Page 68 of Carry On
“Do I look like a fucking circus clown? Do I need to get on a goddamn unicycle and juggle for them to take me fucking seriously?”
“Are you entirely done?” Lincoln cut me off. “Or should I leave you on the sidewalk to monologue for the pigeons?”
“Fuck you,” I growled.
“Not right now,” he shot back. The response was anything but what I expected. It was enough to snap me out of my anger—enough to give him the moment he needed. “Let’s get lunch.”
There was no room for argument in the statement. He pushed his hands in the pockets of his dress pants and turned, walking away.
I stared after him like an unbelieving idiot.
He just walked away like we weren’t in the middle of something here.
Because your words don’t matter,the voice said.
Not that I’d blame him for that either.
CHAPTER 49
NASH
Wewenttoadiner around the corner from his doctor’s office, something small and out of the way. It had a vintage feel, right down to the old ladies working there. He ordered soup and a sandwich, and I settled for just soup and bread because I had no appetite. Even when the food came, I wasn’t feeling it.
“Why does no one fucking care?” I was having trouble letting it go. This whole thing felt pointless. Our arrangement was supposed to help me, not leave me playing ping pong between doctors. I didn’t have it in me to do that shit. I’d rather just be in pain or be done with it all.
“I care,” Lincoln said quietly.
He doesn’t care,the voice interjected.
“I think we established that I’m not talking about you,” I retorted, my gaze flicking in his direction. He merely shrugged as he ate soup. “It’s just stupid.”
“It is,” he agreed. “What did the doctor say, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“He said because of my TBI that he couldn’t help me,” I explained. “He said I had to see a neurologist.”
“TBI… that’s,” he clicked his tongue as he thought about it, “that’s a—”
“Traumatic BrainInjury.”
“From your time in the military?”
“Yeah.” I left it at that. He didn’t need any more information than that. “He gave me pain medication for the headaches, told me to get on a good sleep schedule, to reduce my stress, and gave me muscle relaxers to help me sleep. And then he put in a referral for a neurologist and put in a referral for blood tests, because since I was homeless, I should probably get tested for everything. I fucking hate needles.”
He arched a brow, an expression I was increasingly fond of.
“And yet, you’re covered in tattoos,” Lincoln commented.
“Different kind of needle.”
“Right.” I could hear the judgment in his voice. “I told you that Dr. Whitlock is thorough.”
“Not thorough enough,” I retorted.
“And if he thinks that seeing a specialist is the way to go, it’s not about you.”
Of course it’s about you,the voice cut in.
“It’s stupid.”
