Page 142 of Intense

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Head of Neurology. I suppose I’d call him a friend of sorts. Except, he needs to understand I won’t be going to Portugal to play golf, no matter how many times he asks me.

“Of course, Finn. All okay?”

I rub my hands over my face.

“Something’s not right. Can I pop down for some scans? I only have an hour.”

There’s a pause.

“Not right? Do you want to give me some symptoms?”

I let out a ragged breath.

How do I explain to a fucking neurologist that I need my brain scanned because I’m too obsessed with my wife?

That I’ve been so void of feelings for so long, I now can’t stop feeling things.

That I’ve been laughing, smiling, and lusting over her.

That I care.

And that there is no logical explanation other than a tumor. Or some kind of brain-eating disease that’s causing this.

Because I’m not built to feel love.

And yet, I think I do.

So naturally, to avoid being sent to the psych ward. I lie.

“Lethargic, dizzy, dehydrated, and a constant pounding headache.”

“How many days?”

It’s been nearly six years since I met her. But I’ve been in love with her for thirty days.

Obsessed every day since I arrived here.

“A couple of weeks now.”

“Alright. Head to my office now. I’ll do some assessments and scans.”

“Great. Thank you. You sure an hour will cut it?”

He chuckles.

“Head of the department comes with some perks, Finn.”

I cut the call and head straight to his office, nerves swirling around in my gut. I haven’t thought about what if I am actually sick.

I knockon Fred’s door before opening it up.

He turns in his seat and smiles.

“Right, let’s get you scanned. You can answer questions as we walk there,” he tells me, standing up and holding out his hand to shake.

I look at it. Clean. No tattoos. What a surgeon should look like.

Not like mine. Covered in ink. Blood probably still stained deep within.

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