Chapter Four Julian #2
“Right. Your health.” I swivel toward the computer and bring up her chart to stall for a second.
I’m not really going to ask her out because Eric told me to.
Or because I got an ill-timed boner. Or even because the curves of her cheekbones and little slope of her nose, and God, the bow of her lips, the same soft, summer red of watermelon, all combine with her large, brown eyes to make the prettiest face I’ve ever seen.
Even now, with her peeved, impatient expression, I’m overcome with the desire to simply stare at her.
But I can’t ask her out after I sewed up her labia three days ago—how creepy is that?
Besides, based on that ridiculous Colonel Sanders shirt she was wearing, she’s still a stoner.
So, maintain health pretense, apologize, no asking out. Case closed.
“How’s the laceration healing? Have you been keeping it, um. Dry?” My eyes widen in alarm as I suddenly recall the shore trip she mentioned. “You didn’t dip that thing in the Atlantic Ocean, did you? No pools?”
Thoughts of infected labia majora flash before my eyes, my heartbeat picking up in anxious concern.
“Maybe I should take a look—”
“No!” Nomi blurts out, hands raised. “I did not ‘dip that thing’ in any bodies of pestilent water, and there will be no more looks because Dr. Appa is my doctor, not you.”
The words shouldn’t sting. I do not permit them to sting.
“His name is Dr. Srinivasan, Wyeth.” I cock my head to the side. “You realize you’re calling him Doctor Daddy, right?”
“Don’t make it weird, Julian.” Nomi heaves a sigh. “Now, is this extremely valuable use of my time over?”
“No.” I quickly hammer an inquiry that pulls up her medical history to hide my flustered face behind the computer screen.
I still have to apologize and not ask her out.
My eyes flit aimlessly over what appears to be a decade-old MRI report of her abdomen and latch onto a set of words that I absolutely should not say out loud. And yet…
“Moderate stool burden?” I frown at the screen in surprise, then at her abdomen, as if it’s got secrets. “You have a moderate stool burden?”
“Jesus, what are you looking at?!” Nomi turns scarlet, then lunges over the desk for the mouse and closes out all the windows. “Stay out of my medical records, you nosy bastard!”
She collapses back in her seat with an angry huff. “Now was there something you actually wanted to say, or did you bring me back here to violate HIPAA and embarrass me?”
“Actually, to violate HIPAA—”
The murderous look in her eyes stops me cold. I clear my throat. “Er, yes. I wanted to apologize for how I behaved before.” Then, when she doesn’t react, I add, “When I sutured your vulva?”
“Yes, Julian, I know when you’re referring to.” Nomi rakes her fingers into the hair at her temples. “Jesus.”
“I was very rude, and I shouldn’t have mentioned lasagna.” I adjust my glasses while Nomi closes her eyes, unwilling to look at me. “It’s not even true—nobody could ruin lasagna. Anyway, I’m sorry. Seeing you after all these years just… caught me off guard. And I’m sorry. Again.”
Surprisingly, I find that I am sorry. Sorry that she still has this hold over me, that she can still, after all this time, get the better of me. That even now, as I apologize and try to make things right between us, she hates me so much she won’t even look at me.
Her eyes flip open, and in a forcibly calm voice, she says, “Thank you. I do not forgive you, though, because now I’ll never be able to look at lasagna again. I appreciate you stitching up the right hole and everything, but I will be going now.”
Ugh. I knew I should’ve avoided her until I die!
For once, Eric was wrong—just because my sad, pathetic body is still attracted to Nomi’s doesn’t mean we should date.
Preposterous. She is a stoner; I am a doctor.
She breaks hearts, I fix them. I stand as she stands, then rush toward the door to open it for her, but she gets there first.
She pauses there. “I would appreciate never talking about this again.”
“Duly noted.” I trail after her down the hallway. “So, what are you opening next door, anyway?” I rush out, feeling strangely desperate to stretch the conversation. I don’t know why; this has been one of the most awkward exchanges of my life.
She spins on her heels, looking up at me with manufactured patience.
“Let’s make something clear: we’re not friends.
We’re not even acquaintances. You’re somebody I used to know, and we had a very unfortunate run-in a few days ago, that’s it.
My business is exactly that—my business—and I want you and your judgmental attitude to stay the hell out of it. ”
And with that, she exits the clinic out into the jewel-skied evening, her curt, devastating words stirring up every one of my most antagonistic feelings.
“Call if there’s any vaginal swelling!” I yell after her on the bustling sidewalk, satisfied when a few heads turn to stare. “Or strange, troublesome discharge!”
Now that’s how you violate HIPAA.
It’s a slow, emergency-free evening in Sparrow Nook with nothing to distract me from the unaccountable irritation I feel that Nomi’s opening a mystery business next door.
In the Strange Drugs pharmacy, too—what could it be?
A gift shop? Seems unlike her, but it’s been fifteen years.
Maybe she’s gotten into decorative tea towels.
What do hot, formerly goth women in their thirties care about, anyway?
Tarot readings? Supplements? Cats? Fuck if I know.
But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t consumed with curiosity.
The idea of her starting her own business feels like a glimpse of the fish-netted Nomi of yore that tortured me with her determination to beat me in everything.
God, I miss that Nomi. If only she hadn’t thrown it all away, we could’ve been… well.
We could’ve been everything. We were going to go to Yale together, and instead of endless studying alone, my life would’ve been endless studying with Nomi.
Late nights and early mornings in the library with Nomi.
Working and striving and accomplishing everything we dreamed of, together.
The best with the best. It’s hard to look at the woman who starred in all my teenage dreams of the illustrious future we’d share after she abruptly and with zero explanation dropped out of school, out of my life, and the life she was building for herself, too.
It was even harder to see her half-naked wearing nothing but a red-eyed Colonel Sanders shirt, still stuck in the town I thought we’d escape together.
But maybe there’s still some spark of that old Nomi left.
I quickly pull up the city council’s dinky website—the next meeting is one week from today. Veronica said Nomi couldn’t do any “business” before the next city council meeting, so she must be waiting on some kind of permission or licensure to be voted on next week.
With a satisfied grunt, I add the meeting to my calendar.