"Nothing. Except this isn't a blood draw, Ella."
She's quiet. I can feel her looking at me.
"Here's what I think," I say, and I'm building this argument in real time, which is dangerous, but I've never been great at planning. "You deserve to know what you're doing. Not just the first time—like, all of it. You should feel confident. You should know what you like, what works for you, so that when you meet the right guy…"
"The right guy," she repeats flatly.
"…you're not fumbling through it. You shouldn't have to figure it out with someone who doesn't know what he's doing, or someone who doesn't give a shit whether you enjoy it." I pause. “You’re right that I know what I'm doing. And I give a shit."
The silence in the car is enormous. I chance a glance at her. She's staring at me with an expression I can't decode.
"So you're proposing, what, exactly? A lecture series?”
"I'm saying I'll teach you. Just like I would teach you if you asked me how to change a tire. Because I want you to have a good experience, and because—well, you know what you look like, Ella."
"I know nothing," she says, and there's something complicated in her voice.
"You look like someone I have to try very hard not to stare at." The words are out before I can vet them. I keep my eyes on the road. "So if you want this, I'm in. But I'm not collecting on a debt. That's not what this is."
She's quiet for long enough that I start to panic. Then she says, "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay, Bernard. You can tutor me. In sex."
I exhale. I might be concussed. I am almost certainly unwell. "Good. Great. And listen, I can help you study for your boards, too. I'm good at that kind of stuff."
She laughs, and it's the first real laugh I've heard from her—sharp and surprised, as I shook it loose. "You want to tutor me for the NCLEX."
"Why not? I've been quizzed by every trainer, PT, and team doctor in the league. I know shit. Supraspinatus, infraspinatus, teres minor, subscapularis." I tick them off on my fingers, steering with my knee for a second.
"Did you just steer with your knee?"
"Focus on the muscles, Ella."
She's smiling. I can see it from the corner of my eye—a real smile, not the tight, polite thing she gives Jason. "Fine," she says as I pull into the parking garage. "You can tutor me. For both things. But not tonight. I've been on my feet for thirteen hours, and I smell like a hospital."
"You smell fine."
"I smell like betadine and someone else's blood."
"Okay, that's fair."
She gathers her bag and opens the door. We ride the elevator up to the condo in silence, and I unlock the front door, gesturing for her to enter first. “Thank you for the rides. Both of them. I mean… the driving. To work." She closes her eyes briefly. "I'm going to bed."
"Goodnight, Ella."
She disappears down the hall, and the door clicks shut.
I lie on the couch and stare at the ceiling and wonder what the hell trouble I just signed up for.
Chapter 7
Ella
For three days after our awkward conversation, nothing happens with Bernard “Howie” Houser. When I pass him in the living room, he shouts out questions about shoulder muscles. I respond with accuracy. We smile.
He is awake and dressed when I emerge on work days, and drives me to the hospital in his fancy-ass car, quizzing me about body parts he knows. He peppers his trivia questions with anecdotes like “I shredded my polar plates when I blocked a shot sophomore year of high school,” or “that was the time your brother destroyed his temporalis. Remember when he couldn’t chew?”
