Page 12 of Puck Me

“Shh, Chester, just try to breathe with me.” Dr. Harris takes both of my hands in his, squeezing them lightly. “Just take a few deep breaths. There you go, that’s right. I can see that you’re feeling overwhelmed right now. I want you to focus on the sound of my voice. We’re going to get you calmed down, and then we can talk about what’s bothering you, yeah? Just breathe for me…”

I lose track of time as I let the calm timber of Dr. Harris’s voice wash over me. Slowly, my breathing returns to normal, though the tears are still falling thick and fast.

“Now, tell me what’s wrong.”

“Physical therapy,” I mutter. “It… it went badly.”

It sounds stupid when I say it like that, but Dr. Harris’s expression softens in sympathy.

“I’m so sorry, Chester. That must be really discouraging.”

“I’m never going to get better—mentally or physically. This is my life now and I-I don’t want it.”

The next thing I know, I’m sobbing again, and Dr. Harris is pulling me into an embrace, guiding my head to his shoulder. I slowly wrap my arms around him and clutch onto his shirt as I cry.

It’s been a long time since I cried like this, not since the early days of the injury. I’ve certainly suffered plenty of mental anguish, and there have been tears for sure, but nothing like the full-blown meltdown I’m having right now.

I allow myself to go limp in Dr. Harris’s embrace, letting him take most of my weight. It doesn’t seem to bother him. I don’t know how long we stay there for, but when I finally pull back, I feel like the weight in my chest is slightly lighter than it was before.

“I’m sorry,” I mumble. “That was inappropriate.”

“On the contrary, it was an entirely appropriate reaction to your circumstances. I’m glad you came to me, Chester. I’ll always be here if you need me.”

“Thank you, Dr. Harris.”

Dr. Harris hasn’t fully pulled back from our embrace and our faces are very close together. His lips look delectable, and I see no reason to resist.

I lean forward to press my lips to his… and he pulls away.

“I’m sorry, Chester, but you’re my patient. I can’t do that with you.”

Hurt and rejection well up in my chest. Of course he wouldn’t want me. I’m just another patient to him. Just another pathetic soul to keep alive against their will.

“I should go.”

“Chester—”

“No, it’s okay. I get it. I’m just a patient.”

“You’re notjust…”

I don’t wait to hear the rest. I shuffle out of the door with my crutches, nudging it closed with my elbow behind me.

4

Storm

Istare after Chester. I think I’m in shock. It’s not that a patient tried to kiss me. It’s not common, but I’ve had that happen to me on occasion before.

No, it’s the fact thatI almost let him.

I was a mere breath away from simply staying where I was and allowing our lips to connect. Such a small choice—not to move a few inches back—but one with such huge implications.

I did the right thing, but the fact that I was close to doing the opposite leaves me shaken to my core. I want to kiss Chester. I’m realizing that I actually want to do a lot more than kiss him, but I shove that thought aside as forcefully as I can.

I can’t. He’s a patient. He’s hurt and feels rejected right now, but that’s preferable to having someone he’s supposed to trust prey on him when he’s vulnerable. I can deal with patients not being happy with me. It’s an unfortunate part of the job.

It’s the middle of the day and I have several appointments left before I’m due to go home. I try to pull myself together for the sake of my patients, and I manage to do a fairly good job of keeping Chester in an unused corner of my mind for the rest of the day, but as soon as the day is over, he comes creeping right out of that corner and into the light.

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