Page 10 of Scars of Anatomy

Okay?

The next week flies by. Between classes picking up and football practice, I’m beyond exhausted.

But aside from exhaustion, the week hasn’t been so bad.

Olivia and I see each other every day in class and walk together when we can.

We haven’t had another lunch date or dinner, and I haven’t pushed her any more about possibly having feelings for me.

Like I said, the week was going pretty well. That was until Chase took a particularly hard hit and fall at practice tonight.

“Fuck, dude. What if it’s broken?” Chase worries as he gingerly holds his wrist to his chest.

“It’s not broken,” I say, praying my words are true. Because if it is broken, he’s fucked.

“But what if it is? Then I’m fucked for possibly the rest of the season,” he says, seemingly reading my mind. He groans, his head falling back against the headrest in agony.

“It’s not.”

I make a left into the hospital’s ER parking lot, dropping Chase off at the door to check in while I try to find the nearest parking spot. I pull his truck into the first space I see and hop out.

As soon as Chase took the hit and tumbled to the ground with a painful scream, we all knew something was wrong. Coach immediately had me drive him to the nearest hospital; Chase couldn’t hand me the keys to his truck fast enough.

I meet Chase in the waiting room, and we sit around for about twenty minutes before he’s taken back for vitals and X-rays. Instead of waiting—knowing he’s going to be a while—I take a walk, finding the cafeteria.

After looking around for five minutes at the limited, unappetizing selection of food, I finally settle on two granola bars and a Gatorade.

As I walk into the dining area once I’m finished paying, a flash of caramel catches my eye. I look to my left to find Olivia sitting at a table with an older woman who looks to be in her late forties. The woman is dressed in scrubs, telling me she’s a hospital employee of some sort.

There’s a tray of food between them on top of the table. But they’re not eating.

The pair of them sit with their chairs pulled close, their knees almost touching as they face each other. They’re both sitting up straight with their heads bowed a little, their eyes closed, looking somber. The woman has her stethoscope out, listening to Olivia’s heart. She’s deeply focused.

I stand and watch for a few moments, confused.

Why is Olivia at the hospital? Why is a lady listening to her heart in the middle of the cafeteria?

So many questions filter through my head, and then I remember something.

Taking my phone out of my pocket, I glance at my home screen, checking that it is in fact Tuesday evening. Olivia mentioned that she had a commitment on Tuesday nights to meet up with a friend for dinner. Even Delilah confirmed how religious Olivia is about this.

This must be the friend she was talking about.

Curiosity getting the best of me, I quickly dart behind a large pillar to observe the pair a bit longer.

After a few moments, the woman reluctantly pulls her stethoscope away with a shaky breath, giving an almost grim smile. Olivia lifts her head and mirrors the woman’s actions, looking just as subdued.

The two seem to collect themselves, then they ease into an apparent natural, comfortable conversation. Suddenly, it feels inappropriate to watch them, and I slowly back away, sneaking out of the cafeteria, praying Olivia doesn’t spot me.

I return to the waiting room and take a seat. I peel open the wrapper of my granola bar, munching on the honey-flavored oats while mulling over what I just saw.

Thirty minutes later, my mind still wandering, I hear a pair of doors open and look up to spot Chase walking out of the ER wing. His injured wrist is wrapped, resting against his chest, while his other hand holds two pill bottles and some papers.

He looks up at me and lifts his right hand, shaking the pills and flashing a tired smile. “Good news, it’s not broken. Bad news, it’s sprained pretty bad, and I’ll have to sit out for at least two weeks. Possibly four if it doesn’t heal properly.”

I let out a relieved sigh, standing up and dusting off some of the crumbs that fell onto my shirt. “Thank fuck.”

If it was broken, there’s a good chance the season would be over for him, or at least a large chunk of it.

“Right.” He lets out a breath. “Hey, you going to eat that?” he asks, nodding at the other granola bar sitting on the chair next to mine.

I roll my eyes, grabbing the granola bar, the Gatorade, and his keys. I almost toss the granola bar at him but think better of it since his good hand is already full.

The hot water of the shower sprays my back, and I turn to let it run down my face, willing myself to wake up.

After my shower, I lazily slip into a pair of jeans and shoes, tugging a simple T-shirt over my head. With great effort, I sling on my backpack and trudge to the science building.

When I round the corner to the anatomy lab, I find the majority of the class waiting outside, the door to the lab closed. Most of my classmates are sitting on the floor, their lab manuals in their laps as they study. But one brunet in particular catches my eye.

Olivia sits on the floor sandwiched between Delilah and Rat Boy as they all look over their lab manuals.

I walk over to them, standing in front of Olivia. Gently, I tap the toe of my shoe to hers to gain her attention. “Hey, Finch.” I smile once she looks up at me.

She flashes me that beautiful smile of hers. “Hey.”

I kneel down to be at eye level with her. “Whatcha doin’? Why is everyone out in the hallway?”

“Tracy is setting up for our quiz,” she informs me.

“Shit.” I completely forgot about the quiz.

Falling back on my ass, I take a seat, struggling to rip off my backpack and pull out my manual.

I hear Rat Boy let out a judgmental scoff, and I quickly flip him off while Olivia’s face is buried in her book.

For the next ten minutes I sit in the middle of the hallway, trying to cram all of what we went over last week into my brain.

Kids come and go, brushing past me as I sit nearly in the middle of the hallway.

I scoot forward as much as I can, my knees inches from Olivia’s as we sit crisscross, facing each other.

“All right, everyone,” Tracy says in her usual chipper tone, opening the door. “Ready?”

Everyone lets out grumbles, getting up and heading to the door to go inside.

“Manuals away!” Tracy orders before anyone can sneak into the room.

I gather my things and stand, extending my hand to Olivia to help her up. She accepts, her small hand fitting in mine as I tug her up. I keep hold of her hand until I’m sure she’s stable, fully standing, and catch a look at her warm brown eyes.

Someone loudly clears their throat from the floor, and we tear our gazes away to look down at Delilah. She looks at me expectantly, jutting her hand out to me.

With reluctance, I let go of Olivia’s hand and extend my hand to Delilah, helping her up from the floor.

“Thanks, Bronx. You’re a peach,” she says, patting my shoulder before brushing past me to head into the classroom.

I look over at Olivia, whose eyes are laughing at the whole situation.

My lips curve and I extend my arm, gesturing for her to lead the way.

I follow her to our table, the smell of formaldehyde strong.

Rats are placed on every table, little stakes with numbers sticking out of them punctured into some of their organs.

A piece of paper lies on the table at every seat, a quiz of about ten questions.

Taking my seat, I mentally groan, knowing I’m not prepared for this.

“Be sure to write your name at the top and answer all the questions,” Tracy instructs. “Some are basic questions, and some will have you identify different parts of the cadaver, so pay attention.”

I stare at the questions blankly, not knowing a handful of them. Damn, I should have remembered to study.

Discreetly—guiltily—I strain my eyes to try to glance at Olivia’s paper, but her long hair creates a curtain as she leans forward to write, shielding her answers.

I sneak a peek across the table but Delilah has her forearm on top of her paper, and Rat Boy is clearly hiding his answers by using his tiny hand as a shield. Asshole.

“Five more minutes,” Tracy announces.

I stare at the dead rat in front of me, trying to decipher what red-gray organ is being staked as number four. Everything looks the damn same, all blending together. Then I forget what the hell the function of the liver is.

Yep, I’m screwed.

For the remaining questions I don’t know the answers to, I write down random answers, taking a shot in the dark with the limited time we have left.

“Time’s up! Pencils down.” Tracy quickly walks around the room, collecting papers. I reluctantly hand her mine.

“That wasn’t bad,” Delilah says matter-of-factly.

Rat Boy agrees, arrogantly declaring that it was easy, and Olivia shrugs casually. I mirror Olivia’s action, trying to feign indifference and confidence even though I feel like I knew jack shit.

For the next hour and a half Tracy pulls out the model brains and we go over the different parts and hemispheres.

“Fuck it’s hot out,” I say absentmindedly as Olivia and I walk out of the science building, the hot summer air smacking us in the face.

She lets out a small giggle at my blunt observation. “It is pretty hot out here,” she agrees, reaching back to tie her hair into a ponytail to get it off her neck.

I watch shamelessly as her slim, delicate fingers twist the hair band around to pull her hair back, exposing the lines of her long, smooth neck. The tendrils of hair that frame her face brush against her cheeks as a light breeze rolls through. I blatantly admire her subtle, self-undermined beauty.

I suddenly remember her last night, sitting in the hospital cafeteria with that woman listening to her heart, the pair of them wearing somber expressions.

Slight worry knots my stomach, and I can’t help but let my eyes slowly rake her from head to toe.

Not in a caveman-like, perverted way, but in a concerned manner, trying to detect if anything is wrong with her.

Is she sick? She doesn’t look sick. But that’s how it always is; looks can be deceiving.

Her eyes meet mine, probably sensing my lingering gaze. Now it’s her looking at me with concern after catching me staring at her. “Bronx?” she asks when I don’t steer my gaze away.

“Are you okay?” I ask abruptly, unable to bite back my curiosity.

Her head jerks back in surprise and then she does that cute little head tilt thing she always does when she’s confused. “Huh?” she asks, looking down at her body to self-assess. When she doesn’t detect anything wrong, she swipes at her face self-consciously. “Is there something on my face?”

“No.” I can’t help but let out a small chuckle, but I sober up quickly, turning serious. “I—” How do I tell her without sounding like a creep? I let out a breath, my lips vibrating together before continuing. “I saw you at the hospital last night.”

“Oh.” Her eyes widen with surprise.

“I’m sorry. I promise I wasn’t spying on you or anything weird like that.

Chase sprained his wrist at practice last night and I had to drive him there.

When I was waiting for him, I took a trip to the cafeteria and saw you with some woman.

She was listening to your heart and you both looked .

. . it just had me worried, that’s all,” I admit, shoving my hands deep in my pockets.

Her eyes soften and then she looks away, almost embarrassed.

She clears her throat before speaking. “Yeah, that was Cora. She’s a nurse at the hospital, and I shadowed with her in the OR over the past few summers.

We became pretty close,” she says, lifting her shoulder in a casual shrug.

“She doesn’t really have any family, so I have dinner with her on Tuesdays when she has to work the night shift.

I can imagine how lonely it must be not having much family around, and she’s good company. ”

“So you’re okay?” I confirm.

She lets out a small laugh. “Yeah, she was just checking her stethoscope. She thought it wasn’t working properly earlier and decided to try it on me.”

I mentally breathe out a sigh of relief. “Okay, you had me scared there for a minute,” I admit with a shaky laugh.

Her eyes soften with appreciation and a hint of affection. “No worries, I’m all good,” she assures me.

I nod, grabbing the door of the language arts building for her. “I wonder what crazy outfit Professor Hobb will be wearing today?” I ask, referring to our English teacher’s fondness for ’70s attire and chunky jewelry, which she tries her best to make look business casual.

Olivia’s mouth curves. “I feel like you pay more attention to her outfits than what she’s teaching.”

“You’re not wrong,” I admit honestly, earning me a melodic laugh. “What? You have to admit her outfits are a little distracting.”

Olivia shakes her head in amusement. “Maybe she’ll let us write our final paper on whatever we want, and you can critique her fashion choices over the semester.”

I laugh, flashing her a razor-sharp smile. “That’s actually a good idea, Finch. I’ll be sure to give you credit for it.”

She rolls her eyes at me good-naturedly, taking her seat. “Fiend,” she mutters.

Minutes later Professor Hobb walks in, her clogs rapping against the linoleum floor, dressed in black bell-bottoms and a puffy-sleeved shirt with bright multicolored jewelry as accents.

I shoot Olivia a knowing stare and she tries her best to glare back at me, but her pursed lips give away her desire to laugh.