“Sometimes.”
“And is this one of those times?”
He gives me a small smile and takes a sip of his beer.
“I don’t know yet,” he says, “but I think I’ll find out soon.”
If he makes another comment like that, with that tone, that smug gaze, and that smile that says, ‘You’re my prey, start running if you don’t want me to swallow you whole’, I’ll drag him back to mine, even if I have to carry him on my back and risk a few fractured vertebrae in the process.
Chapter12
Jamie
Should I give myself a pat on the back for all the bullshit coming out of my mouth?
Not only did I ask him about his job — what the hell do I care?Weren’t we here to talk about rugby?— Now I’m also ranting about ‘seeing things through’.
Damn Doctor.I’m sure he’s practising some weird magic ritual on me, making me open my mouth and spew as much bullshit as possible.
I take another sip of my beer.It’s hard to swallow; tension has knotted in my throat, like a rope tightening around my neck with every passing second.
The Doctor seems to ignore my last sentence.He looks so relaxed and comfortable in this situation, while I feel like I’m about to vomit under the table.
He leans back and undoes two buttons on his shirt.About fucking time!I was two seconds away from jumping up on the fucking table and doing it for him.How does he stand being wrapped in those clothes after thirty-six hours in a fucking hospital?I’d already be naked in his place.
Oh, way to go, Jamie.Now your thoughts are heading in the wrong direction.
Next, he unbuttons his cuffs and pushes his sleeves up to his elbows.I follow his movements with growing anxiety, the rope around my neck tightening its grip, almost to the point of choking me.
When he’s done, he places both hands on the table, beside his pint.I stare at them, longing for them, as I feel those hands could cure anything, even me.
“My job always bores everyone,” he says calmly.
I look up at him, enchanted by the slow, sensual movement of his lips as he speaks.
“No one asks me how my day went,” he says, his voice losing confidence.“Just to be clear, I’m not feeling sorry for myself.I understand that it’s not pleasant or easy to hear about hospitals, illness, accidents and… death.”
Now he seems sad.
I study his tired face, the dark circles under his eyes, the pale skin of someone who spends too many hours indoors.
“It must be hard to deal with death.”
He shakes his head.“You never get used to it.”
“And do you get that a lot?”
“It’s part of the job.”
Am I really talking to the Doctor about death?
“But you still love it.”
“When you choose to be a doctor, you know your life will be about that.It defines who you are.It’s part of you; you can’t be anything else.It follows you, it sticks to you, it won’t let you sleep at night, and it often keeps you from being happy when everyone around you is, because you can never completely disconnect.”
“It must be overwhelming.”
“Sometimes, but it’s my life.A bit like you being a player.”
