The Shameless Hour (The Ivy Years #4)

“If you have no more questions for now, I’ll see the next patient.”

“I’m good,” I said, lying through my teeth. I was so very far from good.

The doctor rose and strode out, his white coat flapping behind him.

“Gaines,” he grumbled, summoning the med student.

Gaines stood up to follow him, but lingered just for a second in the doorway. “I know it’s a lot to take in,” he whispered. “But once the shock wears off and you do a little reading, it will all seem less awful.”

“Thanks,” I clipped.

He gave me another quick smile. “Call Helena Ogden with your questions.”

“You can bet on it.”

He disappeared then, leaving me alone with a prescription in one hand and a glossy brochure in the other. Taking Your Sexual Health In Hand, it read.

I folded it up into a tiny square and jammed it into my pocket. Then I got the hell out of there.

An hour later, I’d collected a small prescription bottle from the pharmacy as well as a take-out salad from the student center. The walk home was slow going, though, because the riff of irritation I’d felt down there earlier in the day had blossomed into full-on pain. So I walked carefully, wishing I could just beam myself up into my dorm room.

I needed to be completely alone. To regroup. To furtively Google search terms I never thought I’d type into my browser window. To throw darts at Dr. Peterson’s picture. But not to cry.

Fuck that guy.

I’d almost made it to my entryway door when someone jogged into the courtyard from the other direction. When he got to our door, he spread his sculpted legs and bent forward, hands on his knees, stretching before tackling the stairs.

Rafe. Even panting and sweat-coated, he was beautiful.

He was also the last person I wanted to talk to right now.

Shit.

Noticing me, he stood up straighter. “Hi,” he said on the exhale, reaching for the ID he’d clipped to his pocket. He swiped it past the scanner, then opened the door like a perfect gentleman.

Choking on my own discomfort, I gave him a self-conscious little wave.

His expression flickered with uncertainty. “Something wrong?”

Not a thing. And, by the way, do you suppose you gave me a disease? God. How was I ever going to discuss it? How did people do that? Rafe was frowning now, waiting for an answer. Pull it together, Bella. “I’m fine,” I said grumpily. “You?”

His eyes widened at my rude tone. “Never better” he said, pressing his lips together.

I was somehow destined to offend this guy. But that was the least of my problems right now. “Great. Have a good night.” I passed him, heading for the stairs. Unfortunately, climbing them was even less comfortable for me than walking had been. I powered up the first half flight anyway, feeling his eyes on me.

The sting made me want to scream.

Running out of ideas, I set my bag down and knelt down to re-tie my perfectly tied shoe. Slow footsteps moved up the stairs behind me. I felt Rafe pass me carefully on the landing. Then he trudged up ahead of me.

When he disappeared around the next curve, I picked up my bag and began again, slower this time. Gripping the railing, I pulled myself up, stair after painful stair.

On the next landing, Rafe waited, his head cocked to the side. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes, thank you,” I snapped. “Sore ankle, that’s all.”

“Oh.” His face softened. “You need…?”

“Nope, I’m good.”

His face fell again. “Okay. Later, then.”

This time he turned and jogged up the next flight as if he couldn’t get away fast enough. And I didn’t resume my climb until I heard the door to his suite open and close again.

Finally alone, I finished my agonizing journey home. The first thing I did was to take one of the tablets I’d gotten at the pharmacy. I wasn’t sure where to keep the bottle. Not the bathroom. I could only imagine Lianne’s smugness at finding out what had happened to me. Or anyone’s smugness, for that matter.

I hid the bottle in my desk drawer.

Then I called Trevi, the hockey captain, and told him I had flu symptoms and couldn’t make it to practice. “Could you tell Coach Canning that I’m sorry?” I asked.

“Sure. And feel better,” he said.

If only. “Thanks man. See you tomorrow or Thursday.”

“Ciao.”

Finally, I was alone. I switched on the lamp beside my bed, which cast a homey glow on the slanting ceiling. Flopping down on the bed, I curled into an ornery, achy, frightened little ball.