by Hamel, B. B.
He strode into Lynn’s room and went into full-on doctor mode. Doctors have a way about them with patients, exuding a strange sort of calm, intense confidence, like nothing was beyond their expertise. I knew it was all bullshit, and every doctor cultivated that act, but it seemed to work on most people, including Lynn. She perked up a bit and smiled at him, answering his questions as he paged through her chart.
I watched him run through a simple physical exam and assisted him, though he didn’t really need my help. I caught him give me a tight smirk and I wanted to smack that look off his face, but he was being good with Lynn, careful and thorough, and I didn’t want to mess up his flow.
“And you said it’s in only one part of your head?”
She nodded. “Right side only, never moves, always the exact same spot.”
“And you had a CT and an MRI, looks like?”
“Dr. Foster said I’m all clear.”
Dean nodded and stroked his chin for a moment. “Did he give you any indomethacin?”
Lynn shook her head, a little bewildered, and looked at me. “I don’t think so. Does that sound familiar?”
“No,” I said, frowning at Dean. “It’s not in her chart, either.”
He stepped forward. “Here, take my hand.”
Lynn hesitated then took his hands again. “Like this?”
He nodded. “Push your thumb against my thumb. Right one only, please.” She did that and he seemed to grunt and nod. “Now the left.” Again, she pressed, but a small smile slid across her lips.
“That felt harder,” she said.
He gave a slight nod and released her. “Wait here, I’ll be right back.”
I watched him leave the room, slightly bewildered.
“Where’s he going?” Lynn asked.
“I have no clue,” I admitted.
“You said he’s a good doctor, right?”
I shook my head. “One of the best. I genuinely don’t know what he’s going for with this, though.”
“I guess it can’t hurt.” She leaned back against her pillow and sighed. “My head’s seriously pounding.”
We waited in silence for a few minutes and I busied myself with meaningless straightening. Ten minutes slipped past and I was ready to give up and leave when Dean came storming back in through her door with a big smile on his face and a small bottle of pills.
“Here you go,” he said, plonking them down on the table beside Lynn’s bed.
“What are those?” I asked.
“Indomethacin,” he said. “It’s like an older form of ibuprofen or Tylenol, something that’s not really used all that often anymore, but it has one particularly unique quality that makes it perfect for you.”
I walked over, picked up the bottle, and peered at it. “And what’s that?” I asked, taking his bait.
“It crosses the blood-brain barrier,” he said.
Lynn laughed. “So it’ll get straight to my head?”
“More or less.”
I took off the pill cap and popped one into my hand. I hesitated, then held it out to Lynn. She took it and dry swallowed it without hesitation.
“Are you sure this’ll work?” I asked.
“I’m fairly sure she has what’s called a hemicrania continua. It’s a type of odd headache that persists on one side of the head and never quite goes away. They’re rare, but usually not life-threatening, and best of all, they respond extremely well to indomethacin.”
Lynn perked up. “Extremely well?”
“As in I think you’ll start feeling better tomorrow, and if you keep taking the pills, the headache might never come back.”
She gaped at him. “You’re joking?”
“I’m not. Assuming I’m right, which I usually am.”
She laughed and stared at me, and I only shook my head. “I’ve never heard of hemi-whatsit before.”
“Hemicrania continua. Go ahead, look it up if you want, it’s a real thing.”
I gave him a look. “I trust you.”
“Take the pills twice a day,” he said, leaning toward Lynn. “If you ever feel the headache come back, contact me and I’ll write you another prescription for them. If you have what I think you have, they’ll work.”
She stared at him for a second, then burst into tears.
Dean took a step back, surprised and not sure how to respond. I laughed a little and sat on the edge of Lynn’s bed, putting am arm around her shoulders.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” she said, sobbing and laughing at the same time. “It’s just, I’ve had this headache for so long and I never thought I’d actually get it to go away. Now I feel like I finally have a chance at a normal life. It’s almost too much to bear.”
Dean smiled a little and patted her shoulder. “You’ll be okay, I promise.”
I rolled my eyes at him. For such a charming, handsome man, he had a shitty bedside manner. “Thank you,” I said.
He nodded. “Doing my job.”
“Really, thank you,” Lynn said, wiping her eyes with the sheets and sitting up straight. “When should I start to feel something?”
“As soon as tonight, maybe tomorrow. Take a second pill with dinner, and another with breakfast, and keep taking them until the bottle’s gone, breakfast and dinner, twice per day.”
She paused for a moment and seemed to hang there, suspended between emotions. “And if it doesn’t work?”
Dean softened a bit. “If it doesn’t work, we’ll try something else. I won’t give up.”
“Thank you.” She curled up on herself and I stood, shaking my head.
“You’ll be okay.”
“I hope so.”
Dean nodded and inched toward the door. “I’ll check on you tonight, okay? Make sure you’re doing okay.”
“Thank you, doctor.”
He slipped out of her room and lingered in the hall, checking his notes, although I knew he was waiting for me.
“You’ll be okay,” I said again, smiling at her. “I’ll be back soon.”
“Yeah.” She grinned at me and leaned her head back. “I’ll be okay.”
I followed Dean and caught up with him as he started to wander back toward the elevators. “That was quite the show you put on in there. What was with the thumb thing?”
“Muscle weakness is a very rare side effect of hemicrania and I had a feeling she’d present with it.”
“I want to say you’re clever, but I don’t want to stroke your ego.”
“No worries, you don’t need to say a thing for me to be incredibly arrogant.”
I laughed and leaned my shoulder against him briefly. “Seriously, thanks for that.”
“Let me know how she does. I have a feeling she’ll recover just fine though.” He hesitated and turned toward me, head tilted to the side, and I stood close to him, alone in the shadows of the hallway. Somewhere nearby, I heard a monitor beep the rhythm of a heart, and voices echoed down toward us, sounding strangely happy—which wasn’t common in a hospital.
“You seemed sort of uncomfortable back there, you know.”
He laughed. “Crying girls are my Kryptonite.”
“Oh, yeah? I’m not sure how to take that.”
“I never know how to deal with them the right way.” He shrugged. “I’m working on it.”
“Normally, you say nice things.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” He reached out and touched my arm and left his hand there, lingering close. “Listen, I wanted to ask you something.”
“Yeah, what’s that?”
“Come over tonight for dinner.”
I bit the inside of my cheek. “Dinner?”
“We can go over that thing we found. You know, the computer thing.” He leaned closer and whispered. “The USB drive we stole.”
I held up a hand. “Yeah, thanks, I got it the first time.”
He beamed at me. “What do you say?”
“I could eat dinner with you, I guess.”
“Perfect. I’m finish
ed for the day, so I’ll swing by later? When’s your shift end?”
I hesitated and looked away. I didn’t want him to pick me up from the hospital, not because that was strange or because I didn’t appreciate a ride, but because I wanted to go home and shower off the hospital before going to his place. It was an entirely vain reaction and I was almost surprised by it. I shouldn’t have cared if I went to his place in crappy scrubs, still covered in germs and blood, but for some reason I wanted to make a good impression.
“That’s okay, I’ll come to you,” I said. “How’s eight sound?”
“Sounds great. I’ll cook.” He turned and walked to the elevator doors.
“You cook?”
“Damn right I do.” He hit the call button and looked back at me. “You’re in for a treat.”
I shook my head, smiling like an idiot, and awkwardly waved before turning and stalking back to the nurses’ station. I sat down and hunched over the computer for a second, catching my breath and trying to make sense of what I felt back there.
He shouldn’t have been able to make me feel like that. I wanted to resist him, to keep things casual and professional between us—and yet I felt myself slipping down the path toward something more, starting to want to impress him, feeling like I wanted to spend time with him outside of a professional setting.
That was dangerous. I’d spent so much of my adult life, ever since the accident, trying to avoid this sort of thing. I didn’t want entanglements—didn’t want to feel close enough to someone that they might find out about me and realize that I’m broken. I don’t want to lose even more than I’ve already lost, and something can’t be taken away if you never have it to begin with.
I knew how pathetic that was, but I’d gotten this far keeping the world at arm’s length, and I didn’t want to stop now.
And yet I was already planning what I’d wear to his place, unable to help myself.
8
Dean
I texted Fiona my address, hit up the grocery store, and started cooking as soon as I got home. The smell of roasted chicken and vegetables filled my apartment as I hummed along to an old jazz record by Duke Ellington and drank a small glass of whiskey.
I felt strangely nervous. I knew I shouldn’t, since Fiona had been acting like the last thing she wanted to do was get involved with me, and yet I couldn’t help myself. I kept thinking about the looks she gave me, about her lips parted slightly, her pretty eyes wide, the way she stood close, even the way she got angry, so quick and sharp. I couldn’t help but think about how she’d taste, or the way she’d move her hips if I slipped my fingers between her legs, or the sound of her moans, or the way she’d bite my lip, or her pink nipples between my teeth— I couldn’t help myself, even though I knew it didn’t help a damn thing.
She showed up right on time. The door buzzed and I went to the intercom. “Come on in, door’s straight ahead.”
I opened the door and watched her walk toward me, a little smile on her lips, her hair down around her shoulders. She wore a pair of tight, dark jeans and a black top that showed a hint of her breasts, and a small gold cross that nestled in her cleavage. I smiled a little and knew she was drawing my attention there—and didn’t mind one bit.
“Nice place,” she said, looking around as we walked inside. “You did all this?”
I shrugged. “Most of it’s from vintage shops. Some of the art’s real though.”
She lingered in front of a large geometric canvas, a series of green, red, and yellow circles and triangles, with splotches of paint and mad dashes of lines and arcs weaving between them. It was modern and strange, and cost a goddamn ton of money, but I didn’t like to admit that to people. She smiled a little and wandered through the rest of the downstairs, lingering in the kitchen, then standing in the living room.
“Smells good,” she said.
“Roast chicken and vegetables. Hope you like it.”
“Sounds nice.” She ran her hand over some books in my bookshelf, lingered over a group of small statues I’d gotten in a trip to Tibet, then turned to me. “This isn’t what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
“I don’t know. Lots of metal. Industrial maybe. Or that weird minimalist white thing you see on YouTube videos.”
I laughed and shook my head. I preferred a warmer interior design, lots of colors, mostly earth tones, and as many potted plants as I could stand to keep alive. I had several bookshelves, all of them packed with books and old DVDs I’d collected over the years, along with a big comfortable leather couch and several pillows and throw blankets.
“Thanks, I guess, but no. I like to actually live in my home instead of act like it’s a studio for content.”
She shrugged and nodded at the black staircase that led upstairs. “You have a second floor?”
“Split level,” I said. “Bedrooms up there.” I tilted my head and smirked. “You want a tour of it?”
She rolled her eyes. “No, thanks, this is strictly business.”
I shrugged. “Want a drink at least?”
“I’ll take wine.”
I laughed, got her a glass, then pointed toward the kitchen table. “Take a seat. I’ll bring out dinner and we’ll get started.”
She sipped her wine and watched as I got the chicken out, checked its temperature, and started plating everything. I’d made this dish more than a few times and had mastered it by now, but there was always that moment before you served it to someone when you’re not sure if it’s good or not, and maybe it’s garbage, you couldn’t be sure until they took that first bite.
I put her plate down in front of her then took my seat. I watched, pretending like I wasn’t watching, as she dug in—and seemed to enjoy it.
“Okay,” she said, nodding at the food. “I like this. But we’re supposed to be here on business.”
I smiled, very pleased the food came out good, and stood up. “Fair enough. Hold on a second.” I grabbed my laptop from the coffee table, opened it up next to us, and plugged in the USB drive. “So I grabbed a lot of crap off her computer, and I’ve been going through it little by little—” I opened up a folder and clicked on an Excel spreadsheet. “This struck me as interesting, but I have no clue what it means.”
She squinted at it. “Clearly some kind of financial document.”
“I agree. But what’s it say?”
She shook her head and absently ate as she scanned through the columns of letters and numbers. I’d barely been able to parse any of it since bringing it home, and I hoped she’d be able to understand at least some of it better than I did.
“I’m having flashbacks to math class,” she muttered.
I laughed and ate while she grumbled to herself and went through the sheet. I watched her chew on her fingernails, stab her chicken with her fork like she wanted to kill it a second time, and finish her glass of wine in record time. I topped her up and kept quiet, letting her concentrate as she went through a few more spreadsheets, then started clicking around the random folders.
She grunted when a bunch of photos opened. “You didn’t have to grab these.”
“I copied everything.” I shrugged and gestured with my whiskey glass. “We were hurrying. Couldn’t really discriminate.”
She laughed and squinted. “Oh, wow, looks like she had a lot of fun on her vacation last year.”
“Right? Looks like a nice one, too.”
“Seriously. Five-star hotel, at least. Is this on some island?”
“That was my guess.”
“Good for her.” She clicked into another folder and returned to angrily skimming.
I knew we wouldn’t get far. I mean, we were both smart people, but neither of us were accountants and I didn’t have any damn experience reading through financial documents, much less finding incriminating evidence inside one. Fiona didn’t seem to be having much more luck than I did, which gave me an odd sense of pride—at least I wasn’t a total moron.
“I give up,” sh
e said, leaning back in her chair and tossing her fork down with a clatter. “What the hell were we thinking? That’s all nonsense.”
“I know how you feel.”
“Maybe we can blackmail the truth from her? You know, use those vacation pictures against her?”
I laughed, shaking my head. “I don’t think she’ll spill the beans about her illegal relationship with mobsters over some mediocre bikini pics.”
“You don’t know that. She could be extremely self-conscious.”
“Sorry, but good try. I like it when you’re ruthless.”
She sighed and sipped her wine with a sour expression on her face. “It feels like every time we get close, we’re still left grasping at straws.”
“She’s not stupid. Immoral and an asshole, definitely both of those things, but not stupid.”
“So what do we do?”
“Well,” I said, sipping my whiskey, “maybe you could tell me your favorite movie.”
She stared at me, a little taken off guard. “I’m not sure what that has to do with Maria.”
“Nothing, really. I’m just curious.”
She rolled her eyes. “Come on.”
“You ate my delicious roast chicken, the least you can do is answer some very simple questions about yourself.”
“I thought we were here for business.”
“We were.” I gestured at the computer. “You gave it a shot, we’re both spreadsheet-illiterate, and now it’s the pleasure part of the evening.”
She gave me an annoyed look for a few seconds before relaxing back into her chair, arms crossed, wine glass dangling from her fingers. “Okay, I’ll admit, the chicken is really good.”
“I’m glad.”
“So I’ll play along for a little bit. But you have ten minutes, okay?”
“Plenty of time.” I finished my whiskey and refilled the glass. “Favorite movie?”
“Sixth Sense.”
I arched an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Really. I like the twist.”
“Favorite album?”
“Depends. But I guess right now it’s Parachutes by Coldplay. Remember when Coldplay was good?”