Blinking at his train of thought, Othello stood and gathered their dishes, moving over to drop them in the sink. He stole a glance at the doctor, who had stopped laughing but had a smile on his face. Shaking his head, he started cleaning up, but a gentle voice stopped him.
“Let me do that.”
Othello turned to the sweet voice to see the doctor moving closer to him. “You don’t have to.”
“I know, but I want to. You’ve done so much for me in the past hour. It’s the least I can do. It’s not every day someone offers to get rid of a body for me. I appreciate the gesture, but it’s not needed.” He took the soapy sponge from Othello and eased him out of the way with his hip.
Seeing that he had no choice, Othello poured himself another cup of coffee and added a splash of milk and a sugar cube—the way he liked it—not too sweet and not too creamy. He sat at the breakfast nook, savoring his coffee, and watched the doctor skillfully clean up the kitchen, as if he had been there many times and knew exactly what needed to be done.
“So, how did the guy die?” Othello asked since his curiosity got the better of him.
The doctor’s back stiffened. “Can I not talk about that?” he said, not looking at Othello.
“Up to you.” He shrugged. “I just figured you might want to get it off your chest since whatever happened got you sulking.”
Des glancedat the homeowner over his shoulder, realizing his attraction for the man hadn’t waned even though he hadn’t seen him in six months. Moor had put on more weight since the last time they saw each other and was more muscular in build. In the bright, sunlit apartment, the other man’s honey-brown eyes seemed to sparkle, drawing attention to them, even if he tried to look away. The deep red robe he wore complemented his golden-brown skin tone. Des wondered if red was Moor’s favorite color since it was a dominant feature in his home, accompanying the blacks, grays, and whites.
“I am not sulking, just contemplative,” he said softly, recalling Moor had said something.
He was finishing up the last of the dishes. He grabbed the cloth and dried his hands, turning to look at Moor. Des wasn’t sure why he’d stuck around for as long as he had. Maybe it was because he knew he had no one waiting for him at home or nothing really important to do. He should have left the second he’d changed into his clothes. The reason he’d drunk as much as he had the night before was because he didn’t have to work that day, and maybe he knew he was going to spend the entire day sulking in his apartment.
Des couldn’t say much had changed about him in the six months since he had left his parents’ party. Sure, he’d grown his hair out, gotten a couple of tattoos, and maybe drank a bit too much on the days he didn’t have to work. But he still had done nothing to change the status of his job. Honestly, he wasn’t sure what he wanted to do. Des had become the kind of fickle person that he hated. It had become even more so since Mr. Alvarez died on his operating table.
Despite his feelings toward his job, Des was good at it. He had performed countless surgeries, including ones that most doctors thought were too difficult. Des was able to handle them. But how was it that he couldn’t save Mr. Alvarez? He had done everything right. The operation was smooth, and just as he was closing up Mr. Alverez, his heart rhythm became erratic.
The monitors started beating frantically, and Mr. Alverez went into cardiac arrest, with blood filling his chest. Des and his team did everything they could to save him. It didn’t take long for him to perform the procedures needed to get the man's heart beating again before he could stop the bleeding. But sadly, thirty minutes later, Mr. Alverez died.
Des had been so distraught about the patient’s death that he’d all but lost his confidence. Despite the review confirming a blood clot in Mr. Alverez's left lung as the cause of death, Des couldn't shake the feeling of doubt. He questioned if he had followed the correct procedures and how he had overlooked the clot. Des had no one he could talk to about how he was feeling.
He tried to explain his feelings to Gray, but the cop didn’t understand. He would have liked to call his parents, but they hadn’t spoken to each other for the past few months. Des had contacted a few lawyers a couple of months ago, but none of them had gotten back to him. He was wondering if his parents had something to do with it.
“You’re sulking...I mean, being contemplative again,” Moor said, breaking into his thoughts. “You might as well tell me. I’ve been told I’m a good listener.”
Des peered at the taller man, wondering if talking with a stranger might help him get over what was bothering him. After a few minutes, he explained what happened with Mr. Alverez’s death. True to Moor’s word, he didn’t interrupt Des once.
“Do you know your eyes don’t sparkle when you talk about your job?” Moor said when he finished talking. “Tell me, Doc, do you like saving people’s lives?”
“It’s not like I want to kill people,” he responded, furrowing his brows.
“But do you like saving them?”
Moor put his elbow on the breakfast nook, resting his jaw on his fist, and Des couldn’t take his eyes off the man’s good looks even with the seriousness of their conversation.
“Let me rephrase the question. Do you like what you do?”
“Not particularly.” Des didn’t bat an eye or take a breath to think about the answer.
“Then why are you a doctor?”
“It’s what my parents wanted me to do,” he whispered. "It's hard to say no to them."Especially when I'm dependent on them financially.
“But what do you want to do?”
That question stumped Des. Other than his paternal grandfather, no one had ever asked him what he wanted. He was simply told what to do, no questions asked. "If I tell you, do you promise not to laugh?"
"It depends on what it is. But tell me anyway."
Des stared at Othello, wondering why it was he felt he could trust the man with his dream. "I want to open an art studio and help others fulfill their dreams of being an artist."
