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He ushered her into the building, her nerves growing with each step. They went straight to an exam room with a brown cushioned table, and Dr. DeMarco flicked on a single light. She stood in place as he explored the room, pulling out supplies and turning on machines. He grabbed her arm, wordlessly stabbing a needle into her vein. She continued to stand still while he filled vial after vial with her blood, every second that passed making her woozier.
She grew so light-headed she nearly fainted.
Dr. DeMarco weighed and measured her next before leading her to the exam table. “You’re going to have to take off your clothes.” She stared at him, fear coursing through her, and he sighed with frustration at her terrified expression. “It’s going to happen whether you cooperate or not, and I’d prefer it be on good terms than from me forcing you.”
Dr. DeMarco strolled over to the window as Haven carefully stripped and climbed up on the table. Her feet hung off the side, nowhere close to reaching the floor as she shielded herself with a flimsy paper gown, clinging to it as if it could protect her.
Dr. DeMarco spoke without turning around. “Lie back and scoot to the end of the table. Place your feet in the metal stirrups and try to relax.”
She did as she was told, closing her eyes as the sound of his footsteps slowly neared.
“You’re going to feel something cold down below,” he explained, pulling a stool closer and sitting down as he slipped on a pair of latex gloves. “It’ll be uncomfortable, but it’ll be over quick.”
She squeezed her eyes shut tighter when he touched her, a tear slipping through and falling down her nose. She counted in her head, trying to distract herself, and as soon as she reached ten he let go.
“You appear fine, as far as I can tell,” he said, disposing of his gloves. Her vision blurred from the tears when she opened her eyes, but she could see Dr. DeMarco beside her. He injected her with a few syringes, some stinging worse than others, before he headed for the door. “Put your clothes on so we can leave. I’ll wait for you in the hall.”
Standing, she held on to the table as her legs shook, and redressed.
* * *
Haven lay in bed that night, listening to the soft music drifting in from the library. It was the same melody as every other time, one that usually lulled her to sleep, but tonight she couldn’t relax. Her skin felt taut, her muscles strained and tensed as anger and disgust crept through her. Despite scrubbing and scrubbing in the shower, she still felt dirty.
She’d never been so confused before.
She’d kept her distance from Carmine, wanting the strange feelings for him to stop. She didn’t get why her chest felt like it would burst when he spoke, why her skin got prickly whenever he came near, or why she felt dizzy when she heard his light laughter. She barely knew him—she’d made a point not to—but it didn’t make a difference, because the feelings came anyway.
Grabbing some paper, Haven sketched a picture of Carmine, every detail of his face etched in her memory: the shape of his jaw, the curve of his lips, the arch of his eyebrows, and the angle of his nose. She remembered his eyes, the way they sparkled in the light. He had some freckles on his nose and cheeks, and a small blemish on the right side of his bottom lip.
As she lay there, she found herself wondering how she’d noticed all of those things.
After she finished, she held the drawing up to look at it in the light. Something was off, the sketch flat and colorless. It didn’t hold a fraction of the emotion the music carried.
Frustrated, she balled up the paper and tossed it aside.
* * *
Haven was avoiding him again . . . Carmine just couldn’t figure out why.
He tried to wait it out, giving her time to relax, but he was low on patience. Insomnia plagued him, and as Carmine strolled downstairs the next afternoon, still exhausted and sore from his football game, he was determined it wasn’t going to happen anymore.
Groggy, he hesitated in the foyer when Haven stepped into the doorway from the kitchen. He ran his hand through his messy hair, having not bothered to brush it. “What’s up?”
“Nothing.” She glanced around. “Should I be doing something?”
He shrugged. “You tell me.”
“Are you hungry? I could make you some food.”
“No.”
“Do you need laundry done?”
“No.”
“I’ve cleaned,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve forgotten anything.”
“I wasn’t implying you did. I was making conversation.”
