Page 12 of Cured

“Are you sure there isn’t something you want to talk about?”

If the bitch didn’t shut up, I was going to clobber her. “No, I was not abused. No one did this to me. I’m a klutz and had a very bad day yesterday.”

She didn’t seem convinced, but I didn’t give a shit what she thought. “So why are you here today, besides the black eye and broken toes?”

“I need my script for my blood tests.”

“Which blood tests?” she asked as she flipped open my file and glanced through the notes.

“STDs,” I stated and watched her purse her lips.

“Do you think you have one?” she questioned.

I hated new nurses. Where was Mary, the nurse who had been at this practice for the last three years, the one who knew exactly why I came in here?

“No, I don’t think I have one, but I get tested every six months to make sure.”

“So you’re sexually active?”

I’m freaking twenty-six, of course I’m sexually active, I almost said. “Yes—.” I drew the word out dramatically.

“With more than one partner?” She glanced my way as she spoke, and I tried to hide the wince. After thinking about the numbers yesterday, I was kind of mortified to acknowledge it.

I barely got the response through my tense lips, “Yes.”

She leaned her hip against the counter. “You’re not a prostitute, are you?”

“Are you fucking kidding me? No! I’m not a prostitute,” I sputtered at her and clamped my hands down on the edge of the exam table so I didn’t jump up and grab her by the throat.

“Okay, I just wanted to make sure.” She made some notes, peered at me a few times, and then wrote a few more things. “The doctor will be with you in a few minutes.”

I could have thanked her, but she had killed my congeniality with her comment. I wasn’t a freaking prostitute!

I stared at the hard tile floor. I wasn’t. Prostitutes slept with everyone and they got paid to do it. I didn’t do that. I slept with guys that I picked out because I wanted to. Who cared if it was two guys or a hundred? I could do what I wanted; I was a grown woman, and I sure as hell didn’t take money for it.

So why, as I thought of that, did I suddenly feel as if my skin was crawling and I needed to take a scalding shower to cleanse myself?

Doctor Miles entered the room a few minutes later. “Ember, how are you doing?

“I’ve had better days, Dr. Miles.”

“I see that. What happened?” He set my chart down and spun his stool around to face me. Dr. Miles was probably in his forties and never gave me a hard time about anything. He was always friendly and gave good advice when asked—not that I ever asked him for any, but I’m sure he would if I did.

“Would you believe that I hit myself in the face with a quart of pork fried rice?” I was prepared for him to launch into a barrage of questions about my abusive relationships, but instead he only asked one question.

“Is that what happened?”

“Yeah, I had the day from hell yesterday.” Total relief washed over me as he took my word and believed me. “I stubbed my foot in the morning, rushing to get ready for work, and I think I broke two toes. Then on my way home, I picked up takeout and somehow managed to smack myself right in the face. My nose didn’t bleed, but the pain was excruciating.”

The doctor stood up and washed his hands. “Sounds like you did have a bad day.”

“Yeah, I know I wasn’t scheduled for an appointment for those things.”

“You came for your script for the blood work, right?”

I nodded, “Yeah.”

“Did you find someone to settle down with, yet?” he asked as he approached and took my face in his cold hands to study my nose, tilting my head left then right.

---