Pulse by Liv Hayes

pulse.
    Instead,
when he walked in, his smile was tight. He walked rigidly, making whatever
contact he had to make – shaking my hand, checking my pulse – quick and formal.
It felt like the room's temperature had suddenly shot down into the negatives,
and I was completely exposed.
    “So,” he
said. There was an attempted cheeriness in his voice, but I, of course, could
see right through the bullshit. “All of your tests are normal, Mia. I think
it's just anxiety. If the symptoms persist, I suggest talking to a therapist.”
    “Fuck
you,” I wanted to say. And yeah, I was partly angry right then. I wanted an
explanation. In fact, I knew I deserved one. I deserved something.
    I tried
to take that small, fleeting glimmer of something – fatigue, depression – that
I caught in his eyes as a sign. I forced myself to recall how forlorn and torn
he looked, sitting at the edge of my couch, and how gentle his hands were when
he washed the raccoon-makeup from my eyes and tied my hair back.
    Of course
he cared. He was just refusing to show it.
    “So this
is it?” I asked.
    He leaned
in, still managing to keep himself at a distance.
    “I can
schedule you a follow-up appointment for next year, if you'd like,” he
suggested. “We can further discuss or review anything you might be dealing with
then.”
    “What if
I have an emergency?” I prompted. “What then?”
    There it
was: the tightening of his jaw, the slight clench of his hands. He wasn't
angry. He was just as upset as I was.
    “I'd be
happy to refer you to another colleague of mine,” he faltered. “He's very good.
You'll find him more than competent.”
    “Why
don't you tell me what you're really thinking,” I demanded. “You said yourself
that you weren't afraid.”
    He
nodded. He twisted his hands. He looked down towards the floor and parted his
lips, as if wanting to answer me, to give me something, anything. But he said
no words.
    “Please
understand,” he begged gently. “Please know that I do care.”
    “But?”
    He
covered his face. God, was he about to cry?
    “I can't
do this anymore, Mia,” he said sternly. “I've made a terrible mistake. You have
every right to be upset. I hope you can forgive me.”
    I hope
you can forgive me .
    As he
stood, and we briefly clasped hands, and I watched him turn and leave and walk
out of my life forever, I almost broke down. I almost threw the heavy, plastic
heart at him – a metaphor.
    Save it,
I told myself. Don't crack. Be understanding. Be the adult you've been training
yourself to become for the past four years.
    I'll admit,
when the nurse came to release me, I thought about telling her. I thought about
throwing him under the freight-train, bound to the tracks, and watching the
mess splatter. I thought about, for the sake of my own hurt feelings, telling
her everything: the pet-names, the kiss, the discreet office sex.
    But when
she smiled at me, and cocked her head to the side, asking:
    “Is
everything alright, hun?”
    I just
nodded, numbly.
    “Yes,” I
said. “I'm fine.
    I wasn't
going to ruin his life. I couldn't. It takes two, after all. He kissed me, but
I kissed him back. I wrapped my legs around his waist, I drew him in deeper.
And even if he was the adult, and should have known better, I still wanted it.
It was the coldest, most bitter, undeniable truth.
    I waited
until I got into the elevator, until the doors were closed, and then, granting
myself the thirty-some seconds as the elevator lurched towards its gradual
descent, I wept. I wiped my face, wiped my nose, shuddered heavily.
    God, the
pain. It was like my bones, my marrow, were lit on fire.
    And then,
as the doors opened, I collected myself. I forced myself back into reality,
whether this was a place I wanted to be or not.
    He was a
doctor. I was a patient.
    He was a
man, and I was a girl.
    What more
could I have expected?

Chapter 10
    ALEX

 
 
 
 
    The
following week was nothing short of hellish. At the hospital, one of