Page 125 of Finding Our Reality

“Language, language,” I tsk.

“That’s why you’ve been wearing a shirt?”

“I always wear a shirt.”

She cocks her hands on her hips. “Not around here you don’t.”

I smile. “And why do you think that is?”

She smirks, pointing her little chin in the air. “Because you love it when I ogle you like you’re some kind of male stripper. I’m just waiting on you to put a tip jar on the counter so I have to start filling it with dollar bills.”

I laugh, rubbing my hand across my stubble. “That’s not a bad idea.”

She takes a step closer and points at the jagged red bump protruding from my skin. “Something’s working its way out, isn’t it? What is it?”

“Plastic, metal, glass.” I shrug. “I don’t know.”

“Is it infected?”

“No. But it could get infected if I don’t get it out. It’s ready. It hurts like a son of a bitch.”

“Why aren’t you going to the hospital for this?”

“I can’t go to the hospital every time this happens. It’s not feasible, Lulu.”

She swallows loudly. “Okay. Tell me what to do.”

“Are you sure you wanna be here for this? Based on your reaction when you first saw my injury, it might not be the best thing.”

“It wasn’t the scar that upset me. It was the thought of losing you.” She reaches out, gently brushing her fingers across my collarbone. “Am I in danger of losing you?”

Grabbing her hand, I kiss her fingertips. “Never.”

“Well, then, we have nothing to worry about it.” She sighs and looks at all of the supplies. “Sounds like this will be a part of my life now. I need to know what happens.”

I lick my lips. “Alright.” I point to a small bag of needles. “Grab that shot of lidocaine. You need to inject it very slowly all around the bump.”

We give the medicine a few minutes to take effect, and she cleans the area with antiseptic wipes. “We need to cut with a scalpel. Can you do that?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t think so. What if I cut too deep?” She chuckles, trying to lighten the mood. “I’ve researched too many medical malpractice suits. I don’t wanna be on the receiving end.”

“It’s fine, I can do the cutting.” Hell, I’m an old pro by now. Looking over my shoulder, I make a small incision with steady hand. I guess if part of me had to get blown up, I’m glad it was my left side. I’m right-handed. I can’t imagine having to cut with my left hand. I tell Lulu to hold the gauze over the wound until the bleeding settles down.

By the third pile of gauze, the blood flow has slowed. “Won’t you need stitches?” she asks.

“I have some alternative suture kits. It’s kind of like butterfly tape except there are little brackets that you pull together to keep the skin closed.” I check the wound. Whatever it is, it’s green. I can see the edge of it already peeking through my filleted skin. “Grab the forceps.”

She picks them up, her fingers stained with my blood. “Okay, now what?”

“Dig it out.”

Her eyes widen and she holds her breath.

Laughing, I try to wrangle the instrument from her hand. “Here, I’ll do it.”

She yanks away. “No, I’ll do it.” Pushing my knees apart, she steps between my spread legs to get a better angle. “I just grab it?”

“Grab it and pull it out.” I wink. “And then get the shit out of my arm.”

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