Page 35 of Knot All is Crystal
Pain level: Six. It can’t be ignored, but I can function somewhat normally.
Dr. Talbot comes in the door with a big smile. “Good morning, Mr. Ortega. Kyle tells me you have a migraine today. What is your pain level?”
“Six.”
“Okay, good to know.” One of the reasons why I like Dr. Talbot is that he doesn’t try to convince me I’m not at the level of pain I say I am. He clears his throat after scratching some notes on the paper chart he’s holding. He’s surprisingly old school for such a technologically advanced place. I have to assume he types them all up afterward.
“Let’s take a look at your MRI.” He sits down at his desk and begins tapping away at his keyboard. His face scrunches.
I don’t like that look.
“One moment, Mr. Ortega.” He picks up a walkie-talkie and depresses the side button. “Crystal, the system seems to be having a little hiccup. Can you bring the physical files for Mr. Ortega to my office?”
“Sure thing, boss,” the foreign voice comes through the tinny speaker.
“Is there a problem?” I ask nervously.
He shakes his head. “No, not at all. My research assistant will bring physical copies of your files since your digital chart seems to be having trouble this morning.”
I hum softly to myself and bob my head in understanding.
A soft knock on the door has me turning in my seat just a moment later. The research assistant, Crystal, is slim, wearing a pair of slate blue slacks and an ivory blouse under her lab coat. Her hair fades from pink to purple and then blue, barely brushing her shoulders in messy waves. She’s got a pointed nose and clear hazel eyes.
She’s so beautiful. Like a pixie. A fairy. Something not of this planet.
“Good morning, Mr. Ortega,” she mutters softly.
Usually, when people talk, my migraine will throb. But it doesn’t this time. That’s nice.
She walks past me, and the AC kicks on simultaneously, ruffling her hair. I watch it move in the sudden gust and get smacked in the face with the most beautiful smell.
Crisp, cool, peppermint.
Sometimes, before my migraines get especially nasty, a little peppermint essential oil on my pulse points can help lessen the sharp pain.
It’s not every time, and it doesn’t fully take the pain away, but it does enough that I always have a bottle on me.
My Omega smells like peppermint.
She smells like my pain is manageable.
She smells like relief from something that plagues me.
She smells like hope.
Pain level: Five. Able to ignore for thirty minutes.
Her body stiffens. Rigid. Like she’s afraid. Her eyes are wild as she stares at me. A whine bubbles up her throat, but she smothers it quickly. A purr immediately tries to rumble in my chest, but I follow her lead and stifle it. I try to jump to my feet, but a sharp shake of her head causes me to lower myself again.
“No.” The word has no bite to it when she whispers it. It’s almost pathetic.
And she turns away from me, drops the file on the desk, and runs out of the room.
What just happened?
She’s my scent match. I’m sure of it. More sure of it than anything else in my life. Did she not scent me?
It takes everything in me not to chase her down. But this is her place of work, and clearly, she did not want to have this conversation in front of her employer, which I can respect. I’ll have to find her when I’m done with my appointment.
