I nod, fumbling one-handed with the buttons, but Noah gently moves my hand away and takes care of them himself. It shouldn’t be sexy. Nothing about the pain I’m feeling right now is sexy, and he’s being completely professional. But Noah’s quiet focus, the surety of his movements, his calm confidence—those thingsaresexy, and I find myself captivated. Or as captivated as I can be with my shoulder hanging out of joint.
“Sit up for me?” Noah says. He slips an arm behind me one more time and helps me sit up so he can slip my sweater off my shoulders and pull it out from under me. “It’s a complete dislocation,” he says. “Anterior. Which is the most common type of dislocation. It means the bone has shifted?—”
“Forward and downward,” I say. “I know what it means.”
He nods appreciatively. “I forgot I was working on a nurse.” He takes hold of my arm, and I close my eyes, bracing myself for what’s coming.
“Try to relax for me,” Noah says, his voice soothing, and I take a deep breath.
“Good. Do that one more time.”
I breathe in and before I even realize what’s happening, Noah applies pressure to my arm, shifts, pushes, thenpop.
The relief is immediate, and I breathe out the air I’m still holding in my lungs.
“How does that feel?” Noah says. His hand slides down my arm, moving it gently, tugging it upward, then pushing it back again, then moving it in one slow rotation.
“Better. So much better,” I say.
He nods. “Good. You’re still going to be sore. Tylenol. Ibuprofen. You can alternate every four to six hours if you need it. And I’ll see if I can rig you up some sort of sling for the next few days to keep you from overusing it. Actually, let me get you some pain medication now?—”
I reach out and stop him before he can leave, grabbing hold of his sleeve.
He turns back, crouching beside me one more time. I reach for his hand, and he takes my fingers, holding them gently between his palms.
“Thank you,” I say. “That was much easier than going to the hospital.”
His face is unreadable, but that’s not much of a surprise. If I have a glass face, showing every emotion, right now, Noah’s is like a thick slab of granite.
“You’re welcome,” he says, giving my fingers a squeeze. I am not disappointed when he doesn’t drop my hand.
I rub my thumb over the top of his knuckles. “You’re a doctor,” I say simply.
A shadow passes behind his eyes, and he takes a deep breath. He doesn’t pull away, not physically, but I still sense his retreat. “Not anymore,” he says, his voice thin.
“I don’t understand,” I say for the second time.
He shrugs. “It’s not that complicated.”
It’sobviouslycomplicated, but it’s hardly my place to push him.
“What was your specialty?” I ask, hoping my use of the past tensewaswill give him enough room to answer.
His jaw tightens. “Emergency medicine.”
“Intense.”
“Yep,” he says curtly, and I feel a sudden need to chase away the distance that’s growing between us. To make him look me in the eye and tell me what’s hurting. Because there’s definitely something. A wound just under the surface that’s making his expression hollow.
He finally tugs his hand away and pushes himself to his feet. “I’ll be right back,” he says.
Noah returns after just a few moments, but he isn’t really present. He’s kind, courteous, solicitous, concerned for my comfort. But he’s treating me like a patient. Not a friend.
He warms up the leftover soup and bread I planned to eat for dinner but doesn’t accept my invitation to eat with me. He tends the fire, adding wood whenever it’s needed, but he doesn’t sit down. He doesn’trelax.And he doesn’t make eye contact even once.
The longer it goes on, the more my heart aches. I already like him enough that I want to know more of his story. But mostly I just want to make him feel better.
It’s not like nursing school gave me a ton of experience, but I’ve been in hospitals enough to understand how taxing it can be. How much it can drain you. And to be in the ER—that’s a level of intense all its own.
