The medical mumbo-jumbo didn’t matter as much to Mal as what Vincent, a medical doctor from the West Coast, was doing practicing in Aurora. Mal remained still and silent as his thoughts bounced wildly off the sides of his skull. When they’d met in January a month and a half ago, Mal had assumed it was the end—a moment of fun that had only served to remind him how crushing real life could be.
But there stood Vincent, looking far too handsome, even though he wasn’t wearing a white coat. Mal glanced to Dr. Biernacki, who’d taken up a chair in the corner and was observing the ongoing conversation with the blasé expression of a young man who’d heard the same rehearsed lines one too many times. His white coat sat neatly on his shoulders, its open front draped down either side of his chair. Why the distinction?
“These injections will be performed identically to the ones you administered yourself during your pursuit of IVF treatment with Dr. Kanna.” Vincent had a doctor voice—a pleasant, inoffensive tone paired with a matter-of-fact way of speaking that contrasted the genuinely kind man Mal knew. He was acting like they’d never met, and Mal couldn’t exactly call him out on it—not in front of his colleagues. “As this is phase one testing, and dosage is under investigation, the injection will be administered by me, or another member of the team, every day to ensure accuracy. Unlike in traditional IVF treatments, no secondary medications are needed. I-047231 should eliminate the need for supplementary hormone adjustment.”
Vincent, whose sleeves were rolled and who already wore blue nitrile gloves, selected a disinfectant wipe from amongst the objects on the surgical steel tray he’d wheeled over. Mal observed as he tore the packaging and produced the wipe.
“When you’re ready, Mr. Collins, we’ll begin with the first injection.”
“I’m ready.” Mal searched Vincent’s eyes for meaning, but Vincent was closed off to him, his truth locked away behind rigid professionalism that refused to budge. “Let’s begin.”
“The injections will be administered intramuscularly on your thigh. Several patients have been relieved to hear that no injection needs to be made on the buttocks—for our purposes, the thigh will work just as well.” As he spoke, Vincent prepared the area. The disinfectant wipe passed over Mal’s skin, leaving it chilled. “You’ll feel, at worst, a slight pinch. There should be no residual pain, although you may experience tenderness at the site of the injection for the first several hours.”
Vincent set the wipe down and selected the syringe. By now, Mal was used to needles. The traditional IVF process necessitated them, and he’d performed all the injections on his own. Having a medical professional do it in his stead felt like a gift—if only that medical professional wasn’t Vincent. Had he lied to Mal about living elsewhere? At the time of the reception, Mal had assumed that Vincent was a respectful young man who cared about what Mal thought, even if they’d never see each other again. Now, Mal wasn’t so sure. If Vincent was working in Aurora under a different name, was his out-of-town business card a ploy? A strategic fabrication to get Mal to loosen up and sleep with him?
The thought sat wrong in Mal’s gut, and he clenched his stomach to try to do away with some of the ensuing nausea. Vincent wasn’t that kind of man. There was a story here that Mal wasn’t seeing, but in the middle of an important process, he couldn’t stop to ask.
“If you’ll take a deep breath in, Mr. Collins,” Vincent prompted. Mal filled his lungs, and as his chest reached full capacity, Vincent injected him with the clomiphene phylacetate. There was no pinch, no sting, and no pulsing heat. One moment there was pressure, and then the next, there was none. Mal glanced at his thigh. The only indication that he’d received an injection was the tiny dot of blood domed on his skin, no bigger than the tip of a pencil. In the next moment, it was gone—Vincent covered it with a dot bandage. “And there we are. Done. Tomorrow, Dr. Peterman and Dr. Heaney will run you through the same tests you took today, and you’ll receive another injection. That’s all you need to worry about.”
“Okay.” Mal looked up at Vincent, desperate to see a spark of recognition in his eyes, but saw nothing. The nausea reigning supreme in his stomach tightened his throat, and he swallowed to try to keep it down. “If anything bad starts to happen with my tests…”
“We’ll stop treatment immediately,” Vincent confirmed. “And should you notice any troubling side effects at home, Dr. Heaney’s contact information is listed in the information you received about the trial. He’ll field your call at any time, and, if necessary, will meet you for emergency treatment.”
“Okay.” What else was he supposed to say? Vincent wasn’t giving him anything to work with. All of the questions that rattled in Mal’s head, and all of the confusion strung through his heart like a knotted cat’s cradle, wouldn’t be addressed, wouldn’t be resolved. “Thank you, doctor.”
“Unless you have further questions, you’re free to change back into your clothes and go,” Vincent told him kindly. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Collins. We’ll see you again tomorrow.”
“Until tomorrow,” Mal mumbled. He slid down from the examination table, cast one last look at Vincent, then returned to the curtained partition to change back into his clothes as his heart ached, and his head struggled to knit together a cohesive explanation from loose strings of understanding that were all of different weights and textures.
* * *
Driving was an impossibility.Mal sank into the seat of his silver Nissan and ran his hands down the leather covering of the steering wheel, but made no effort to unite his keys with the ignition. The strummed notes of his heart were too distracting, his pulse a bass note far too booming to allow him to focus on the road.
What had happened?
What theever-loving hellwas going on?
Mal sank back in his seat and counted down from five. By the time he’d reached zero, nothing had changed. His heart hadn’t slowed, his pulse hadn’t worked itself back to normal, and he had no better of an idea how Vincent Wasserman from Corvallis had come to be Vincent Rhyne from Aurora.
For a moment, Mal allowed himself the indulgence of closing his eyes. In the darkness behind his eyelids, he was able to focus that much better and get to the heart of the issue. It wasn’t that he was disappointed or otherwise upset to see Vincent—quite the contrary—but he hadn’t been expecting to see him in the clinic where he was to receive fertility treatment.
Had Vincent been glad to see him?
Mal opened his eyes. Late-morning light constricted his pupils. The air was strangely chilled and smelled fresh, like it often did after rainfall.
There had to be an explanation for what was going on—a story that Mal hadn’t thought to look for. In the clinic, he hadn’t had a chance to ask questions, but nothing stopped him from asking them now.
He freed his cell phone from his pocket, unlocked the screen, and opened his text messages to search his history when his phone vibrated with an incoming text. It didn’t surprise him to see it was from Vincent.
I guess I should explain myself, shouldn’t I?
Mal’s car was situated across the parking lot, but not so far away that the door to the clinic was obscured. His gaze drifted in its direction to find Vincent leaning against the building’s exterior wall, his smart button-down still rolled up at the elbows. He worriedly swept a loose strand of hair back from his forehead as he looked down at the screen of his phone. From where Vincent stood, Mal doubted Vincent would be able to notice him. The car kept him concealed.
That depends… were you excited to see me, or did you want to crawl under a rock? I couldn’t tell. You put your doctor face on.
Mal’s gaze flicked from the screen of his phone to where Vincent stood, searching his face for clues. The details were difficult to determine from so far, but he thought that the frown on Vincent’s lips was heartfelt instead of irritated. As far as Mal was aware, Vincent looked troubled and crestfallen instead of on edge and irritated. Defeat slumped his shoulders. Unaware that Mal was watching, he let loose emotions that he, likely would have concealed in order to keep face.
None of them were negative. If anything, his posture embodied regret.
