Page 46 of His Last Shot

Sound Good?

Johnny

Three and a half years since the breakup

“ W ell, the good news is, even though the wound is deep, you didn’t slice a tendon.

You’ll need stitches, obviously, and some after-wound care, which we include in the after-visit summary.

I’m going to prescribe a round of antibiotics as just a precaution.

If the pain gets to be too much later on today, feel free to take some anti-inflammatories.

Then, just follow up with your primary care doctor in two weeks to have the stitches removed. Sound good?”

Does that sound good? No! None of this is good!

Today, while on the job, I was helping out the carpet installers. As I was cutting through the Berber with a carpet knife, I slipped and sliced the top of my hand wide open. From the base of my thumb to my wrist.

My left hand, my bridge hand when I hold my cue.

I know better, too. I was rushing to get the job done since we were running behind, and now my minor mishap has set us back even further. Because low and behold, when you slice your hand open, there is blood. A lot of blood. All over the carpet we were installing, which now needs to be replaced.

Scott is not happy .

And how do I know this? Well, he is sitting in a blue plastic chair next to the hospital bed I’m stretched out on in the ER, arms crossed and stewing in his anger.

“Sounds good,” I reply to the doctor, who looks about as old as Jake. “Quick question. I play pool. How long until I can play again since this is the hand that the stick rests on?”

“Hmm …” He pauses, pondering. “Definitely wait until the stitches are out. Test it out and see how it feels. Since the pool cue will rub along that same area, it may be tender. If it is, I would say a month, maybe.”

He said the stitches come out in two weeks. I’ll be playing in two weeks, tender or not.

Sorry, Doc.

But I nod at his instructions, anyway.

“Okay, great. I’ll send in our suture nurse, and we will get you patched up and out of here. Sound good?”

Still not good. With that, Doogie Howser opens the curtain, marches out into the busy ER, and slides it shut behind him.

I glance over at Scott, his ankle resting on his uncontrollably bobbing knee. “Go ahead. Get it off your chest.”

“I can’t believe you were that careless.

Why weren’t you wearing your cut-proof gloves?

Do you even know the paperwork you have caused me?

And now, you are out of commission for two whole weeks, and to make matters worse, the job has to be pushed back …

again.” He lets out a huff. “Don’t make me micromanage you. ”

My chest rises and falls at his tongue lashing because he’s right. I rest my head against the scratchy pillow and close my eyes, crossing my feet at the ankles. “Feel better now?”

He pauses, then lets out a chuckle.

“You didn’t have to come, you know,” I say, eyes still closed.

“Who else is going to hold your hand while they stitch you up?”

We erupt into a fit of laughter, the sound mixing in with the ER commotion.

Ride or die. Always .

Just then, the curtain flicks open, and Doctor Teenager peeks in. “So, our suture nurse is out sick. I’m going to have to call down a surgical nurse to come in. So, it may be a little longer of a wait. Sound good?”

Oh, my God! Why does he keep asking me that???

Send in whoever. I don’t care. Just get me out of here so I can go home and sulk.

I give him a thumbs-up.

The curtain closes again with the sound of metal against metal doing little to calm my anxiety.

After an hour, I’m starting to get fidgety because, dear Lord, this is taking forever.

This place is swarming with workers. Why is this taking so long?

Someone came in about twenty minutes ago and gave me a shot to numb my hand.

Now, Scott’s scrolling through his phone, as I sit and watch the small TV up on the wall.

I don’t have the energy to reach for the remote, so I’m watching ESPN talk about how poorly Pittsburgh played the night before.

I don’t care.

The obnoxious curtain sound causes me to whip my head toward the room entrance, and my heart drops to my stomach. Because standing there with a metal cart full of medical stuff is quite possibly the most gorgeous nurse ever.

Rachel. Wide-eyed and mouth gaping open.

She takes a step back and glances around to the other rooms, probably checking to see if she has the right patient.

I hope she does. Please, God, say that she has the right room and no other lunatic was dumb enough to cut his hand and need stitches. Just be me. Please.

Scott catches my attention from my peripheral, and his head is pinging back and forth between the two of us.

She stands, blinking rapidly, sharing the same shock as me. Then, her expression softens, unlike the storm erupting in my stomach. My nerves are about to burst out the longer we stare, my chest heaving.

Because I haven’t seen Rachel since her graduation. Somehow, she has gotten even more beautiful. Her hair is up in a messy bun with minimal makeup. As for what she’s wearing ?

Scrubs. Black ones.

Rachel in scrubs is next level.

I’m dead.

My mouth has gone completely dry.

Her hand is white-knuckling the curtain as her chest rises and falls in quick breaths.

We stare.

We long.

We love.

Still.

Scott, rising from his chair, breaks us from the moment. Rachel closes the curtain and wheels the metal cart closer to the side of the bed. His eyes flick to me briefly.

From his perspective, this probably looks super awkward. As far as he knows, we broke up because Rachel was hung up on the age difference. What he doesn’t know is that what he is witnessing isn’t the usual tension that comes with being face-to-face with your ex for the first time in forever.

It’s seeing the love of your life who you can’t be with.

He’s seeing two people who are being tortured.

“Rachel. Nice to see you again,” he says, trying to play the role of diplomat.

She looks over at him.

I look at her.

“Hey, Scott. You, too. How’s Laura and the kids?”

His eyes flick to me, probably wondering why I’m not speaking. “Um … they’re good. Jake and Mallory are living their best teenage lives.”

Rachel smiles warmly. “That’s good to hear. Please tell them I said hello.”

“I will. Mallory asks about you all the time.” I hang my head, the weight of my sadness pressing down on me because it’s true.

Mallory always asks about Rachel, wanting to know why we aren’t together.

It’s torture on a whole other level. Mallory gets attached to very few people. But she was attached to Rachel.

Rachel pauses, letting this sink in. I’m sure it is hard for her to hear. She sniffles, then nods, her eyebrows pulling together. “I miss her too. ”

Insert the knife, twist it, and leave me dead.

Scott’s expression softens, his voice kind, the way it always is when talking about his kids. “Thank you for asking about them.”

With the formalities over, no one else speaks. The three of us stand here in room six, awkwardly, as the hustle and bustle of the ER whirls around us.

Scott looks at me, and I jerk my head to the right. A get-the-heck-out-of-here gesture.

He takes the hint, clapping his hands. “Okay, so I’m going to go and wait in the truck. Rachel, it was nice seeing you again.” He slaps me on the shoulder. “Good luck.”

Pretty sure he doesn’t just mean the stitches.

Scott leaves, and then it’s just us.

I miss us.

Once again, our eyes lock. I pin my gaze to her eyes, then slowly, on their own, they trail down her body. Her face lights up with a small grin, clearly pleased by the attention.

It’s official. I love scrubs.

Breaking the moment, she turns and boops her name badge on the computer. “Okay, sir, sorry about the wait. My name is Rachel, and I am here to get you stitched up. Can I have your last name and date of birth?”

Her voice sounds like a song.

But a pain shoots straight to my chest. This is the first time we have spoken since that day on the dance floor, and she’s being so formal.

It’s probably for the best.

“Um. It’s Givens. January 25, 1971.” I swallow the massive lump forming in my throat. A feeble attempt to get myself under control as I watch her every movement, searing it into my brain.

After scrolling through my chart, she turns back around, head down, and puts on the gloves that rest on the metal table.

“Okay, Mr. Givens, let’s take a look here.

” As soon as she lifts my hand, she inhales sharply.

My thumb grazes her knuckles, and even though I can’t feel it, and she’s wearing hospital gloves, I feel it .

Everywhere.

She closes her eyes and, for the briefest of moments, everything else falls away. There is no ER commotion, no beeping machines, no screaming patients down the hall.

It’s just us.

Her eyes lift to mine. She skims my face as my attention drifts to the small freckle that sits on the side of her nose.

Instinct takes over as I lift my other hand and gently swipe over it with my thumb, her silky velvet skin as soft as I remember.

Her breath hitches at my touch. Tears pool in her eyes, tearing my heart open. We savor the moment.

Us together again.

Alone.

A voice over the intercom announces a Code Blue on the fourth floor. Someone is probably dying, but right now, I’m alive. For the first time in three and a half years.

With a shuddering breath, she blinks back the tears and refocuses back on my hand, twisting it, poking it, wiping away any blood. “So, Mr. Givens, how did you do this to yourself?”

My hand, gaping and bleeding, is the least of my concerns. “Rachel, I—”

She releases it and stands abruptly. “Before we begin, let’s raise your bed and adjust your pillow some. I need you to be comfortable for this.” Formal nurse Rachel returns, jarring me from the moment.