Page 35 of Healing the Twin
My eyes drifted shut again. I’d have to think more about that later. Too tired now.
13
FIR
A week after his surgery, Tomás came in for a checkup. I’d noticed his name on the schedule when I’d reviewed it that morning, and I’d been like a kid in the days before Christmas, barely able to function with this weird sense of expectation, this giddiness. How ridiculous was that for a man my age?
Also, he was a patient. Which was a whole problem in itself. A big one.
I had to bring that up with him, make him an ultimatum. And I feared he’d choose me as a doctor rather than a hookup. But even knowing I’d most likely get rejected by Tomás Banner all over again, I still had to raise the issue. I couldn’t in good conscience sleep with a patient.
Treating him for appendicitis had been fine. It had been an emergency after all, and he might very well have died had I refused to see him. But the danger had passed, and he’d still made an appointment with me, which made him a patient. Hence my current predicament.
The stupid thing was that even knowing I was about to have an uncomfortable conversation with him that would end up in him rejecting me again, I was counting down the hours until it was time. Stupid. So unbelievably stupid. As if I were back in high school, fawning over him from afar, like some lovesick teenager. Except this time he wouldn’t be out of my reach but right here, in my office. Lord help me.
He was my last patient for the day, and that was both a curse and a blessing, since it meant being nervous all freaking day long—a day that seemed to last foreeeeeever—but also being able to take my time with him and have an unhurried conversation. Like I said, a curse and a blessing.
When he walked in, sporting that lazy smile of his, my stomach swooped. “Hey, Tomás.”
“Hey, Fir. Sorry, Dr. Everett.”
I shook my head. “That ship sailed a long time ago, but I appreciate the effort.”
“I didn’t mean to show disrespect.”
“You didn’t. Half the town calls me Fir, even though I’m their doctor. It’s fine.”
He studied me as if trying to determine whether I was speaking the truth, then nodded. “Okay.”
I gestured at the exam table. “Take your shirt off, please, so I can check the wound.”
I was proud of the businesslike manner in which I got that sentence out. Now all I had to do was to continue in that same way and focus on him as a patient, not as a man. A very, very attractive man.
Tomás carefully pulled his shirt over his head and stretched out on the exam table. “How’s the recovery been?” I asked as I washed my hands.
“Good. Easier than I’d expected.”
“You’re in excellent shape and healthy otherwise. That makes a big difference.” I dried my hands and stepped up to the table. “Can I?”
He nodded.
The wound looked good. Clean, neat lines, no redness or swelling. Textbook perfect. I gently palpated it. Good, no warm or hard spots that could indicate trouble. “Everything seems to be healing well. Have you been able to eat normally?”
“I’ve stayed away from alcohol this week, but other than that, yes. I was back to my normal rabbit food two days after the surgery.”
I frowned. “Rabbit food?”
“That’s what Cas calls it. I eat carbs in moderation, so a lot of my meals are mostly vegetables. Cas feels they’re more suitable for a rabbit than a grown-ass man—his words.”
I chuckled. “As a doctor, I can’t help but be on your side. I wish all my patients would eat that healthy.”
Something passed over his face. “Sometimes I wonder if it’s all been worth it.”
“What do you mean? You can get dressed again, by the way.”
He took his time putting on his shirt, seeming to search for words. “It’s part of that whole woe-is-me lamenting I did at the wedding. I guess you could say I’m having a bit of an existential crisis, though the word crisis seems far too strong for what’s basically an old man bitching and moaning.”
Guilt filled me. “I never texted you the names of those therapists I recommended.”