“Okay.”
“Baseboards came out good. I think it was the right decision to replace them. The other ones were starting to rot. Come on, I’ll show you.”
I pull my glasses off, rubbing my eyes so I don’t fall asleep at my desk. “I’m sure it’s fine.”
“It looks better than the other rooms, actually,” he says, and I detect something off in his tone, but I don’t examine it. “If you want to move the—”
“Will.” I put my glasses back on, looking back at the chart in front of me that’s started to blur. “I really need to finish this.” There’s a long stretch of silence from where he’s standing.
I’m already reading the next line of notes, and I’ve forgotten he was even there when I hear a puff of breath and, “Right.” Followed by his footsteps, heading down the hall in the opposite direction.
By Friday, I’m feeling refreshed after an actual decent night’s sleep. Enough to respond to a text from Karen, confirming our plans for tomorrow—
When I hear a yell.
I drop my phone, running toward the sound of Will’s voice.
“Shit, fuck, ow!”
He’s in the next room where he’s started working, standing with his right hand cradled against his chest, blood from his opposite hand staining his shirt. “It’s fine,” he says the moment he sees me.
“Let me see.”
“It’s just a scratch. The knife slipped and—”
“Will.” I cross the room, and he takes a step back when I reach for him. “Let me see your hand.”
He narrows his eyes, but he does hand it over, and this isn’t a scratch. It’s a cut across his palm, a few inches long, deep and bleeding steadily. It may heal on its own eventually, but, “I think you need a few stitches.”
“I don’t need stitches,” he challenges. I don’t listen to him, dropping his wrist and heading for the door. “It’s not that bad,”he says, but he’s following me, so he must know he needs help, even if he doesn’t want it.
I push open the door to the first exam room and go to the cabinet, pulling out what I need. After working in the ER and years of practice, I could do this in my sleep. “Keep pressure on it,” I tell him, handing him some gauze to stop the bleeding.
When I pull the stool over and sit in front of him, taking his wrist, it doesn’t look as bad as it did in the dim room with all the blood. The cut is deep, but it’s clean. I turn his hand slightly, reaching for the saline solution when he pulls back. “Ow! That hurts!”
“I haven’t done anything yet. Hold still.”
“Maybe if you were gentle—”
“I am being gentle.” I uncap the saline, and he watches me with narrowed eyes as I clean the cut. I’m sure it doesn’t feelgreat,but he’s being dramatic when he winces in pain.
“Okay,” I say, reaching for the suture kit. “I think you’ll only need a few stitches. Maybe three.”
He looks at the kit and back at my face, and he doesn’t seem convinced. “What if you mess it up?”
“I’m a doctor.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Will.” I hold his gaze, choosing to stay professional about it. He may be infuriating, but Idon’twant him to get an infection. “I’ve done this a thousand times. Your hand is going to be fine. If you’re worried about the pain, I can give you a local anesthetic. It’s an injection that numbs the area so you won’t feel anything but a little bit of pressure.”
“I don’t need it,” he says too fast, shaking his head.
“It’s going to hurt.”
“I’ve had worse.”
“Okay,” I say, reaching for the suture kit again, trying not to think about what that means.What does he consider worse?“If you’re sure. This won’t take long.”
