𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐏𝐇𝐎𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐗 ━━ 𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐤 𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐝

nineteen | heart

"Is there something going on?"

Dr. Montgomery-Shepherd waits in the center of the elevator, me and his husband standing on either side of her.

"Dad sends his best wishes to the happy couple."

"Did you guys have a fight, or something?"

"No. Not at all."

"So. . .we're all still. . .friends?"

"Uh-huh. Sure."

Ding.

As soon as the doors of freedom slide open, Shepherd and I are the first ones out. The E.R. is packed with multiple victims from a shooting incident at a restaurant.

"Do you know what you're doing? Because that really hurts, you know."

I pluck another piece of glass from his wound. "I wouldn't be complaining about a glass cut when there's people dying from gunshots. Consider yourself lucky."

"Lucky? There's no luck. Quick thinking, doll."

"What did you just —"

"I'm a smart and quick thinker. Always right on it. As soon as I saw him — Petey, the shooter — I just knew it was coming."

He greets a couple of his coworkers, who are busy reliving the traumatic shock of it all and charging through the pain of multiple G.S.W.s.

"I wouldn't be surprised if you were Petey's target."

When more urgent cases arrive, I'm forced to move him to the spare bed next to Meredith's patient, Will.

"Is he for real?"

"All I know is I am gonna need some morphine very soon."

"He makes Shepherd look like a pansy."

After another visit to my father, he suggested I begin working through his financial documents, his assets. . .whatever else is needed until he dies.

Knock, knock.

"Hey."

Addison Montogomery-Shepherd, the person I least expected to visit me, stands at the doorway, her hands held behind her back.

"Uh, hi."

I smile politely, not knowing what to expect from her.

"Have you, um, seen Dr. Karev?"

"With Dr. Burke at Mercy West." I close up the folders for the time being. "Something about a heart transplant."

"Okay."

Even with her answer, the OB remains still.

"Is there anything else I can do for you, Dr. Montgomery-Shepherd?" I glance up at her.

"Sorry. I, uh. . .I-I'm not sorry. I just. . ." She takes the seat across from me. "I'm just having a little trouble because. . .I need to ask you something. And I don't usually have trouble."

Her voice waivers in fragility.

"But what I need to ask — I'm not even sure I want the answer to, but I have to ask. So, I'm just going to ask you, and then you answer, and then, uh. . .I'll just go from there, okay?"

"Sure."

"Are you sleeping with my husband?"

The question leaves her mouth in a tearful, almost frightened tone, as if she was dreading the answer to come.