“Oh,” is all I say.
“Well,allons,” she calls, gesturing to the front door. “Let’s go, kid.”
I smirk and follow orders, though I nearly change my mind as soon as I step outside and face the sunlight. I groan loudly, but Daisy only rolls her eyes and urges me on to her little green Volkswagen.
“I can barely even fit in this thing,” I complain as I fold into the car.
“Oh, get over it. You don’t hear me griping about having to hike up my dresses to climb into your Jeep, do you?”
“I guess not,” I say quietly and ignore the image of her pulling up her skirt to reveal her legs as I flip down the visor. She hands me a pair of girly sunglasses, but I don’t hesitate to put them on. I catch her holding back a grin as she slips on another pair of pastel purple shades before she cranks her car and pulls out of the driveway.
“Daisy, if you?—”
“I’ll pull over if anything feels off,” she interrupts me and reaches out to raise the volume on the radio. Then she thinks better of it, probably because of my head, and turns down the John Denver song.
“You’ve missed this, haven’t you?” I ask after a while. “Take a right at the red light.”
“Yes, I have. And I know where I’m going, thank you.”
“For what it’s worth, you’re a surprisingly good driver for someone who hasn’t been behind the wheel in a few months. Then again, you’re driving a glorified Barbie car, so …”
She reaches out to backhand my arm, and I chuckle until it turns into a cough. Then her back tire scrapes the curb on the turn into the parking lot before she pulls up too far and catches her bumper on the cement divider. She winces adorably each time we hear the grating of plastic over concrete, and I stifle my laughter.
“How am I supposed to park straight with you watching me like that?” she poses.
“I’m not watching you,” I reply, amused. “I’m just being a passenger.”
She furrows her brow, but she’s still smiling. “You haven’t stopped staring at me since we left the house. I know you’re worried, but I told you, I’m fine. That six-month rule is just an arbitrary line in the sand, isn’t it?”
I lick my lips, my mouth suddenly feeling dry. “Sorry. I guess I didn’t realize I was doing that.”
“Come on.” Her cheeks darken, and she looks away. “We breaking into this joint or what?”
I laugh again before getting myself out of the car and leading her around to the staff entrance. I punch in a code and open the door for her before we slip into a supply closet to grab a strep test.
“Think you can stomach it?” I ask, holding up a long cotton swab and a tongue depressor.
She rolls her eyes and takes them both. “I spent half my childhood as a patient, getting poked and prodded, and the other half growing up on a farm. I’ve stuck worse things into grosser orifices, especially of the non-human variety.”
I nod approvingly and sit on the nearest table before tilting my head back and thrusting my tongue out. She doesn’t hesitate to go in and rub the swab over my tonsils, and I gag exaggeratedly, holding my throat when she backs away.
“Damn, woman,” I spit out between coughs. “That’s the wrong orifice.”
“You said to swab your throat, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, but you didn’t have to go deep enough to touch my asshole from this end.”
She glares at me before she follows my instructions to set up the test. “You should probably be wearing a mask and gloves,” I say after a while. “Especially if you’re going to give me an injection.”
“I’m sure it’s too late for that. Might as well just have my prescription on standby for when I start showing symptoms,” she replies with a shrug as she sits on the table across from me.
“You might not catch it, since it’s not like we’ve been sharing drinks or swapping spit. But I’m not just talking about the strep cooties.”
She crosses her arms over her middle. “Shouldn’t you have told me about your other cooties before we got married?”
I huff. “I’ve never actually had an STD, for the record. I just meant that you should always wear gloves around sharp objects in a medical setting. You never know what’s lurking around.”
“Oh.” She relaxes a little.
