jet-black hair an interesting configuration of twirls and curls, in staunch contrast to her pale complexion. “Ambulance on the way. Forty-seven-year-old male, three hundred plus pounds, full cardiac arrest, CPR in progress, paramedics unable to intubate. ETA—four minutes.”
Jared transformed back into a dedicated professional in an instant. “Clear—”
“I’ll clear out Trauma Room One,” Ali finished for him.
“I’ll need—”
“ET tubes, assorted sizes on the tray by the head of Bed One, two pediatric, just in case, IV primed and the crash cart open and ready.”
“Call—”
“Respiratory Therapy and Radiology to let them know what’s coming.” Ali scooped up her charts and headed for the door. “I’m on it.” Their differences aside, they made a great team at work.
Forty minutes later, Jared stood on the stoop in front of the E.R., arms crossed over his ribs, staring out into the dark parking lot, down the tree-lined hill to the distant lights on Main Street. The crisp November air cleared his head, the quiet calmed him. Slowly, his tension began to ease.
“You were supposed to save him!” an irate male teenager yelled, disrupting Jared’s solitude. “It’s your job to save people!”
Jared turned to his left. The fifteen-year-old son of the man he’d pronounced dead five minutes earlier stomped toward him. Baggy pants, long hair and pierced eyebrow aside, the kid looked ready to commit murder.
Jared pushed off the pillar he’d been leaning against, thankful the blame game would be played outside rather than in the crowded E.R. corridor. Through the electronic glass doors he saw Ali with the boy’s distraught mother under one arm and his hysterical little sister under the other, trying to calm them. “I’m sorry,” Jared said.
“You’re sorry?” the boy screamed, his voice cracking, tears streaming down his enraged face. “What good does that do me? My dad is dead because you …” he stopped in front of Jared and poked him in the chest with his index finger “… didn’t do your job.”
Jared took a deep breath, channeling calm, understanding it was easier to blame the doctor, knowing that pointing out the obvious—his patient had been at least one hundred and fifty pounds overweight, smoked two packs of cigarettes per day and led a sedentary lifestyle—wouldn’t negate the fact that a forty-seven-year-old husband and father was dead.
And, despite his best efforts, Jared had been unable to resuscitate him.
“Sometimes,” Jared said, looking down into watery brown eyes, working hard to keep his voice calm so his own anger and frustration didn’t show, “no matter how hard we try, things don’t turn out the way we want them to.” Put those words to a nifty jingle, and they could be the theme song to Jared’s life. “I did everything within my power to save your dad.”
As if someone had stuck him with a pin, the
