Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 70510 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70510 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
The last patient was discharged from the hospital, but I stayed at the pod, doing paperwork, preparing everything to publish. This was groundbreaking stuff, and I suspected it would be in the news before it was formalized.
Dr. Hamilton came to the table, a big-ass grin on his face. “Last time we’ll be at the hospital for a while.” He fell into the chair beside me. “Cleo and I are taking a vacation. Going to spend some time at the cabin.”
“That sounds great.”
“Gotta make up for being a shithead.” He grinned like it was amusing.
“I can’t believe this is real.”
“Neither can I. And word has gotten out already…of course it has.”
“How?” I asked.
“Our patients. We can’t publicly share their information, but there’s nothing stopping them from sharing their own prognosis with the world. It’s everywhere on social media, talking about their miraculous recovery from Hamilton Research.”
“Well, in this day and age, nothing can stay a secret.”
“It’s fine. Guess who I got a call from today?” He turned in his chair and looked at me.
“You know, I hate these guessing games…”
He chuckled. “Anders from the Karolinska Institute.”
“The Karolinska Institute …as in the Swedish medical school.”
“Yes.”
“As in…the Nobel Prize Committee.”
He nodded.
Oh my fucking god.
“We have to formally submit our research when we’re ready…but we’re unofficially already considered.”
Jesus.
He grinned, like he knew I was totally overwhelmed. “You’re going to win a Nobel Prize.”
“I mean, it might not be us—”
“No disrespect to the other candidates, but that’s not going to happen.”
I couldn’t even imagine having that sash around my neck, to have the same medallion that Deacon had on the wall in his penthouse. That was the glass ceiling. Could I go any higher than that? Unless I won two…like Deacon. “I think we should include a third person on our paper when we submit.”
“Who?” he asked, his mood immediately dropping.
“I talked to Daisy about my patients a lot, and it was actually her suggestion about the markers. Maybe I would have made that realization myself at some point, but maybe not. It was her suggestion that sped this along.”
His eyes lit up with a smile. “I think it’s fair to include her.”
“Me too.” She was the sounding board that got me headed in the right direction. If it’d taken me weeks or months, most of the patients in the trial would have died.
“I always wondered if one of my kids would win a Nobel someday…and I guess two of them will.”
I was on my way home from the hospital, sitting in the back seat of the cab, having a daydream about the ceremony where I’d be given a medallion with my mentor, my role model, my superhero, for my excellence in medicine.
And with my wife too.
She’d better be my wife by then.
My eyes caught the front of a shop as we passed it, baby clothes in the window. There was a onesie on display that read “My Mom is a Bad Bitch.” “Hey, pull over here.”
“Right here?” He immediately hit the brakes.
“Yeah. Stop.” I handed over the cash then walked to the window. The onesie was white, so it was unisex. Whether we had a boy or a girl, it would look great, and Daisy would love it. I stayed in front of the window because I’d never really had the luxury of buying baby clothes, diapers, nothing. Every time I imagined myself being a father…it was cruelly taken away.
But this time, it wouldn’t be.
I went inside and got it.
She was almost five months along, and she was definitely showing. Maybe not in the clothes she wore to work or the warm sweaters she wore on the weekends, but when it was just us two at home and she wore those little skimpy shirts, she definitely showed.
I loved seeing her stomach every day.
Fucking miracle.
“Hey, babe.” She spoke to me from the kitchen. “How was your day?”
“Fucking fantastic. What about yours?”
“My feet are starting to swell, so I can’t wear my bitch pumps anymore.” She was snacking on the chips and salsa we now kept on hand, speaking between bites. “So now, I have to stick to flats. My mom said she wore heels with us until her last trimester. I was hoping to beat her score.” She came out of the kitchen and noticed the pink bag in my hand with tissue paper sticking out. “Ooh…what’s this?” She set the chips and salsa on the table then looked at it again, her hand on her stomach. “This better be for me, or this is just mean.”
I smiled. “Yes, it is, mama.”
She smiled at the nickname and opened the gift, revealing the white onesie. “Aww…” She’d only seen the back, but she already loved it. “Our baby’s first clothes…” She turned it around and opened it up so she could read the font. “My mom is a bad bitch.” She burst out laughing as she clutched the onesie to her chest. “Oh my god, this is so amazing. I love it.” She laughed as her eyes watered, hit with multiple emotions at once.