“Did that hurt?” He frowns down at the area, then at me, watching closely.
“No,” I lie. “I’m just… ticklish?”
“Hm,” he says noncommittally the way doctors do when they don’t believe you. I’m incredibly familiar.
“Are we done yet?” I ask, too chipper by half.
“Almost.” He stands abruptly, removing his gloves, and opens the folder he’d plucked from outside the door.
“Don’t look at that!” I reach for it, but he holds it away from me.
“Relax. These are just some notes Dr. Appa wanted me to mention with you,” Julian reassures me, but I feel incredibly anxious all the same. There’s no version of reality where Julian finds out I have Crohn’s disease that doesn’t end in me feeling vulnerable, ashamed, or embarrassed, and likely, all those emotions combined. I don’twantJulian to look at me as a patient, as someone he needs to fix. I like the way he already looks at me so much.
He scans the notes. “Dr. Appa strongly encourages you to schedule the routine monitoring for your condition as you are long overdue. He says you know the risks of failing to do so.”
My cheeks flare hot. Mycondition? Thanks a lot, Dr. Appa. He’s talking about a screening colonoscopy, something I’m supposed to do every two years but haven’t in over five. Colonoscopies mean GI specialists, and specialists all want the same thing—to prescribe me another biologic, even though I’ve had major allergic reactions to the two I’ve tried. I get that biologics have improved life with Crohn’s for so many. They are a modern medical miracle that give most people back their lives.Most.But if they don’t work for you, if you’re one of the few they make sicker, the specialists don’t know what to do. They just prescribe the newest biologic on the market, and the cycle repeats all over again.
Well, I’m done trying to dismantle my body’s faulty immune system with medication only for it to roar back and try to destroy me harder than ever. I want to address the root causes of my disease, but every specialist I’ve ever seen is too busy to help me search for actual healing, to meet me and my body where we’re at and help us improve from there. I get that there’s no conclusive answer to what causes Crohn’s, but there doesn’t need to be one, either, to try and find what works best forme. If I have a colonoscopy, that’s choosing to submit to the medical establishment that’s alternately harmed me or ignored me, all while saddling my mother and me with intense medical debt. And if Dr. Appa can’t understand that, Julian, who hails from the same prestigious hospital as so many of my former specialists, won’t, either.
“Is that all?” I lift my chin.
“And he says to quit being so stubborn,” Julian adds, a bit sheepishly. “Nomi, if you’re overdue for a screening, I’m happy to help you set it up.”
“No, thanks!” I thrust the insurance paperwork at Julian that I have to submit by five.
He pauses before taking it. “Fine. But I’m ordering bloodwork at the lab. You’ll need to stop by the lab for the blood draw, and Dr. Appa will review the results with you when they come back.”
“I don’t need any bloodwork.” I smile sweetly and shake the papers at him, pushing down the hurt and frustration rising inside. I don’t know why I’m surprised. Of course, Julian would be like this. Not listening. Substituting his judgment for my own aboutmy body.
“Ah, but youdoneed me to sign off that I gave you your annual physical, and bloodwork is part of that.” He folds his arms.
I glare at him, long and hard, but he just gazes back placidly. He has the power right now and knows it.
“Fine.” I roll my eyes, and Julian takes the paperwork, signs, then hands it back. He eyes me thoughtfully.
“I’m only trying to help you, Nomi.”
“Thanks, but I don’t need your help.” The words come out too sharp, too brittle, and Julian flinches like I hit him.
I exhale deeply, willing myself to calm down. Bloodwork isn’t a big ask, and my knee-jerk anger isn’t entirely fair right now.
“I’m—sorry, Julian. Medical stuff is sensitive for me, but I shouldn’t have snapped at you—you’re doing me a favor, and I really appreciate you helping me out.” I swallow, dropping my gaze from his intense one to the safety of the floor. “It’s good to see you. I’ve… missed you. At the coffee shop, I mean. It’s not the same without you.”
A strangled sound emerges from his throat, and I look up in time to see awhooshof hunger emanate from him that I feel on my skin like a hot breeze. It’s not the cold hardening my nipples anymore—it’s the way Julian’s consuming the sight of me, his professional façade flickering in and out as he fights it. The folder he’s holding slips from his hands, spilling its contents across the floor. He swallows roughly.
“Can I take you out Friday night, Nomi? Please?”
JULIAN
Shedoesn’t date? Nomi can stare up at me with those soft, brown eyes, her long, wavy hair sliding across herrock-hard nipples, and look at me with such open affectionand rock-hard nipples, but shewon’t date me? I must’ve looked as crestfallen as I feel because she hastily added she’d be out of town, anyway, so it wouldn’t work even if shediddate, but then reiterated how very ferventlyshe does not.
It’s unbearable. I know she wants me, too. I feel it in every touch of her smooth fingertips on my hand, my arm, and that day in Marco’s garage, my face. The rapid fluttering of her pulse beneath my hands, her breath trembling as my palm slid down her back, amplified through the earpieces of my stethoscope. The heat in her playful, bewitching smile.
But she won’t date me?
“Dr. D’Angelo? Is now a bad time, or—” Dr. Riveras frowns from my laptop screen, her face one of several currently frowning at me. A veritable grid of disappointment.
Great. It’s been two minutes, and I’m already bungling the three-month check-in with the probation committee. I exhale shortly. “My apologies. My last patient presented an intriguing set of—
