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Well, I’d already stuck my foot in my mouth. I was fairly sure a wiser person would have reconsidered what they were about to say and tried to find something that might de-escalate the situation. The problem was, he’d already managed to irritate me, and his attitude toward something as benign as reading a book wasn’t helping my mood.
“No,” I said, slipping a bookmark between the pages. “But I didn’t try to claim that either. You’re the one standing there talking about shocking people with stories of rich people doing rich things that only rich people can afford. Is that supposed to be shocking to anyone other than the pearl clutchers you know?”
Despite the rational part of my brain screaming at me to shut my mouth, I felt a moment of pleasure at seeing his eyes widen. I couldn’t help but wonder if anyone other than his mother had ever bothered to say the slightest thing against him. I didn’t have proof, but his was a life that came off as smooth and without struggle. It was all too easy to picture someone who was probably treated like the baby of the family, coddled and permitted to do far more than any child should be, and grew up with circles of people who probably kissed his ass purely because of the name attached to him.
The moment didn’t last very long when I watched a slow smile spread over his face. Worse yet was the look of calculating appraisal as he backed up toward the library door. Suddenly I wondered just what sort of report was about to be sent to Rhonda, and I wondered what I would tell her.
Sorry, I kind of lost my temper and told some rich boy to stuff his bullshit back where it belongs?
Yeah, I could see her accepting that with grace and understanding.
“Fuck,” I muttered when he disappeared out of sight. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Well done, Kev, very smooth.”
* * *
To my absolute confusion, he never said anything about the altercation over the next week. I was even more aware of his presence whenever he was around, but the worst he ever did was give me that same calculating appraisal on occasion, but nothing else.
“Are you going to administer my medication or stare off into space?” Sophia asked, her voice the crack of a whip.
“The former,” I told her, bending down to insert the needle so the medication could make its way directly into her system. The dosage had been upped the week before to twice a day, and I could already see how the new treatment was beginning to wear away at her. She was as sharp and attentive as ever, but she ate less than she used to, and since I was up throughout the night just in case I was needed, I heard her footsteps in her bedroom more often than the first week.
“If you’re going to keep dozing off while standing up straight, then you might as well use the time you’re wasting in the middle of the night to catch a nap,” she told me, her eyes still managing to breeze over the lines of the book in her lap.
“Time I’m wasting?” I asked, checking the bag before hanging it on the stand.
“Fooling around on the computer, eating my food, whatever it is you’re doing,” she said without looking up.
I frowned. “I don’t eat your food. I bring my own.”
“When there’s a perfectly functional stocked kitchen with a full pantry right at hand?”
“I don’t eat patients’ food.”
“Even if given permission?”
I frowned, turning to make notes on the report I had to fill out every time I gave her medication, noting any changes or symptoms. “Other than being a company rule, not all my patients have the income or living conditions you do, Miss Perkins. I’m not going to take out of their hands to fill my own.”
“How very noble,” she said dryly. “Though that clearly isn’t the case here.”
“I’m also quite capable of feeding myself without raiding your pantry,” I told her, marking that no, there had, in fact, not been any emotional or personality changes I’d noted with the treatment.
“You’re a proud little thing, aren’t you?” she asked, and I realized she was looking at me.
I turned, disliking the accusation even if I knew there was no denying it. It didn’t help that I could see she had passed her eyes along to her son, and I was dismayed to find that same calculating appraisal on her face.
“There’s no real point in denying it,” I told her with a shrug. “I’m more than capable of taking care of myself and have done it many times in my life. And before you ask, yes, I do know how to accept help when it's offered.”
“Every time?”
“Clearly not.”
“So, when?”
“When it’s someone I’m willing to accept help from,” I told her, confident that she, of all people, wouldn’t take offense to the statement.
“When it’s someone you trust.”
“Correct.”
