Look, I get it—it’s bullshit. Not just anybody can walk in and be seen right away, bypassing the waiting rooms. It’s a privilege I’m grateful for—especially today. I’m nervous enough, being here, dealing with this. Anticipation and paranoia would make it insufferable.
“Mr. Cunning, how are you?” the doctor asks, standing up and holding his hand out, expecting me to shake it even wearing the sling.
“Okay,” I say, ignoring his extended hand. “Ready to get this over with.”
“A man on a mission,” he says. “I like that.”
He doesn’t waste any more time, sending me straight for X-rays. It hurts like a son of a bitch when they examine my wrist, burning pain shooting up my arm and down to the tips of my fingers.
“Well, the good news is the bones haven’t shifted, so doesn’t appear you’ll need surgery,” the doctor says. “Bad news, of course, is you’ll be in a cast for the next few weeks.”
“Awesome,” I mutter, flexing my fingers.
“How many weeks?” Cliff asks, standing in the corner of the office on his Blackberry.
“Hard to say for sure… four, I’d estimate.”
“So another month?” Cliff asks.
“Yes,” the doctor says. “He’ll likely need some occupational therapy afterward.”
“But he’ll be out of the cast?”
“Yes.”
“Good to know,” Cliff says. “Is there any way to speed up the healing process?”
“Well, there’s no miracle treatment, but some things might help. Vitamins. Calcium. Exercises.”
“So get a stress ball and drink milk?”
“Pretty much,” the doctor says. “Leafy greens are good.”
They talk back and forth about me like I’m not even here. I stare down at my swollen wrist in annoyance as I wiggle my fingers.
“Anyway, let’s get you wrapped up,” the doctor says, “so you can be on your way.”
A white fiberglass cast. He doesn’t bother with the frilly colored bullshit, keeping it simple before sending me on my way.
I climb into the passenger seat of Cliff’s rental, and he immediately starts rambling. “If you’re out of the cast in the next few weeks, you can probably film again sooner than expected.”
“You think so?” I ask, watching him as he goes through his Blackberry, checking his calendar.
“You’ve got a stunt-double to handle the action, so all they need is your voice…” He cuts his eyes at me. “And that pretty face of yours, of course.”
“Of course,” I mutter, trying like hell not to let that bruise my ego, but damn. Acting is more than just reciting lines. “What about Serena?”
“What about her?”
“She’s in rehab.”
“So?”
“So how are we going to start filming again next month if she’s gone for ninety days?”
He gives me a look like I’ve lost my mind. “You really think she’ll last that long?”
“You don’t?”
“You never lasted,” he says. “Not until you hit bottom.”
“And you don’t think she has?”
“Not even close. The only reason she’s there right now is because the studio demanded it,” he says. “But don’t worry about that. I’ll take care of her. You worry about getting better.”
During the Revolutionary War, Aaron Burr had an illicit affair with the wife of a British officer.
You tell the girl that story.
You think it’ll make her feel better.
She asks you who Aaron Burr is.
You laugh, because you can’t understand how she’s surviving at Fulton Edge when she doesn’t even know the name of the man who killed Alexander Hamilton, but she is. She’s surviving, maybe even thriving. She works hard and she’s passing. Meanwhile, you barely pay attention and still ace every test.
But you show up to class now. Every single day.
Maybe you do it because you don’t want to be expelled. You’ve made it this far. Might as well see it through. Or maybe you show up to be with her.
Both of you are on track to graduate in a month. The entire school year almost gone in a blink. You spent most of it sneaking around, whispered conversations and secret rendezvous, meeting under the cloak of darkness without her dad knowing. He forbid her from seeing you. He told her you would cause nothing but trouble.
Thing is, she already knew that.
That wasn’t enough to stop her.
“So, Vassar, huh?” you ask, sitting beside her on the picnic table at the park near her house. It’s dark, pushing midnight, and you just got done with a full rehearsal for Julius Caesar. The Drama Club is putting it on in three weeks as part of graduation festivities. “Liberal Arts. Bet your dad loves that.”
“Yeah, he looked at me about the same way he did when he realized we were sleeping together.”
Man, he hadn’t taken that well at all. Full-blown rage to the point of taking his grievances to his boss. Your father shrugged it off, though, saying you’ve done worse things than bedding a girl. Needless to say, her dad isn't enjoying his job much anymore.
She’s committed to attending Vassar College next year. Meanwhile, you haven’t decided anything. You’re not even sure you want to go to college. You have dreams but they don’t include studying law at Princeton. You got accepted somehow. You didn't even apply. The whole thing reeks of your father.
“Congratulations,” you say. “It’s a great school.”
The future isn’t something you and her have talked much about. You’ve never even given this thing you have a title. No promises.
You don’t promise things. Ever.
But the future is coming up fast. It’s about to be the present. And whatever this is between you is going to be affected.
She nudges you with her shoulder. “Will you come see me?”
“I’m sure I’ll pop up from time to time.”
“You better,” she says. “I’m going to miss you.”
She’s getting emotional, her voice cracking around those words.
“We’ve still got a few weeks,” you say, shoving up from the picnic table as you grab her hand, pulling her to her feet. “Let’s not waste tonight worrying about it.”
You take a walk together, holding hands. There’s an inn nearby, beyond the edge of the park. A cranky middle-aged woman runs it, one of the only people you’ve ever encountered your nights when you meet up here. The inn is dark tonight. Sheets hang out on a clothesline, left overnight.
You snatch one off.
Along the water, you lay it down on the grass. You lay her down on top of it. You know you’ll have some privacy tucked back here, away from the picnic area. You don’t want to waste any more of tonight. Every stitch of clothing is removed, and you take your time teasing her, and tasting her, before you make love to her.
You’re going to miss her, too.
You don’t tell her that, not with words, but she knows. She feels it in every kiss. In every thrust of your hips. You make her laugh as you’re deep inside of her. You tell her she’s beautiful as she moans beneath you.
You lay there after you finish, still on top of her, catching your breath as you kiss her neck. You’re careful not to leave marks anymore.
There’s a rustling nearby, along the water, shadows moving in the darkness. You only have the moonlight to see. Whatever it is comes closer… closer… closer. It’s coming right for you.