Chapter 12
Jamie
Should I give myself a pat on the back for all the bullshit coming out of my mouth?
Not only did I ask him about his job — what the hell do I care? Weren’t we here to talk about rugby? — Now I’m also ranting about ‘seeing things through’.
Damn Doctor. I’m sure he’s practising some weird magic ritual on me, making me open my mouth and spew as much bullshit as possible.
I take another sip of my beer. It’s hard to swallow; tension has knotted in my throat, like a rope tightening around my neck with every passing second.
The Doctor seems to ignore my last sentence. He looks so relaxed and comfortable in this situation, while I feel like I’m about to vomit under the table.
He leans back and undoes two buttons on his shirt. About fucking time! I was two seconds away from jumping up on the fucking table and doing it for him. How does he stand being wrapped in those clothes after thirty-six hours in a fucking hospital? I’d already be naked in his place.
Oh, way to go, Jamie. Now your thoughts are heading in the wrong direction.
Next, he unbuttons his cuffs and pushes his sleeves up to his elbows. I follow his movements with growing anxiety, the rope around my neck tightening its grip, almost to the point of choking me.
When he’s done, he places both hands on the table, beside his pint. I stare at them, longing for them, as I feel those hands could cure anything, even me.
“My job always bores everyone,” he says calmly.
I look up at him, enchanted by the slow, sensual movement of his lips as he speaks.
“No one asks me how my day went,” he says, his voice losing confidence. “Just to be clear, I’m not feeling sorry for myself. I understand that it’s not pleasant or easy to hear about hospitals, illness, accidents and… death.”
Now he seems sad.
I study his tired face, the dark circles under his eyes, the pale skin of someone who spends too many hours indoors.
“It must be hard to deal with death.”
He shakes his head. “You never get used to it.”
“And do you get that a lot?”
“It’s part of the job.”
Am I really talking to the Doctor about death?
“But you still love it.”
“When you choose to be a doctor, you know your life will be about that. It defines who you are. It’s part of you; you can’t be anything else.
It follows you, it sticks to you, it won’t let you sleep at night, and it often keeps you from being happy when everyone around you is, because you can never completely disconnect. ”
“It must be overwhelming.”
“Sometimes, but it’s my life. A bit like you being a player.”
“You can’t compare the two.”
“You’ve dedicated your whole life to something, too, haven’t you? Rugby.”
“It was the only thing I knew how to do.”
“And you do it really well.”
“What do you know about it? You know nothing about rugby.”
“True, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know who you are, how good you are.”
“Mmm… interesting.” I take another sip.
“I mean…”
The Doctor blushes, and I realise I have the upper hand again.
Let’s see how long you can keep it together.
“You’re not interested in rugby, but you are interested in the players.”
“That’s not true! It’s Chris, Evan and Casey’s fault!”
“No shit.”
“If Chris hadn’t met Ryan, if Evan hadn’t started playing, and if Nick hadn’t posed for those bloody photos.”
Nick did some modelling for a while, and those shots of him with his bare arse ended up everywhere.
“You really liked Nick O’Connor’s photos, didn’t you?”
“Come on! Did you actually look at them?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
I’m not amused anymore. Actually, I’m annoyed — no, I’m pissed off. I can’t stand hearing the Doctor talk about Nick O’Connor’s arse.
“Let me be clear: I’m not saying I like Nick O’Connor. He’s not my type.”
“And what is your type?”
Jamie, you’re so fucked.
“I don’t know,” he replies with a shrug. “I don’t really have a type. I know I can’t stand braggarts; guys who are all muscle and attitude. I hate arrogant men, who think you’ll fall at their feet just because they have a pretty face, a sexy body, and a quick wit.”
Yes, I confirm. Totally fucked.
That’s basically my description.
“Excuse me,” the barman approaches our table. “We are about to close.”
We both look at our watches.
“Sure,” the Doctor says. “We’re leaving.”
The barman leaves the bill on the table, and the Doctor grabs it before I can say anything. He takes out his wallet and hands him a note before he disappears behind the bar again.
“You’re always a gentleman,” I comment, finishing my beer.
“And you’re always an arsehole,” he says, smiling.
The Doctor can make even the word arsehole sound like something I want to hear.
We stand and head for the exit, slipping through the door. Outside, our cars are parked side by side, and we both lean our hips against the doors.
“Well, we talked about everything except rugby,” I say.
“I’m sorry for wasting your time.”
“I had nothing better to do.”
“It wasn’t so bad,” he says uncertainly.
“I would say no.”
“Maybe, who knows, we might actually become friends one day.”
“Let’s not get carried away.”
“Of course not. You could never be a friend of Dr Loser Dickhead.”
I step away from my car and walk towards him. The Doctor doesn’t look away, his gaze locked on mine.
“I can’t be your friend, Doctor.” The words rush out of me, thin and breathless.
“How na?ve. Tonight won’t change anything.”
This time, he lowers his head, his voice threaded with bitterness and disappointment, but I have nothing else to give him.
“Exactly.”
“Well, we’d better go. I can’t keep my eyes open any longer.”
“Do you live far away?”
He lifts his arm and points at the pub. “Upstairs.”
Holy fucking shit. I wish I didn’t know that.
“I could have told you and invited you to my place, but it didn’t seem appropriate.”
God, Doctor. What planet are you from?
“I hope you’re not offended.”
“Not at all.”
I have no right to be offended. Not after telling him we can’t be friends.
“Good night, Doctor.”
“Good night, Captain.”
I get in my car and drive home, one raw, relentless thought pounding in my head.
The Doctor doesn’t want me.
But I fucking want him.