Page 8 of Deeply Examined

Want her back.

Fuck. She’s right.

Idowant Jessica to come back so I can see her. Not this unsatisfying black-and-white image. No, I want the full color real life woman, warm and soft and moaning.

This is the worst idea I’ve ever had.

“I’ll be there in a minute,” I mutter, reopening the yearbook. It automatically flips to Jessica’s class picture. I’ve looked at it so often, the spine at that page is bent into submission.

I can do this. I can see her without losing my shit.

If only I could convince myself I don’t like Jessica. That I hate her. That I resent her. But hate shouldn’t feel like this. Hate shouldn’t make my skin burn at the thought of her body under mine. Hate shouldn’t have me gripping the edge of my desk, trying to breathe through the memory of how soft she looked that day in my office.

Come on. Hate her.

I take another look at the yearbook. Twenty-three pages she’s on.

Jessica, always Jessica.

Smiling. Perfect. Untouched by the world.

And then there’s me. A single, forgettable square on one lonely page. No clubs. No teams. No adoring captions. A nonentity in the background of her shining, golden existence.

I don’t remember my classmates. But I remember her.

I tell myself it’s resentment that churns in my gut. That it’s injustice, not obsession, twisting my grip around the worn leather cover. That it’s the discrepancy—the overwhelming presence ofherand the absence ofme—that makes my jaw tighten.

That’s the only reason I keep that penny in my nightstand drawer.

The one she dropped in the parking lot back in high school. The one I picked up. The one I’ve packed and unpacked through college, medical school, residency, bringing it along with me every time I’ve moved like some pathetic memento of a past I should have burned a long time ago.

I should throw it away.

I should throwheraway.

But first, I need to strip her of the illusion of perfection. Of everything that made her special. Everything that made her so much better than me.

I need to see her the way I saw her last week—unraveled, helpless. Atmymercy.

Yes. That’s the new reality. The new status quo.

This time, I’m in control.

This time, she’ll see me. She’ll feel me. And this time—when I’ve taken everything she once held above me—maybe then, finally, I’ll get her out of my system. I’ll be free.

A knock pulls me from these dark thoughts.

Nurse Jensen, my partner’s wife, steps in with paperwork for me to sign. “What do you have going on tonight, West?”

“The usual. Work out. Trade stocks. Read. Go to bed,” I say truthfully.

She rolls her eyes, well aware of my routine. She’s been trying to set me up with her single friends for years. “You need a wife, or at least a girlfriend,” she scolds, crossing her arms over her ample bosom.

A flashback to high school, the bathroom by the gym. My face pushed into the toilet. How the girls snickered when I walked out with my hair dripping wet, covered in shit. I could’ve fought back, but I didn’t. By that time, I’d realized I couldn’t get kicked out of any more schools. I needed to bend if I wanted to achieve my goals. Still, it lingered to this day. The gleeful sound of them laughing at me. “I don’t need a wife or anyone else.”

She shakes her head, looking at me with something close to pity. “Everyone needs someone, and those little fuck bunnies you spend one night with don’t count.”

I shrug, tired of this conversation. We’ve discussed this topic many times before. “I have needs, and my needs are met. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a patient to see.”

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