Doctor-Patient Confidentiality: Chapter Twenty-Three (Role Play Edition)

 

“Holy shiz-nit, Trix! Are you really telling me you…” you’re not even sure you can say it out loud. You can’t bring yourself to say that she fucked him. For crying out loud, you can’t even picture both of them together! It just seems way too strange.

 

Jordan is Drake’s long-time best friend, for goodness sake, and is pretty much an older brother to Trixie by default.

 

You guess she doesn’t see it that way, at least not anymore, and from what she’s telling you, apparently neither does he.

 

Trixie assures you that it was strictly a one-time thing. She’d been pissed all week, and since she couldn’t find Gina and “throw her through the window of a six-story building”, she decided to work out her anger and frustration in Jordan’s bed instead.

 

She insists that it didn’t mean anything and that neither of them have any intention of ever letting Drake—or anyone else, for that matter—find out about their little sexcapade.

 

“I can keep a secret,” you say with a cheeky smile on your face even though she can’t see it.

 

“You’d better,” she chuckles.

 

Knowing Trixie, she honestly can’t care less if the whole world knows who’s dick she’s been sitting on, but Jordan is her brother’s best friend, and has been since he and Drake were fourteen from what she’d told you. She doesn’t want what she insists is a one-time only affair—and probably a short-sighted mistake—to come between their friendship.

 

You can’t argue with her there. If there’s one thing you’ve learned in the last couple of years, it’s that genuine friendships are indeed hard to come by, and you’d be a fool not to cherish one if you’re lucky enough to have it.

 

“How’d your visit to the hospital go? What’d they say?” she asks, switching the subject and drawing the attention from her to you.

 

You really don’t want to think about hospitals and your health right now, but you know she’s asking because she cares, so you oblige her.

 

“It was the surgical center I went to,” you correct. “They said I’d need an endoscopy before they can figure out what’s wrong.”

 

“If anything’s wrong,” she points.

 

 You can’t help but smile in gratitude. She may be a handful with a potty mouth and an often exuberant personality, but she’s a good friend and typically knows just what to say to make you feel less crappy.

 

You vaguely tell her about the visit, noting that you don’t have that much to tell.

 

Or, more accurately, you don’t have that much you want to tell. You really don’t want to get into your financial issues with her. You know she always means well, but loading her with your problems when you know she can’t really help is not your cup of tea.

 

And you’re not sure why, but you decide against mentioning anything about Doctor Frost, as well. It doesn’t seem right to be gushing over a married man with her, no matter how hot he is. Besides, you don’t normally gush over guys, anyway. It would be strange and she’d pick up on it, so you keep the conversation very brief.

 

Before she hangs up, she lets you know she’ll call again tomorrow so she can speak with Gran and show her support since she can’t be at the memorial in person. Gran adores her, and you know she’ll appreciate the gesture.

 

You stop for gas at the next gas station, picking up some bottled water and a few other beverages for tomorrow even though Gran insisted you don’t bring anything. She can be a bit stubborn sometimes, but so can you.

 

Your stop at the station doesn’t take any more than fifteen or so minutes, but by the time you’re outside again, you can already see the beginnings of snow flurries happily making their way down from the sky.

 

Ugh. You seriously hate this stupid weather. You try to ignore the bleakness as best as you can, hauling your newly purchased items over to the car.

 

In the silence of your old Polo and in nothing but your own company, your mind steers to places you don’t want it to, and you can’t help but think of Dexter and the way he had been looking at you—or at least the way you may have imagined him looking at you.

 

You can’t understand why you can’t stop thinking about him. Every time you do, you end up chastising yourself for it, but it still continues to happen anyway. And to make it worse, thinking of him always leads to thinking about your lack of medical insurance and how you’re going to afford a damn endoscopy and surgery if that’s what it comes down to. That’s something you also can’t stop thinking and worrying about.

 

You can’t tell Gran about any of it, especially not now. She has more than enough going on and you don’t want to upset her or have her worry about anything else. You put on some music to distract you from thinking about your problems, and from any thoughts of Dexter Frost and his captivating, borderline scary eyes.

 

Once the drinks are in the backseat and your tank is a little less empty than it was before, you hit the road again, plugging your MP3 into the radio slot as soon as the engine starts up again.

 

You pick the playlist of songs that we’ll be singing for the performance next week. You’d organized them in the sequence you’re going to perform them in, and the first composition begins to stream into the car. Its graceful tune easily flows and fills both the car and your ears, making the drive in this shit weather so much more bearable.

 

You begin to sing to it, practicing your segments as you continue to drive. You feel more and more anxious as the song continues to play. The pace increases and the bridge is quickly approaching, demanding a much higher pitch and longer note from you. You try to oblige as much as you can, doing your best to ignore the fear and anxiety stirring in your belly. You try to stay calm, to stay focused as you hit the highest note and hold it.

 

And hold it.

 

And hold it some more.

 

Just as you start to come down, your stomach ambushes you from out of nowhere, your abdominal muscles clenching to the point of pain as you feel your body lurch forward in your seat. The seat belt holds you back, fighting the sudden inertia and your skin burns from its thick straps across your chest digging into it.

 

Your foot accidentally hits the gas pedal from the force of your sudden movement, revving the engine further and forcing the car to go much faster than you intend. It all happens too fast, and for several seconds, you’re just one big bundle of panic.

 

You feel the sudden jolt of the car swerving, and in spite of the music still playing around you, all you can hear is the sound of screeching tires and that of your heart beating loudly in your ears, threatening to leap out of your chest this very instant.

 

By some miracle, your leg juts out and hits the brake before you completely lose control and the car finally screeches to a halt on the side of the road. Your hands grip the wheel tightly, refusing to let go as your knuckles and fingers scream in agony at the torture you’re putting them through.

 

The pain is quite tangible, but not even that can shift your focus away from your heavy panting and the ridiculously loud throbbing in your chest called a heartbeat.

 

Your mind is still highly panicked and frazzled, your hands trembling even as they continue to grip the steering wheel like a vice. Your breathing is heavy, and you feel goosebumps forming all over your body even though you have four layers of clothing on. You’re beyond terrified. You could have gotten seriously hurt…or worse.

 

It takes you over twenty minutes to completely calm down and recollect yourself.

 

After a small—and very much needed—mental pep-talk, you pull onto the road again, driving with much more caution than you think you ever have in your life.

 

You don’t listen to any music for the rest of the drive.

 

***

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