Page 230 of ClickBack

“I don’t want to get in here and discover the plan is for me to be brave,” I say.

“Then we’ll discuss pain management before you schedule it. We can review local anesthesia and sedation options, including what’s available in the appropriate setting. You’ll know what we’ve agreed to before you come in.”

“And if I’m still frightened?”

“Tell me.”

She says it without impatience. I let go of the table.

The rest of the exam is familiar, but Dr. Holder still tells me what she is going to do before she does it. When I tense, she pauses. I look at the ceiling tile above me and wait until I can say I’m ready. Nothing terrible follows my needing an extra moment.

Afterward, she leaves so I can dress. I uncover the underwear I have carefully protected from observation and put it on. My phone lights up inside my bag.

Rae has sent a picture of Zion in his gaming chair. The headrest is installed backward. He is grinning too widely to care.

He says don’t tell J. Jeremy says please tell J he did not supervise this.

I sit on the chair to answer.

I’ll protect his reputation. Yours, too.

Then I add that I have been to Dr. Holder. Rae sends back a simple Good. I can hear exactly how she would say it.

When the doctor returns, we review the follow-up plan. I leave with lab orders and another appointment. In the car, I look at my phone. I still have to speak to the other person involved.

Jarrett’s last message is from earlier this morning. A picture of a protein shake, gray enough to resemble something used in construction.

They said don’t judge it by the color. Color was telling the truth.

I laughed when I read it before leaving home. Now I open the conversation and look at his words while I decide how much I can say in mine.

Are you free tonight? I’d like to talk about something.

I send it and drive home.

His answer is waiting when I park at home.

After six. You okay?

I write that I am, then change it.

The doctor brought up something I hadn’t thought through. I’m not sick. I’d rather talk in person.

He calls. I close my eyes before I answer, already regretting how alarming I have managed to make a conversation about not knowing what I want.

“You’re not sick,” he says.

“No.”

“And this can wait until tonight?”

“Yes. I’m sorry. That sounded worse than I meant it.”

“What time did you eat?”

I look at the dashboard clock. “I haven’t had lunch yet.”

“Eat lunch. I’ll bring dinner. Around seven.”