He’s having such a hard time that I get out of the driver’s seat, sling my handbag over my shoulder, and go to the passenger side. I crouch in front of him.
“Lincoln, look at me.”
He looks at me. His face is flushed, his dark brown hair already wet with sweat, the way he’s blinking like he’s about to pass out. He’s probably freaking out because he’s convinced they’re going to stick him several times.
“I’ll be right here with you,” I assure him.
His breathing slows only slightly as he looks at me, breathing through his nose, trying not to be nauseous.
“You’re not going to get up andleaveme for revenge?” he asks, almost bitterly, like he expects me to.
“I’ve thought about it. Not going to lie. But… I have no interest in betraying you like that. When I give you my word I’m going to do something… Iactuallykeep it, Lincoln.”
He swallows, and I know it doesn’t escape him what I’m implying.
I walk him inside the clinic, watching him bite his lip. He’s shaking so hard he can’t type on the tablet, so I have to fill out the forms for him.
I start asking him the questions.
The next section pops up, a full medical questionnaire, and it’s awkward as hell.
Questions like:
Are you sexually active?
How often?
How many partners in the last 12 months?
Do you engage in high-risk behavior?
Do you use protection?
Have you experienced erectile dysfunction?
Any symptoms of STIs?
Any unusual discharge?
Do you experience pain during intercourse?
Any history of sexual trauma?
Do you use recreational drugs?
Do you drink alcohol?
Any fainting episodes?
Any history of heart conditions?
Any family history of cancer?
Any history of anxiety disorders?
Any recent weight changes?
Any changes in appetite or sleep?
