tosses them in the trash.
“I’m a patient,” I point out. “You have to be nice to me. That is, if you want me to give a good score on that survey I’ll be getting in the mail next week.”
He whips his head up and glares at me. Those surveys are the bane of this department’s existence. They feel it discourages them from doing what they think is best for their patients. He knows I know that.
I meet his stare with a narrow-eyed one of my own. “That’s right. I can be mean, too. I guess that’s what pain does to me.”
His face changes, softens. He reaches his hand out toward my face, stopping about an inch from my cheek, and my heart stutters and heat flares up the back of my neck. He’s going to touch me. Maybe stroke my cheek. Because he feels bad for me, cares and worries, and he’s going to touch me.
But his hand falls away, and I’m swallowing my disappointment.
“How bad is it?” he asks, his tone gentle and warm.
“Um.” I shrug, struck by an urge to not sound like a wimp. “I’m okay.”
He gives me a look. “Come on. This is not the time to put on a brave face, Mia.”
I heave a sigh. “It definitely hurts. And I keep getting queasy.”
He nods. “Well, you know I can’t treat you, but Yamada will do the sutures. The local will help with the pain, and he’ll probably send you home with a prescription for hydrocodone.”
“Okay.” I’m not sure the pain is bad enough to warrant taking an opioid, but I guess I might need it, because the deep and dull throbbing in my hand will probably make it hard to sleep tonight.
“Did you drive yourself here?” Jay asks suddenly.
“My mom called me a cab,” I answer with a shake of my head. “Which was probably a good idea, since I’d had two glasses of wine.”
He goes quiet and still, and that intense, humorless stare of his is boring into me. “When?” he says with what I suspect is deceptive calm.
“A couple of hours ago?” I’m not sure what time it is now.
He arches his brows. “While you were cooking dinner? Chopping up food with that butcher’s knife of yours and talking on the phone at the same time?”
Wow. I narrow my eyes at him. Yeah, I could definitely have made better choices tonight, but I really don’t need him getting all judgy about it.
For a while, we just stay like that, glaring at each other. Then Jay’s gaze falls to my shirt, and his countenance darkens even more, his nostrils flare, and his jaw flexes.
Huh? Now what’s his problem? Looking down at myself, I realize I’m wearing my powder-blue tee with a grungy beach-and-palm-tree image printed on it along with the word Cabo in big, fat letters. It’s a shirt I got while I was in college, when I went to Mexico for spring break.
With Matt.
“I’ll hand your case over to Dr. Yamada,” Jay says, his tone hard. “He’ll take care of you, and then I’ll take you home.”
Then he’s gone.
And I’m alone again, lying here feeling glum.
I loved Cabo. Five days of fun. Sun, sand, frolicking in the balmy ocean, partying…and yeah, sex. A lot of it. With my boyfriend, who I thought was my forever love.
We stayed in a hotel right on the beach with a bunch of friends, and I’m pretty sure I’ve never been as purely and deeply happy as I was that week—not before and definitely not afterward.
Jay didn’t go. He was too busy busting his ass in school and working the jobs he needed to help pay for it. Which I guess means that he had no college savings and got no help from his parents. I asked him about that once, but he just snorted and changed the topic.
This T-shirt, though. Several times in the past, he’s given me crap about even keeping it, let alone wearing it. Guess he thinks it should remind me too much of my asshole ex, and I should want to get rid of it?
I don’t get what the big deal is, though. It’s just a damn shirt. And I happen to like it, so if I tossed it only because of Matt, doesn’t that give him more power over me?
“I’m a patient,” I point out. “You have to be nice to me. That is, if you want me to give a good score on that survey I’ll be getting in the mail next week.”
He whips his head up and glares at me. Those surveys are the bane of this department’s existence. They feel it discourages them from doing what they think is best for their patients. He knows I know that.
I meet his stare with a narrow-eyed one of my own. “That’s right. I can be mean, too. I guess that’s what pain does to me.”
His face changes, softens. He reaches his hand out toward my face, stopping about an inch from my cheek, and my heart stutters and heat flares up the back of my neck. He’s going to touch me. Maybe stroke my cheek. Because he feels bad for me, cares and worries, and he’s going to touch me.
But his hand falls away, and I’m swallowing my disappointment.
“How bad is it?” he asks, his tone gentle and warm.
“Um.” I shrug, struck by an urge to not sound like a wimp. “I’m okay.”
He gives me a look. “Come on. This is not the time to put on a brave face, Mia.”
I heave a sigh. “It definitely hurts. And I keep getting queasy.”
He nods. “Well, you know I can’t treat you, but Yamada will do the sutures. The local will help with the pain, and he’ll probably send you home with a prescription for hydrocodone.”
“Okay.” I’m not sure the pain is bad enough to warrant taking an opioid, but I guess I might need it, because the deep and dull throbbing in my hand will probably make it hard to sleep tonight.
“Did you drive yourself here?” Jay asks suddenly.
“My mom called me a cab,” I answer with a shake of my head. “Which was probably a good idea, since I’d had two glasses of wine.”
He goes quiet and still, and that intense, humorless stare of his is boring into me. “When?” he says with what I suspect is deceptive calm.
“A couple of hours ago?” I’m not sure what time it is now.
He arches his brows. “While you were cooking dinner? Chopping up food with that butcher’s knife of yours and talking on the phone at the same time?”
Wow. I narrow my eyes at him. Yeah, I could definitely have made better choices tonight, but I really don’t need him getting all judgy about it.
For a while, we just stay like that, glaring at each other. Then Jay’s gaze falls to my shirt, and his countenance darkens even more, his nostrils flare, and his jaw flexes.
Huh? Now what’s his problem? Looking down at myself, I realize I’m wearing my powder-blue tee with a grungy beach-and-palm-tree image printed on it along with the word Cabo in big, fat letters. It’s a shirt I got while I was in college, when I went to Mexico for spring break.
With Matt.
“I’ll hand your case over to Dr. Yamada,” Jay says, his tone hard. “He’ll take care of you, and then I’ll take you home.”
Then he’s gone.
And I’m alone again, lying here feeling glum.
I loved Cabo. Five days of fun. Sun, sand, frolicking in the balmy ocean, partying…and yeah, sex. A lot of it. With my boyfriend, who I thought was my forever love.
We stayed in a hotel right on the beach with a bunch of friends, and I’m pretty sure I’ve never been as purely and deeply happy as I was that week—not before and definitely not afterward.
Jay didn’t go. He was too busy busting his ass in school and working the jobs he needed to help pay for it. Which I guess means that he had no college savings and got no help from his parents. I asked him about that once, but he just snorted and changed the topic.
This T-shirt, though. Several times in the past, he’s given me crap about even keeping it, let alone wearing it. Guess he thinks it should remind me too much of my asshole ex, and I should want to get rid of it?
I don’t get what the big deal is, though. It’s just a damn shirt. And I happen to like it, so if I tossed it only because of Matt, doesn’t that give him more power over me?
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