He reaches for a frameless pair of glasses and puts them on with a single hand while grabbing your folder with the other. The action is so effortless and yet so meticulous at the same time. You find yourself staring at his hands for a moment, noticing their incredible structure and size. His fingers have a certain elegance about them, like they can wield magic or something.
Well, he is a surgeon, so you guess that’s technically true on some level.
“Ramona Gallo,” he says as he looks at the first page of your form. The incredible depth of his voice sends a bolt of shivers down your spine, catching you off guard. You find yourself wanting him to say your name again, and you think you’re even more surprised by that reaction.
You frown at yourself, feeling like you need a good hard knock on the head to get your mind right. You’re in a doctor’s office, for crying out loud. Considering your history, this is the last place on Earth you should ever feel anything other than dread or disgust.
“You’re Italian?” he asks, but his attention is still on your form.
You nod your head as if he’s looking. “Uh, yes. Partially,” you say hoarsely. You need to clear your throat before speaking again. “My dad was Italian and my mom was Bajan.”
He turns his face toward you, an unusually curious expression showing through his perfect features.
“Was?” he asks.
It’s a simple question, but carries so much weight for you that you feel like you’ve been kicked in the gut with a pair of heavy metal boots. You feel yourself struggling to swallow before you can say anything else.
“Yeah. They both passed away,” you simply offer.
A hollowness fills you as you sit still in the firm leather chair, trying hard to not let your emotions get the better of you.
His expression turns slightly somber as he continues to look at you. The look is unmistakable.
Great. He feels sorry for you. He feels the one thing you absolutely can’t stand and don’t want from anyone; pity.
“I’m sorry,” he offers.
“It’s okay,” you quickly say. There’s a slight hostility and a hint of anger in your voice when you say it, and you know you shouldn’t be so defensive with him about the topic. He doesn’t deserve your wrath. All he did was offer a polite and empathetic gesture.
That’s what you do when someone tells you they’ve lost someone, you internally scold yourself. You empathize with them! It’s common courtesy, Roni. No big deal.
“I used to be really good friends with a Daniel Gallo way back in the day,” he says, smiling. “A marine. Really nice guy. You wouldn’t happen to know him, would you?”
Your eyes widen at the mention of that name. It takes you a few seconds before you can answer. “Uh…y-yeah. Danny’s my, uh, my half-brother.”
He raises his eyebrows, seemingly just as surprised by the coincidence as you are.
“Is that so? I thought you looked a little like him,” he says. “I’ve known him a long time, but I had no idea he had another sister.”
He looks at you intently again, as if trying to really confirm your resemblance, his eyes sweeping over your figure and burning holes into your flesh. You shift in your chair, uncomfortable with his prolonged gaze.
“How is he?” he asks, finally breaking his stare.
You shrug. “I’m not exactly sure. We don’t really talk that often.”
More like ever. Danny hates your guts. And your mother’s. So does his sister, Jennifer. They always have. They’ve always blamed you for your father leaving them and their mother, and also for his death. Now that your mother’s gone, they put all that blame on you.
“I see,” he simply says. “Well if you get in touch with him, tell him Dexter Frost says, ‘hi’.”
You give a forced smile, betting everything you have that he’ll get in touch with Danny way before you ever will.
Dr. Frost flips through the pages of the form as you idly pick at the slightly chipped polish on your nails, trying to focus solely on the bubbling sounds of the aquarium instead of his gorgeous face.
His voice comes through again, easily distracting you from doing so.
“I see you have a history of cancer in your family. Is that how your mother passed?”
You answer him in an almost robotic manner. “Yes. Both my mother and her father died from cancer. So did my paternal grandfather.”
He nods. “I see. Again, you have my condolences. As an oncologist, I know how hard that can be.”
You’re not sure whether or not he knows about what happened, and you don’t know if Danny had told him, but he doesn’t ask you about your father—about your father—and you’re glad for that.
His voice comes through again. “What types?”
“I’m sorry?” you say, confused by his question.
“What types of cancer did your mother and grandfathers have?” he clarifies.
“Oh. Uh, breast cancer for my mother. Colon cancer for her father. Pancreatic for my paternal grandfather.”
“I see. How long has it been since each of them passed?”
You’re not sure if the question is medically related, but there seems to be a hint of simple curiosity behind it.
You decide to answer regardless of the question’s intent. “It’s been about six years for my mom. Her father died before I was born, and it’ll be a year exactly on Friday since my other grandfather’s passing.”
He continues to flip through the pages, with eyes so intense and focused, scanning each one carefully and intently.
He finally places the form on his desk and turns to fully face you with his hands intertwined on his desk again. A noticeable frown makes its way onto his lips.
“You have a considerable drug use history. Can you tell me a bit about that?”
You stiffen in your seat as soon as the words leave his mouth, and you feel a bout of shame quickly creep up on you, threatening to wash over you completely.
You guess you should have expected him to ask you about that since you did fill it out in the form, but talking about your past history with drug abuse—even with a professional physician—still makes you feel incredibly uncomfortable.
He’s just another stranger. It really shouldn’t matter what he thinks of you, and you certainly shouldn’t care if he does think less of you, but for some reason, you don’t want him to judge you or see you in such a negative light. You don’t know why, you just don’t.
“I…I just sort of went through this phase right after my mother died. I guess I was trying to cope with her loss,” you admit.
He nods, somewhat empathetically, but still has a serious look on his face with the frown still intact.
“I can understand that,” he says, “and I can imagine how hard it must have been for you. But you know that there are very serious risks and consequences that come with drug abuse. Especially when you mix so many together.”
His tone is starting to get a bit harsh, and you feel like you’re being scolded.
Great. First it’s Vito, and now it’s this guy.
He pauses for a moment, still looking at you with a gaze so intense that you have to look down at your hands to break the stare. Your fingers are trembling, and you don’t know if it’s because he’s subtly telling you off or something else.
You hear him breathe out, possibly in a sigh.
“I’m not going to give you a lecture on drug abuse,” he says. “You seem like a smart person, and I wouldn’t be telling you anything you don’t already know. Plus, you haven’t indicated that you’re currently under any medication. You’re assuming that includes non-prescription and recreational drugs. Is my assumption correct?”
“Yes,” you whisper, suddenly feeling really low about yourself. You really wish he didn’t know about your previous drug problem.
“Okay,” he nods. “I’m taking your word for it, but I want you to know right now and here that you’re not doing yourself any favors if you are still engaging in drug abuse.”
Jesus, you know that! He needs to drop it already!
You’re becoming furious. It’s like he’s picking on you now. You want to voice your thoughts but you don’t. You hate feeling paranoid, but you’re beginning to think he’s demeaning you because of what you did. You may not have made the best choices, but he has no right to look down on you for them.
You swallow hard, feeling the onset of tears threatening to well in your eyes. You haven’t talked about your drug history with anyone before, on any occasion, and on any level. You never imagined doing so would be this hard, and he hasn’t even scratched the surface.
You bite your lip, physically refraining yourself from verbally lashing out at him. Your nostrils flare slightly, and you know you’re getting really angry. Gorgeous or not, if he so much as mentions anything about drugs one more time, you’re going to cuss the mess out of him and walk right out of this building.
There’s a long pause, and the awkward silence that ensues is broken only by the wispy sounds of flipping pages. Your feet start tapping uncontrollably again, giving away your state of impatience, anger, and anxiety.
Is a consultation supposed to take this fucking long?
After a moment, he finally breaks the silence. “So,” he begins, switching his attention back to you again and linking his long fingers through each other once more, “tell me what’s going on, Ramona.”
***
- Fascinated
- Happy
- Sad
- Angry
- Bored
- Afraid
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