Chapter Eighteen Nomi
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
NOMI
It’s a busy day at Stranger Coffee, made busier now that Julian’s working full time at the clinic again.
He left a comprehensive regimen for when to brew coffee, mix syrups, and make various whimsical foams that Eve and I try to follow, but two stoners who get stressed out by crowds does not a Barista Julian make.
His many admirers still come in, hope writ large upon their faces they might see the grumpy beaut with a heart of Arabica.
Alas, they get us and our substandard coffee instead, their disappointment palpable.
The weird thing is, I miss him, too. Eve’s not nearly as fun to bicker with, and I’d gotten used to his broad shoulders and busy hands behind my counter.
Julian’s beautiful in all his iterations—the surly doctor, the outraged citizen, even the mouthy debater—but Barista Julian is the most attractive one yet.
He has this never-ending supply of soft, thin button-downs in dark plaids that he wears open-throated and rolled up to his elbows with well-worn jeans and leather boots.
And the man was made to wear an apron—the rectangle of white cutting across his mid-section, the strings looped around his hips and tied tightly in the front—straight porn.
But it’s the joy, I think, that makes Barista Julian so appealing.
He loves making coffee, and contented, passionate, happy Julian takes my breath away.
When the clock strikes two, I emerge from the bathroom changed, freshened up, and ready to go. “I’ll be back soon.”
Eve gives me a once-over from my clay-colored jumpsuit to my heeled clogs. “Why are you dressed so cute? Are you wearing makeup?”
“I’m not.” I reapply my tinted lip balm, which is by definition balm.
She raises one eyebrow.
“I have my annual physical with Dr. Appa.”
“Ah. You might see Julian, so you want to look hot.”
“No, I don’t!” I cringe. Is it that obvious? Will it be obvious to Julian? “I probably won’t even see him.”
“Just because I’m for ladies doesn’t mean I don’t understand the complicated games heterosexuals play. And honestly, everybody plays this game. Don’t worry. You look smokin’ hot.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes. Your ass looks like an upside-down bubble heart in that jump-suit.”
I flush happily. Lesbians give the best compliments.
The second I enter the frosty air-conditioning of Dr. Appa’s clinic, my nipples immediately ping.
Shit. Okay, yes, I admit I want to look hot, but I’m not trying to put Dr. Appa’s eye out, either. I fold my arms over my chest and approach the desk. Khalil, the Gen Alpha receptionist, doesn’t look up. “Nomi Wyeth?”
“Yes?” Why do today’s teenagers always make me feel so uncertain? I clear my throat. “I mean, yes.”
“Patient Room #2.”
Of course it’s that patient room. Of course.
I see myself down the hall and enter the empty room. I inspect it closely, but there’s no sign of the horrors I endured in here. Not that I expected there to be physical evidence, but some events are so traumatic, surely they leave an indelible stain on the fabric of space-time or something.
The door opens after a perfunctory knock, and I spin on my clogs to see Julian frozen in the doorway.
“Nomi.” His face blanks, a panicked, play dead! response, and he checks the file in his hand, then my face again. “Um, hi.”
“Hi.” I smile hastily. It’s been a little weird since last weekend’s birthday party, to be honest. Now that we don’t work together and he’s graduated the Nomi Wyeth School of Cannabis, we’re out of rhythm, evicted from our old routine, and everything feels uncertain. “Where’s Dr. Appa?”
His eyes drop to my lips, my collarbone, then the outrageous peaks of my nipples like an elevator stopping at every floor before shooting back to the top.
“He’s running behind due to a walk-in and asked me to take his next appointment, which is… you.” Julian frowns. “But I don’t think it’s a good idea, Nomi. Now that we’re… um.”
“Friends?” I offer.
“—yes, friends—I’m not sure it’s ethical for me to treat you.”
I shoulder my bag back on. “Totally understand. I’ll wait for Dr. Appa.”
“You’ll need to reschedule then. He’s leaving after he finishes with the walk-in patient.”
I blink at him. “I can’t reschedule. I have to have this physical today. If I don’t, I won’t get approved for my new marketplace healthcare insurance for another month.”
What I don’t add is that another month of outrageously expensive CObrA benefits will ruin me.
Julian’s face is full of chagrin. “I’m sorry, Nomi. I don’t know what to tell you.”
“I really need this done today.” I bite my lip in, feeling my cheeks burn. “I know it’s a little weird, but could you please do it?”
His brow furrows together, his face tortured. He blows out a long breath. “Yes, okay. Hop up on the table.”
I do as I’m told. He sits at the computer, but his eyes keep flicking to the table, the stirrups folded neatly at its sides, and me. It’s obvious we’re both remembering the last time we were in this room together.
Julian starts to bring up my records, when I suddenly realize the implication of that.
“No!”
He looks up at me, startled.
“Is there any way you can, you know.” I gesture at his stethoscope. “Just do the basics?”
“You want me to… half-ass it?” His face is so pained at the thought, it makes me laugh aloud.
“Yes, please. All you have to do is check my blood pressure, listen to my chest, that sort of thing, then fill out this form. Okay?” I half smile, half wince. I know this is really pushing his boundaries.
After a long second, he says tightly, “Alright.”
“Great!” I lie down on the table.
“You don’t need to lie down yet.”
“Okay!” I say too brightly as I sit back up, trying to muster a carefree attitude, but no dice, that was embarrassing.
Julian slips the blood pressure cuff around my upper arm, which is probably going to give me a bum reading since I’m so weirdly nervous right now.
I exhale at the ceiling. His fingers are gentle as he releases the cuff, though, and when he dons his stethoscope, he warms the cold, round end in his palm before he presses it to my upper chest.
That was, admittedly, nice.
Julian clears his throat. “Breathe in for me? Good. Again.” He moves the stethoscope around my chest, pressing softly, then firmly, listening intently with his eyes trained on the wall beside me as he instructs me when to breathe.
The flat of his left hand is placed between my shoulder blades, steadying me, and the warmth of his palm sends goose bumps down my arms, hardening my nipples even more.
When he moves the stethoscope to listen to my back, he carefully, almost reverently, gathers my long fall of hair and pushes it over my shoulder to expose the skin there.
The warm bell of the stethoscope traveling down my ribs, coupled with the knowledge that his eyes are there, too, the stiff, white cuffs of his doctor’s coat brushing against my skin…
A hot, giddy flush floods my neck, cheeks, and forehead.
Even my ears burn as his gloved fingers trail down the lymph nodes beneath my jawline.
“You can lie down now,” he says gruffly, at complete odds with the soothing touch of his hands.
A furious blush blooms across Julian’s cheekbones as I swing my legs onto the exam table, his icy blue eyes finally meeting mine as I lean back on my elbows, then drop all the way down to my back.
The déjà vu is intense. His eyes burn into me, and I can’t blame the resulting ache between my legs on horny pot this time.
His gaze fixes on my stomach as he begins to gently palpate the area.
I’m so distracted by his touch, I flinch when he presses lightly into the lower right side of my belly, the source of all my pain.
“Did that hurt?” He frowns down at the area, then at me, watching closely.
“No,” I lie. “I’m just… ticklish?”
“Hm,” he says noncommittally the way doctors do when they don’t believe you. I’m incredibly familiar.
“Are we done yet?” I ask, too chipper by half.
“Almost.” He stands abruptly, removing his gloves, and opens the folder he’d plucked from outside the door.
“Don’t look at that!” I reach for it, but he holds it away from me.
“Relax. These are just some notes Dr. Appa wanted me to mention with you,” Julian reassures me, but I feel incredibly anxious all the same.
There’s no version of reality where Julian finds out I have Crohn’s disease that doesn’t end in me feeling vulnerable, ashamed, or embarrassed, and likely, all those emotions combined.
I don’t want Julian to look at me as a patient, as someone he needs to fix.
I like the way he already looks at me so much.
He scans the notes. “Dr. Appa strongly encourages you to schedule the routine monitoring for your condition as you are long overdue. He says you know the risks of failing to do so.”
My cheeks flare hot. My condition? Thanks a lot, Dr. Appa.
He’s talking about a screening colonoscopy, something I’m supposed to do every two years but haven’t in over five.
Colonoscopies mean GI specialists, and specialists all want the same thing—to prescribe me another biologic, even though I’ve had major allergic reactions to the two I’ve tried.
I get that biologics have improved life with Crohn’s for so many.
They are a modern medical miracle that give most people back their lives.
Most. But if they don’t work for you, if you’re one of the few they make sicker, the specialists don’t know what to do.
They just prescribe the newest biologic on the market, and the cycle repeats all over again.