Page 54 of The Doctor's Truth

I’m pretty sure if it wasn’t unsanitary, he’d walk through the hospital barefoot too if he could.

Every time he comes home, the first thing he does is shuck off his shoes and socks, like he’s living in some monk’s temple.

I, on the other hand, walk around in my boots until I remember they’re attached to my feet.

And I guess, in a way, that’s an easy way to describe us. Jason leaves his baggage at the door. I carry all the dirt and grime of my life around with me, until my bandages become twisted badges of honor.

“I’m going to do it,” Jason says. Through the open bathroom door, I can see his frame hunched over the sink. He’s staring himself down in the mirror, an electric shaver in hand.

I can tell this is a big deal for him. You can always tell what’s going on with someone by the state of their hair.

He’s been holding on to that beard since his divorce with Nadine. I get it. It’s the symbolic act of letting go of a ghost.

“Okay,” I say.

Those blue eyes flicker from the mirror to meet me. “You’re not going to convince me out of it?”

I heave a sigh. “Jason—and I can’t stress this enough—I don’t care about your facial hair. Do what you want.”

He stares back at the mirror. His lips press into a thin, determined line.

“Time to make some changes,” he says. Then the buzzing starts.

* * *

Kenzi isn’t any better.

I see her at the hospital when she comes in for Otto’s visits. Or, sometimes, after my shift I’ll go to her place and invite myself to family dinner. Family movie time. She seems grateful for the extra pair of hands, anyway—Kenzi could never admit it, but she could use the help. Pearl isn’t exactly one to get her hands wet doing the dishes.

But every time we’re alone, she immediately launches into another conversation about Jason. Currently, her favorite thing to do is list all the reasons she despises him, each reason pettier than the last.

I know what she’s doing. She’s trying to put some distance there. Trying to convince herself out of her feelings for him. And I let her, because it’s what she needs. Tonight, the agenda on the table is:

“—and it genuinely bothers me that he doesn’t jerk off.”

“Uh-huh.” I scrub caked mac and cheese off a plate. “What about it bothers you?”

She sighs, like it’s obvious. “He needs other people for his own pleasure. It’s codependent.”

“Or,” I counter, “maybe he just values intimacy over orgasms.”

She squints at me, like I’ve just stabbed her in the back. “Seriously?”

I shrug. “Just a thought. But what do I know. I jerk off every time Brad Pitt has a new movie out. Speaking of.” I dry off my hands on a dish towel with a mermaid on it. Then I reach into my saddlebag hanging off the back of a chair and hunt around until I find what I’m looking for. I pull out a small, thin, silver box with a ribbon around it and hold it out to Kenzi. “Here. I couldn’t find a good time to give you this. Merry Christmas.”

She blinks at the gift like it might grow teeth and bite her. “You didn’t have to.”

“I’m aware.”

She starts to pull on the ribbon, but I quickly interject. “Open it when you’re alone. Not here.”

She presses her lips together in a smile. “You’re the worst. Now I need to get you something.”

“Please don’t.”

“What? Why not?”

“Knowing you it will be something…bizarre.”

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