The Shameless Hour (The Ivy Years #4)

He patted my hip twice, in a way that should have seemed weird but somehow wasn’t. “Your lymph nodes are swollen because they’re working to fight the infection. Now I only need a quick swab, okay?” the young man said. “Then we’ll be all done.”

Again, I spoke through gritted teeth. “Do your worst.”

The swabbing stung. But not nearly as much as the anguish of hearing the words sexually transmitted disease.

“Now you can get dressed,” the old coot said when it was done. “Meet me in my office in ten minutes, and I’ll give you a prescription and some information.”

At that, he turned and left, followed only slightly more graciously by the med student.

I clamped my thighs together, heart pounding.

With shaking hands, I stumbled into my clothes. STD. The ugly letters sloshed around in my mind. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I practiced safe sex. I’d thought I did, anyway. Why me?

My stomach gave a lurch, which had nothing to do with the infection. This time the pain was from shame.

So much for being a sex-positive feminist in control of her own body. Just then I felt exactly like the slut people had claimed I was. People like Lianne across the hall. And the hockey girlfriends.

And my mother.

Ugh. My mother couldn’t know this. I was never going to tell her.

Still quaking, I wandered down the hallway, wondering which door was Dr. Peterson’s office. I stopped when I saw the med student sitting in a chair, then double-checked that the name plate outside the door said “Peterson.”

I went into the little room, sitting in the obvious patient chair.

“So, Isabelle,” the young man said.

“Bella,” I snapped, keeping up the bitch front.

“Bella,” he said gently. “I just wanted you to know that this happens all the time. Your test results will probably show that it’s easily curable.”

I knew what he was trying to do. He was trying to give me some perspective. Jesus. I probably should have thanked him for trying, but instead I only swallowed hard.

Dr. Peterson breezed into the room, seating himself on his desk chair. “Miss Hall, I have a prescription here.” He slid a little square of paper toward me. “Take the full course of antibiotics. That’s really important.”

Silently, I took the paper.

“Your symptoms should start to disappear immediately, but finish the medicine anyway. Meanwhile, you should have no sexual contact with your boyfriend during this time.”

That was easy, of course, since I didn’t have a boyfriend. But my stomach filled with dread. “I need to ask a question.”

“Of course.”

My eyes went to the wood-grain desktop and stayed there. “What’s the incubation period?”

The doctor cleared his throat. “Do you mean to ask how long ago were you infected?”

I nodded. Shame and silence descended together, like a mushroom cloud. Depending on his answer, there were two or three people who might have infected me.

And, likewise, there were two or three people who I might have infected.

“Within the last two weeks,” the doctor said. “Probably ten days.”

“Okay,” I whispered. I was going to have to go home and scrutinize my calendar to figure out what I’d done when and with whom.

“Naturally, you’re going to have to follow up with your partner,” the doctor said. “He or she will need to know that an infection was transmitted.”

Every time he said the word “infection” I just wanted to die.

“Your test will come back within a few days, and a doctor will call with the results. Then you’ll have something more precise to communicate to your partner.”

He kept talking, but I’d stopped listening. Because I was realizing just how awful this was going to be. I knew a hundred ways to ask a guy to come home with me. But I couldn’t imagine telling someone I may have given him a disease.

“Bella?”

I looked up fast. The medical student was trying to hand me a glossy brochure. I snatched it from his hand.

“There’s a lot of information in there. But if you have any questions, call us here. Or ask whomever calls with your results.”

I swung my gaze over to Dr. Peterson. “Can I make a request?”

He frowned. “Yes?”

“Would you ask Ms. Ogden to call with my results?”

The doctor’s frown deepened. “I’ll make a note of it. But no guarantees,” he said, scribbling on my file.

“Thanks, I’d really appreciate it,” I said. My gaze wandered over to the med student, and he gave me the world’s quickest smile. Apparently I wasn’t Ms. Ogden’s only fan.