Page 35 of Chosen Boy

Yeah, tell me about it.

Sutton

The walls in this doctor’s office are completely bare. Making it look as sterile as it smells in here. With the stench of bleach in the air, at least I don’t have to worry about germs.

The past few years, I’ve had to bounce around between a few different doctors. When I was a kid, Hunter’s uncle—who is a pulmonologist—was the doctor I’d see for checkups on my asthma. But after the falling-out with Hunter’s family, my parents quickly found me someone new. And then there was the debatably insane doctor in New York, who closed her eyes when she spoke to me, breathing loudly through her nose, making me almost as batshit crazy as she was.

But now, I’m on my own, no longer having parents to do things like schedule checkups and all of that adulting crap. So, here I am, at my initial visit with the doctor I found online. I put this off for as long as I could, but the medication I’ve been on for years seems to be less effective. And I’m willing to try anything to not have flare-ups as often as I have been lately.

On the way here today, I went to a nearby soup kitchen and volunteered to help with lunch. It’s something I did in New York every now and then, and it somehow gave me joy. I’ve never told a soul I do it because, honestly, it’s not about trying to impress people or to sound kind. And as messed up as it might sound, I think it’s always sobering to see how much worse things in life could really be. And if spending a few hours of my day helps get more people fed, I’ll do it in a heartbeat. In fact, I can’t wait to go back again.

A knock on the door is followed by the doctor pushing it open, stepping inside. I’ve never understood the knock all doctors do because they don’t leave enough time—from when their fist touches the door to the second they open it—to actually give a warning. But whatever. I’m sure it’s just the law, and they are obeying that. Still, it’s annoying.

“Miss Savage.” He smiles, holding his hand out. “I’m Dr. Kramp. How are you today?”

“Good.” I nod, releasing his hand. “I’m good.”

For an older man, he isn’t bad-looking. I mean, he’s no DILF, but he’s attractive for someone who’s got to be pushing mid-fifties. His hair is mostly white, though some black still peeks through, but not much. And his skin looks like he’s worn sunscreen every day of his life, never letting the sun damage it. And those eyes…wow, eyes as blue as his I’m certain got him in trouble when he was a younger man.

Sitting down on the stool in front of the computer, he hits a few keys before pulling his glasses down onto his nose, reading through the notes the medical assistant left for him.

“So, I see you’re here to talk about your asthma.” He directs his attention to me. “Are there any other concerns?”

“No.” I shake my head. “Just my shitty lungs—that’s all.”

He gives me a small, sympathetic smile and wheels the chair a little closer. “Well, I’ll ask you some more questions to figure out a plan and then do a short exam. Sound good?”

“Yep.” I nod. “Sounds good.”

“How often are you using your inhaler?” He rolls back to the computer, typing as I begin answering his questions.

“Two times a day, no matter what.” I pause. “That’s more of like an upkeep type of thing, you know. But using it because I need it? I’d say two to three times.”

“And what are you typically doing when you need your inhaler?”

“Dancing,” I say, but instantly want to add more. “I’m a ballet dancer, and sometimes, depending on what kind of routine I’m doing and how long I’m dancing for, I need an extra puff. Or two.”

I’m going to leave it at that because I’m not about to tell this man that, these days, I’ve taken up wrapping my body around a pole and shaking my ass for money. Something tells me he doesn’t want to know that.

“Would you say your asthma is stopping you from doing the things you enjoy?” He looks at the computer screen. “Is it limiting what you can do when you’re dancing?”

Part of me wants to lie and tell him it doesn’t. But he’s not my dance instructor. And he isn’t one of my fellow dancers either. At the end of the day, I’m just a number that he’s seeing today.

Shrugging, I bob my head nonchalantly. “I mean, I’d say yes. A little bit.”

Raising an eyebrow, he narrows his eyes. “A little, Miss Savage? Or a lot?”

“In the middle?” I say, sounding more like a question than an answer. “But giving up dancing isn’t an option. I need it.”

It’s all I have left.

He doesn’t sound convinced. But eventually, he moves on to more questions. Ones that, luckily, can be answered with a simple yes or no.

And like always, when he brings out the spirometer, followed by having me take deep breaths, I just have to pray my body does good enough for me to get some actual good news today.

I wait for my Uber outside the doctor’s office. It’s a long enough walk back to Brooks that I need to get a ride back.

The doctor visit ended with a warning. The same one I’d gotten countless times before.

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