“I’ll keep surprising you, then.” He places the wedges back in the closet and pulls the covers out from under me, helping me out of the bed. I stretch out my limbs as I hold on to him and my knees wobble. I clench my teeth with each step, and when we exit the room, my food is waiting for me where he said it was and I eat slowly, savoring every bite. Looking at the TV, I think about how I’ve been allowed to watch all the shows I never could before. I sip my water, hearing Stephen’s voice in my head.
“We can’t afford cable or streaming services,” he would say, because he needed something else—a new coat for winter, pants for work, computer for school, or whatever else he’d come up with when I wanted to spend money on myself. I’ve been spoiled here. Home-cooked meals, silky pajamas, a luxurious bed, and I occasionally forget why being here is so bad.
“I'll be back,” he says, adjusting the throw pillows behind me. “If you need anything before that, just shout and I’ll hear you.”
“The cameras,” I say, looking around, curious whether I could spot any area that might look off. Nothing does.
“Yes, the cameras,” he says so casually. Like yeah, I’m watching your every move all hours of the day, even when you think you’re alone. No big deal. Has he been peering in on mewhile I’m in the bathroom too? A horrified feeling comes over me and then arousal flushes it away. What the fuck?
This whole patient and doctor thing has gone too far, hasn’t it? It could be worse, I remind myself. It could always be worse. I could be sitting on a thin, cardboard-like mattress and eating slop from a cafeteria, surrounded by guys who are serving time for committing crimes much worse than mine. I mean, if he wasn’t watching me, he wouldn’t have been able to come down so fast to help me when he did. So there’s that.
Yeah, it could be worse.
The food is as good as it’s been the last few days here, and I eat a little too fast, wondering if he was watching me during my almost-choking episode. Would he get down here in time? That’s not something I want to put to the test. It’s not. Definitely not. I take a swig of my water, and when I’m five episodes intoStranger Things,the basement door creaks open and Sam comes into view. He has his sleeves rolled up.
The muscles in his biceps appear more defined, and I get a better view of his tattoos as he gets closer. Palm trees, fish, and sea turtles.
“Do they mean anything?” I ask before I can overthink what comes out of my mouth.
“Does what mean anything?” His forehead wrinkles and he inches closer, moving the tray to the side of the couch before stacking the plates. He leaves them where they are and his attention reverts back to me as I try to find my words again.
“The tattoos on your forearms.”
He looks himself over and shrugs. “Only that I like the beach. It holds some of my favorite memories as a kid and has made me feel at peace as an adult.”
I’m finally learning more about him. “You go often?”
“It’s two hours away, so not as much as I’d like. Do you like the beach?”
“I think so.” I scoot to the edge of the cushion.
“What do you mean, you think?” He lowers himself beside me.
“I’ve never actually been. My boyfriend always said we could never afford it, but probably because he had other priorities like doing shit for himself and my best friend.”
“That’s too bad. You definitely should go sometime. Don’t hitch a ride there, though.” His elbow brushes mine and I laugh, looking down between us.
“Why? Getting jealous at the thought of another weirdo doctor picking me up and asking me to be his patient?”
“Well . . . I wasn’t before, but now . . .” The corners of his eyes crinkle with humor and we both bark out a laugh.
“Shower time?” I cock my head and rest a hand above my knee.
“Yeah. I don’t have to be in there the whole time. I have a chair and I can help you sit—”
“No chair please. I want to use every opportunity I have to stretch my legs.”
“I'll have to stand close by, then.”
“Doctor’s orders?”
“You already know the answer to that question.” His eyes turn downward.
“Yeah. I do. And who am I to go against them?”
“You’re not a bad patient, are you? Because only a bad patient would consider it?”
“I . . . I feel I should, but . . . I want you to help me. What if I get dizzy again? It took a lot for me to get to the couch this morning.”
