Page 41 of Surviving in Clua


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“Jay, this isn’t a good time,” I bark down the line before my sister gets a word out.

“Then make it a good time, Lo. You need to come home. Tomorrow.”

FIFTEEN

Mylo

I stare at the ceiling as cold hands lift my dick and cup my scrotum. Blow out a long breath and clench my hands into fists by my sides. I hate this. Truly fucking hate it.

“So, you’re living in Clua now?” The doctor’s quiet voice does nothing to ease my discomfort. If anything, it makes it worse. Who tries to make small talk when they’re examining a man’s junk?

A grunted “yes” is all that escapes through my grinding teeth. There’s a definite possibility I’ll walk out of here needing a dentist today. Her fingers probe and prod, and my abs clench along with every other muscle in my body. It doesn’t matter how many times I go through this shit, or how well I know the drill, it never gets any less humiliating.

“Everything looks good down here.”

My gaze drops unbidden to the top of her head.

She clears her throat. “There are no suspicious lumps or bumps.”

“Lumps or bumps?” Despite the fact that this sterile little room has every hair on my body prickling with the need to get the fuck out, a smirk twitches my lips.

“Patients usually prefer that I avoid medical jargon. It makes them nervous.” She offers a tight smile as she gets to her feet and snaps off her gloves, dark eyes serious. “Get your clothes back on, and then come on through to my office.”

The second she closes the door, I rip off the hospital gown and pull on my shorts, my eyes briefly drawn to the tiny pink plaster on my arm. Doctor Lumps and Bumps said it would take a few days to get blood work back, that she’ll schedule an appointment with the hospital’s oncologist before I go. Fuck staying here until the results come in. If there’s a problem, I’ll take care of it back in Clua. In Clua where I didn’t even have the time to face Kenzi before I left. If that kiss made anything clear, it’s that keeping away from her isn’t an option. But talking to her about anything meaningful before a 6am ferry left wasn’t exactly a great option either. So, I did what I always seem to do when it comes to Kenzi. I pussied out.

I yank my Surf Shack T-shirt over my head, pull the thin curtain back to the wall and stalk out of the examination room and across the hall to the doctor’s office.

Her giant oak desk between us, the doctor gestures with a thin hand for me to sit. I wipe my sweaty palms down the front of my shorts and scowl at the inconspicuous whiskey-colored, leather-backed chair. That goddamned chair. No good news has ever been told to anyone sitting in that fucking thing. I clear my throat. Attempt a smile. “I’d rather stand.”

Understanding flashes in her eyes before she drops her attention to the paperwork in front of her. “Right. Of course. This won’t take long—just a couple of questions to make sure all is well.”

“Fire away.”

“I see here that the last time you came here you were with your…” She picks up the paper on the top of her file. “Your fiancée—Cara.” Her eyes flick up.

“She left after I was diagnosed.” My throat contracts with the memory of that day, and every fucked-up day that followed it. The gnawing realization that shit had changed. That she couldn’t look at me. Or touch me. Or be anywhere fucking near me. It’s not the fact she’s gone, it’s the thought of going through it all over again with Kenzi. I clear my throat. Grip the back of the chair and focus on the doctor.

“I’m sorry. Cancer doesn’t always bring out the best in people.” Something in the sad tilt to her thin lips makes me wonder just how many times she’s heard the same sob story from men in my position, and it does fuck all to ease the twisting in my gut.

She clears her throat and scans her notes again. “Right, where was I?”

“A few quick questions.” My eyebrows furrow. I know what’s coming, and it’s almost worse than the physical.

“Any problems? Pain? Discomfort during intercourse?” She glances up at me as if she’s just asked what I take in my coffee.

My fingers dig into the chair back and I stare at the dark grain of her desk.

“Mylo, it’s been over a year since the operation.”

“Is this medically relevant? I can assure you that everything is in full working order.”

“Have you talked to anybody about this? Your mental health is every bit as important as your physical health.”

Letting out a sigh that sounds pained even to my own ears, I drop down onto the fucking chair. Bad luck or not, this appointment can’t suck any more than it already does.

“Wariness about getting intimate after these sorts of operations is completely normal. There are people who can help. People you can talk to. People rarely put much importance on whether things are symmetrical down there.”

I meet her stare. Fast. Too fast.

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