“For real?” I ask. The girl smiles. She fucking smiles, and it’s like heaven’s gates just opened. Damn. “No, no one has said that to me.”
I run an alcohol-filled cotton swab over the center of her arm, then tie a rubber tourniquet around her triceps. “Finding veins on Bostonians is way easier than locating them on a tanned arm.” I run my finger down the center of her arm and her muscles tighten within my grip. “You need to try and relax.” Her hand unclenches and the vein I need shows perfectly beneath her pale skin. I reach over for the syringe and quickly insert the needle.I have the drip set attached and her arm taped up within thirty-seconds, hoping I caused the least amount of pain. “How was that?”
“Best I’ve ever had,” she says with another smile, but one with a snippy edge to her voice.
“Oh, you’ve never gotten an IV before, have you?”
“No, but that still means you’re the best I’ve ever had. I mean the IV.” She’s blushing. I knew I’d break her down a little. She’s a bit of a challenge and I like challenges.
“I was going to say, where was I when I earned that title?” Being in this role has allowed me to let confidence roll smoothly at all times, even when my heart is pounding in my chest.
“Oh please, you’d know,” she says, rolling her eyes.
“You’re right,” I tell her. “Here, let’s make you a little more comfortable.” I help her lie back on the bed and cover her with the sheet. Her long hair catches under her shoulders, and she struggles to move enough freely, so I slide my hand under her back and sweep her hair aside, sending a delicious scent of coconut and flowers back my way.
Just as I get her comfortable, the anesthesiologist and surgical nurse enter the room. “The anesthesiologist is here to give you some medicine that will make you feel good. I’ll see you in recovery,” I tell her.
Her eyes fill with concern and fear, which pains me to see. As much as I’ve been picking on her, I think I gave her a bit of comfort, but I have to let the others take over now. I didn’t warn her I wouldn’t be sticking by her side during surgery. “You’re not going to be in there?” she asks.
“Sorry, darlin’, I usually only float between the ER triage and recovery.”
“This isn’t triage or recovery, though,” she tells me, highlighting an obvious fact that I didn’t hide too well.
“I know.” I head out before I get another look from her that makes me melt with guilt.
