Page 30 of Set on You

I’m silent for a moment as I register this completely unexpected fact. “Scott Ritchie has a fear of needles?”

He nods, eyes still fixed on the ceiling, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

“Really?” I ask, expecting him to snap out of it and admit he’s joking.

When he accidentally catches sight of the second needle, he nearly gags.

“Scott, dear, do you need to leave the room?” Grandma asks from the chair.

He shakes his head, reaching for the nearby sink, gripping the edge. “Nope. I’m good,” he says through clenched teeth.

“What is it about needles you don’t like?” I ask.

He contorts his face, as if I’ve just asked an outrageous question, like why would one dislike diarrhea, or STDs? “They hurt.”

“Says the guy who fights fires.”

He hunches his shoulders. “I wear fireproof gear.”

I eye him for a moment, unconvinced that fighting fires and needles are remotely comparable. “I think you should go sit in the waiting room.”

Grandma Flo nods. “Yes, why don’t you go with him, Crystal? Make sure he’s okay.”

I may not like Scott as a human, but I don’t want him passingout in public over a tiny needle. I roll my eyes as I lead him out of the examination room.

He takes a deep breath when we reach the relative serenity of the waiting area. I direct him to a chair out of Pixie Woman’s line of sight. She leans around the drywall column to catch another thirsty glimpse of Scott. He plunks into the chair, covering his eyes with his hand, his long legs outstretched.

I bend forward in front of him to examine his face. It’s still pale. “I’ll be right back.”

Ronnie, the receptionist, glances up at me with a bored stare, as if people nearly passing out in the office is just a typical day, which it probably is. “Can I help you?”

“Do you guys have anything for grown men who feel faint? Something sugary?”

She gives me a silent nod and wheels her chair backward. Without even standing, she reaches into the mini fridge and produces a juice box.

“That’s perfect. Thank you.” I gratefully pluck the tiny box from her limp hand.

I haven’t physically held a juice box since sixth grade, before it became wildly lame to bring a packed lunch to school. I’m amazed at how tiny they are.

“Here, this might make you feel better.” I insert the tiny straw, tossing the plastic on the side table for now.

He opens his eyes, squinting. “Apple juice?”

“It’ll help. Shut up and drink it.”

He complies, drinking quietly from the straw. I’ll admit, watching a six-foot-two alpha male fireman drink a children’s juice box is strangely attractive. Why am I more attracted to him when he’svulnerable and in need of medical attention? I push that thought aside. It’s a deeper issue for another time.

Within three sips, he finishes it to the last drop. “Thanks, Crystal.” He manages a weak smile.

“Do needles really affect you that much?”

He places his fingers over the bridge of his nose. “Yup. I avoid them. At all costs.”

“Is it the blood you don’t like?”

“No. I’m fine with blood. It’s the needle itself.”

“You’re telling me you never get the flu shot? You’d prefer worshipping the porcelain God, puking your brains out, over a measly needle?”

---