He starts the truck and buckles up. I try to do the same, but the buckle gets caught.
“It’s broken. Here, let me.” He unbuckles and reaches over to help me. One second I had a whole bench seat of separation and now Lucas is here, right on top of me. His hard chest brushes mine and suddenly I’m aware of every nerve ending in my body crackling to life. His mouth is inches from mine and because I don’t trust my body, I zip my lips and press myself so hard against the seat that my skin fuses with the old cloth fibers. My good hand is fisted at my side.
“You have to sort of twist it and then tug real hard,” he explains.
Are we talking about the seat belt?
“Daisy?”
I closed my eyes at some point, so I pry them open and he’s there, hovering over me with a half-baked smile.
“You’re blushing again.”
He thinks he knows something, and I can’t have that.
“I was just recalling all the dates you drove around in this truck back in high school.” He squints and I like how the tables have turned, so I continue. “In cross country, Jessica Mayweather used to go on and on about what you two would do in this truck. Hope you got these seats deep cleaned at some point, Lucas.”
He yanks my seat belt hard and buckles me in. It’s too tight, but I don’t struggle.
“She was exaggerating.”
I turn toward the window so he can’t see my smile.
We don’t talk the entire way to the clinic. It’s a gift considering I still can’t quite wrap my head around the fact that I’m sitting in his truck after all these years. I wasn’t even lying earlier. Jessica Mayweather did run her mouth every day, bragging about her escapades with Lucas. In total, they were together a couple weeks our junior year. In my head, it was years.
“I didn’t realize you knew so much about my love life back in high school,” he goads once we’re on Main Street.
Well it’s not like I had my own to focus on or anything…
I shrug. “Girls talk.”
“Guys talk too.”
“Oh yeah?”
He whips his truck into a spot in front of the clinic. “Yeah, I think I recall Bobby Jenkins going on about how much of a struggle it was to even get to second base with you. Said you were really stiff.”
My cheeks have second-degree burns. If I ever see Bobby Jenkins again, I will sink a dagger in his heart. Now who’s stiff?
An expensive blue sportscar pulls into the space beside ours and I recognize James Holder, our patient, behind the steering wheel. Without another word about my teenage bedroom skills, Lucas and I switch into doctor mode. I wrap my stethoscope around my neck and hop out of the truck. By the time Lucas has the front door unlocked, Mr. Holder is shuffling inside, looking ten times worse than he did two weeks ago.
“Mr. Holder?” Lucas asks, hurrying to help carry some of Mr. Holder’s weight. With Lucas’ help, we get him into an exam room. I retrieve his chart from the reception area and join Lucas in the room.
“It’s gotten worse since I first came in,” he explains. “I’m not eating, and on the off chance I’m even able to fall asleep, I wake up almost immediately, drenched in sweat. The rest of the time I’m just coughing up bloody mucus. This must be some flu.”
A flu diagnosis made sense at the time: it’s influenza season, he’s older, and he’s on medication that weakens his immune system. Because he was Dr. McCormick’s personal friend, we decided to play it safe and send off a phlegm sample for culture.
“Daisy,” Lucas starts, “I know it’s Saturday, but can you try calling the lab to see if they have the results yet?”
Now is not the time to argue about who should be on administrative duty. I stride out to Gina’s desk and call the diagnostic lab’s number. After a handful of rings, I am prompted to leave a message, which doesn’t help us at all. I step back into the exam room.
Lucas is checking his heart and lungs. “Deep breath for me.”
Mr. Holder complies and I start asking questions.
“Have you changed your diet or medications recently?”
“No.”
“Have you been overseas recently?”
“No.”
“Have you ever had symptoms this bad before?”
“No, but it’s the damnedest thing. The only time I’ve seen anyone cough like this was when I visited a slum in India. We went on a mission trip with the church, and I’ll never forget the hacking some of those poor people dealt with from all that pollution.”
My eyes widen, and I flip through his chart. “I thought you said you hadn’t traveled recently?”
“Well that was over two years ago! Do you also want to know what I ate the day Reagan got shot?” He tries to laugh, but it only triggers a coughing fit.
“On this mission trip, did you come into close contact with anybody that looked like they were sick?” I ask.
“Hell, they all looked pretty bad. They were the untouchables. We were there washing their feet, handing out Bibl—”