“And I’m not seeing a surgery date on here,” he says, raising his eyes to mine. “Are we waiting on records from another hospital?”
The surgery that Dr. Elliot was trying to get scheduled. For nearly a year, he’s been playing cat and mouse with the insurance company, which hasn’t outright denied the operation, but has dragged it on enough that Gus’s doctor literally retired before we could get things sorted.
“No. We don’t have a date yet.”
“…alright, well, let’s set one up.” Dr. Burch whirls around and says to Gus, “I’d like to do an examination, Gus. Alright if I do a little poking and prodding here?”
Gus, used to being at the doctor by now, nods and climbs down off the chair. I help him up onto the examination table, and Dr. Burch pulls out his stethoscope, gently talking Gus through what he’s doing.
While not exactlyfussyat the doctor’s, Gus has obviously never enjoyed these visits. But now, with Burch, he’s giggling and laughing at his jokes, which are suspiciously dinosaur-specific. The examination goes quick, with Burch taking his vitals and listening to his heart.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Burch turns to me, slinging the stethoscope around his neck, and jerking his head toward my son. “Gus is a perfect candidate for the surgery. I know it seems like a relatively new procedure, and maybe Dr. Elliot mentioned how we didn’t used to operate on mild ASD. Before, protocol was to wait and see if it might resolve on its own. But this new operation is as non-invasive as it gets, and will completely alleviate Gus’s symptoms, and get him off the Lotenvix. It’s my professional opinion that it would be better to go through with the surgery, especially since Gus won’t have to deal with the potential negative side effects from long-term use of the medication.”
“Dr. Elliot told us about that,” I say, trying to keep the frustration from rising up. “But the insurance company is dragging feet about an approval, and I obviously can’t just pay for it.”
There’s a knock on the door, then a young, pretty woman pokes her head into the room, smiling right at the doctor. For some stupid, primitive reason, a rush of possessiveness rolls through me. What am I, a cave woman?
Besides, this is probably the standard for a man who looks like this. I’m sure people—and young women—are heaping smiles on him left and right. I won’t join their ranks.
“Sorry to bother you,” she says, her voice syrupy sweet. “But I wanted to let you know that you’re five minutes over, and the next patient is here.”
“Noted, thank you Nancy.”
Nancy. Of course.
Turning to me, and sticking his hands in his pockets, Burch asks, “Have you tried contacting the insurance company?”
He’s notably taller than me, and it’s both infuriating and enticing. I’ve always liked a taller man—so sue me if I have unoriginal taste.
His words sink in and dull the magic of his physical presence. Have I contacted the insurance company?
As if I haven’t thought about contacting the insurance company. As if part of their business model isn’t literally just making everything such an impossible, convoluted hassle that you don’t bother with it at all.
I help Gus down from the table for something to do with my hands, to keep myself from fixating on Burch’s appearance, or from blurting out the truth—I’m already working two jobs and raising Gus myself. I don’t exactly have time to sit around on the phone all day with the insurance company, getting transferred from one person to the next, waiting on hold, and walking in circles around yellow tape and jargon I don’t understand.
Of course, the PR firm I’m currently working for—Elemint Public Relations and Brand Management—has the worst health insurance I’ve ever had to deal with, but I’m not complaining. Or, at least, not complaining much.
It’s much better than having no health insurance at all, which was the boat I occupied when I found out I was pregnant with Gus.
“Yes,” I say, because it’s a lot easier than explaining all that. I turn back to the chair to grab my purse but catch a whir of brown in my peripheral—Gus, tumbling forward, having tripped over his own feet.
Turning around, I reach out to grab him, only to find my hand landing on Dr. Burch’s strong forearm instead. For the first time since running into him this morning, my eyes meet his, and something intense—familiar—jolts through me.
I’ve seen eyes like his before. So pale blue, they’re practically gray.
Nearly five years ago, in fact. I’d Googled gray eyes, to see if that was actually possible. Blue eyes so pale they don’t seem tohave any color at all. And it was possible—a tiny portion of the population has them.
Including my son.
Tearing my gaze, and my touch, away from Burch, I step back, then drop down to tie the offending light-up T-rex shoe that nearly sent my son to the floor. Gus puts a small hand on my shoulder as I tie his sneaker, and I can feel Dr. Burch watching us.
I’m trying desperately to clear away the flashbacks from that night. This doctor might have statistically improbable eyes, but that doesn’t mean I need to start simping over him.
“Ms. Harper,” he prompts, and I look up at him, pushing some of the hair from my face. His expression is something between amusement and professionalism, and I have to look away before I start staring into his eyes again. “I’ll see what I can do to work with the insurance. But I think it would be best to get that surgery on the books.”
“Maybe you should try contacting the insurance company first,” I say, knowing how this whole thing is going to work out. Of course, he would swoop in here and assume I haven’t been doing everything in my power to help my son. “Then let me know when you win them over.”
I don’t mean for it to come out so antagonistic, but Burch doesn’t seem like he minds. Actually, the corner of his mouth quirks up, and it’s so disarming that my heart actually flutters in my chest, like I’m a fucking teenager.
