Page 49 of Carry On (Love Doesn’t Cure All #4)

NASH

Why the fuck do they need to know all this shit?” I demanded. I sat in the waiting room of Lincoln’s doctor with an intake form in hand. The packet was expansive—way more than it needed to be. At least in my opinion.

“Because they need to know your medical history to help you,” Lincoln whispered.

He sat next to me, his ankle propped up on his knee as he read some gay romance book behind what he called a discreet book sleeve.

He said he knew the writer, but I wasn’t so sure about it.

That didn’t stop me from reading over his shoulder because the fuck fest happening in his book was far more interesting than the packet I had to fill out.

“Me being homeless has nothing to do with my fucking medical history,” I snapped under my breath. Why did they need to know where I’d lived over the last five years? I could guarantee my rotating spots next to dumpsters and on park benches weren’t acceptable responses.

“Considering the rates of infection, illness, and more among the homeless, I’d say yes, it does matter when determining your health,” he replied ever so casually.

“Fuck you,” I muttered.

Just a little inkling of what he thinks of you, the voice commented.

“You’re left-handed,” Lincoln said instead of catering to my grumpy mood.

“Yeah.”

“But you play with your right hand.”

He noticed? That fact surprised me. It was such a nuanced thing for him to notice.

Don’t get any ideas, the voice chimed in. It means nothing.

“I punch with my right hand too,” I retorted and rolled my eyes to deflect the weird feeling ebbing its way through my chest.

“You’re a heathen.” He may have said the words, but I caught the little smirk on his lips. He closed his book and sighed, shifting to give me his full attention. “Dr. Whitlock is good, and he’s thorough.”

“Clearly,” I said. No wonder Lincoln picked him as a doctor. They were two peas in a fucking pod.

“I say that,” he continued as he ignored me, “because I want you to know that Dr. Whitlock can help you, and if he can’t, he’ll know who to send you to so you get the help that you need.”

“You’re lucky I trust you.” The words made me falter. I’d said them without even thinking.

“Do you trust me?” Lincoln asked quietly.

Should you trust him? the voice practically demanded, almost loud enough to drown him out.

“Yeah,” I admitted. The admission felt weird outloud. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d trusted anyone. For good measure, I added, “I’d be fucking stupid not to, considering what we’re doing here.”

“Right.” He turned away and focused on his book, my statement probably affecting him more than he let on. Why wouldn’t it? I all but insinuated that the only reason I trusted him was because of our circumstances, not because of who he was as a person.

Except that was wrong. It was just easier to deflect than say something honest.

Just one more thing to add to the list of how you’ve fucked up with him, the voice commented.

Yeah, I knew that much.

“Patrick?” a nurse called out from the other end of the lobby.

“Fuck,” I muttered under my breath as I got to my feet. I wasn’t even done with my intake form.

“What’s the fucking point?” I snapped the minute we were outside, not even half an hour later.

“Why the fuck do I have to go to one doctor for him to say ‘oh, I don’t know what’s wrong with you’ and send me to see someone else.

I spent more time in the fucking waiting room than I did with the goddamn doctor!

His ass barely hit the fucking seat before he was out of there. ”

Okay, that last part wasn’t entirely true. The guy didn’t even sit down. He just stood there and talked at me about my history. About my time in the military and my time spent homeless. About my TBI and the migraines.

And that was it. That was more than enough for him to say that he couldn’t treat me. Wouldn’t. The man wouldn’t treat me. He wanted me to see another doctor.

Another fucking doctor.

“Unfortunately, that’s just how the system works,” Lincoln replied. His voice was even as if he was handling me.

Can you blame him? the voice asked.

No, I couldn’t fucking blame him. I’d come out seething because what was the point?

“But we have a referral—”

“Do they realize this is how people fucking die?” I continued to rage, not really giving a fuck what else Lincoln had to say. “People walk in, they need help, and what? It’s a fucking numbers game! More doctors means more fucking money to make the goddamn world turn.”

“Nash—”

“It’s fucking stupid!” My voice kept rising. I didn’t care that we were standing on the sidewalk or that people were walking by. I couldn’t see past my own anger. “What’s the fucking point of insurance if I have to jump through hoops just to get a doctor to take me seriously?”

“Nash—”

“Do I look like a fucking circus clown? Do I need to get on a goddamn unicycle and juggle for them to take me fucking seriously?”

“Are you entirely done?” Lincoln cut me off. “Or should I leave you on the sidewalk to monologue for the pigeons?”

“Fuck you,” I growled.

“Not right now,” he shot back. The response was anything but what I expected. It was enough to snap me out of my anger—enough to give him the moment he needed. “Let’s get lunch.”

There was no room for argument in the statement. He pushed his hands in the pockets of his dress pants and turned, walking away.

I stared after him like an unbelieving idiot.

He just walked away like we weren’t in the middle of something here.

Because your words don’t matter, the voice said.

Not that I’d blame him for that either.