“Wyeth…” He bites both of his lips in, making direct, unblinking eye contact with, ohhell, folds town. “You need sutures.”
“No,” I whisper, even though part of me always knew this is how it would end. Not the stitches, exactly, but dying of embarrassment. You don’t get to thirty-three as a woman with Crohn’s disease, arguably themost embarrassing disease of all time, without coming close to expiring via mortification.
And now, my time has come.
“Slide forward.”
I scoot toward the cot’s edge, but my face twists in discomfort, and wordlessly, Julian places his large hands on either side of my hips and lifts. His skin is warm through the gloves, giving me goose bumps down the length of my legs as he tugs me forward, bringing me to the cot’s edge.
I want todie.And also, have sex.
Julian lifts my left calf,alsounshaven, until it’s bent at the knee, placing my foot gingerly into one of the stirrups, then the other. My knees instinctively fall together, but he pulls them apart to step fully between my legs. The sight of stern, adult Julian hovering over me, his face taut with vicious concentration, sends a lightning bolt through my entire being.
Oh, Jesus. I’mdefinitelygetting wet.
Julian lowers himself onto a stool between my stirrups until all I can see is his disembodied head floating between my legs. With one hand, he parts my flesh, giving him full access to my—
“Left labium,” he says to no one, his voice strangely choked, “laceration approximately—three centimeters, presenting with mild damage to the—soft tissue.”
He sounds like a doctor on an ER show, but there’s no nurse standing by to hand him instruments. Meanwhile I’ve entered some Zen, dissociative state as the guy who once petitioned the Sparrow Nook Board of Education to revoke my valedictorian eligibility on the sole basis that my prior credits were earned inGeorgia, and thus, inherently suspect, slathers a numbing cream across folds town. I turn and face the wall, squeezing my lips shut as Julian D’Angelo proceeds to stitch up mylabium.
“All done.” He peels off his gloves and tosses them in the trash, then bolts for the door. I stare at his fleeing back in disbelief.
“Wait!”
Julian freezes and, reluctantly, peers at me over his shoulder. “What?”
I blink, then gesture below. “What do I do about this?”
He frowns at my half-shaved bush, a study in contrasts. Finally, he coughs.
“It’s a… vibe. I guess.”
I blink. “I was referring to the fact I have no pants?”
Julian’s eyes widen behind his gold frames, and the blush returns full force. “Ah.” He disappears and returns a moment later with scrubs, facing the door while I hobble into the soft pants one leg at a time. I feel the need to say something, to smooth over this moment with a laugh, withanythingthat would make it feel like what just happened won’t embarrass me until the end of time.
“I can’t believe Julian D’Asshole just sewed up my labium.” I don’t know why the old nickname half the school called him comes back to me now, or why I thought using it would be a good idea. He always hated it, and by the look of his tightening shoulders, he still does. He swirls around to face me, all pretenses of professional courtesy gone.
“Well,Ican’t believe I had to deal with Nomi Wyeth’s mangled genitalia because of”—his eyes flash as he air quotes—“pube chores.” He shakes his head, disgusted. “Congratulations, Wyeth. You’ve ruined lasagna forever.”
My mouth drops open. Did he just compare my vulva to, to,lasagna?! Fury floods my entire body.
“Whatever, Julian, you’vealwayswanted to see my vulva, and you know it!” I storm into the hallway, holding up the too-big scrubs by the waistband.
“Keep the laceration clean and dry!” He sticks his head into the hallway to yell after me. “And I didnotwant to see your vulva!”
CHAPTER TWO
JULIAN
Ididwant to see her vulva.
I lope back and forth in my office like a wild animal penned in a cage, which is what this combination-Pizza-Hut-Taco-Bell-Family-Practice-Urgent-Care-Clinic feels like right now. I take off my glasses and fling them on the desk, then release a guttural groan at the ceiling. Nomi Wyeth was stretched out half naked before me, fulfilling every one of my formative sexual fantasies—save for the stage two laceration on her outer labia, I’m not atotalfreak—and what did I do?
I said the shape of her remaining pubic hair was avibe.
I run my palms down my face and groan again.
