Page 40 of Backslide
He looks at me like I am a full moron. “Magic,” he deadpans.
“Magic,” I repeat, because I don’t know what else to say. The truth is, though I won’t admit it now, I am truly curious about his trajectory. After all, last time I saw him, he had a dramatically different vision for his future.
In another universe, at another time, I would have told him how proud I am of him. How amazed I am, but also not at all surprised.How I knew his future would be boundless, no matter what happened to his original dream.
But I can’t say any of that now.
How can you miss someone and hate them at the same time? Is the person I miss even in front of me—in the body of this man, thissurgeon—or does he no longer exist?
Emotional tornadoes may be swirling through my head, flattening everything in their path, but Noah is the picture of calm. He looks up at me, all professionalism. “Well, you know what the problem is here. I imagine this flares up somewhat regularly.”
I sigh. Answer him earnestly. “Actually, I’ve managed it pretty successfully for years with Pilates and stretching, warm baths, arnica. It’s only gotten bad like this a couple times before and not for a while.”
“Have you done anything different lately?”
“I mean, I moved recently. To a new apartment. So I probably put strain on it then.”
He nods like,that would do it. “With your… fiancé?”
Is it me or did he choke on that word? I do my own noncommittal cough-nod-headshake hybrid.
Because, sure. My fiancé relocated at the same time as I did. Just not to the same address. But I’m not about to tell Noah that we broke up any more than I’d lay that news on my best friend’s doorstep during her un-wedding do-over.
“Obviously, lifting heavy boxes might have triggered it,” Noah is saying. “Or trying to yank a gigantic suitcase one-handed off a baggage carousel like a maniac. Also, excess stress can tighten the muscles, which makes your body more susceptible to strain.”
Excess stress? Who’s been under excess stress?
Noah’s hands are still on me. And just the wordbodyon his lips sends shudders through me. Shudders of revulsion, I tell myself. But even I’m not convinced.
A breeze whispers past. My T-shirt suddenly seems so thin.
He takes one last look at my shoulder, then slides his palm down the inside of my arm to my wrist, turning it over in his hand so that it’s face up. I am praying I don’t have obvious goose bumps. “Also, carpal tunnel doesn’t help because the muscles radiate through. So, if you’re doing a lot of design and layout work at the computer or even answering a bunch of emails, that can exacerbate the issue.”
Design work. Layout. Like he knows what I do.
And soon, when the news breaks about the magazine, I guess he’ll know that I don’t have a job too.
He drops my hand. And, right away, to my chagrin, I miss the contact.
“I’m hopeful that there’s not a tear. But if the pain doesn’t improve in a few days, you may need an MRI to confirm. In the meantime, I can prescribe you an anti-inflammatory and send it to the pharmacy in town to pick up today,” he is saying. “And a painkiller if that would help.”
As much as I hate accepting help, especially from him, I have to admit that it’s convenient to have a doctor in the house—or suite, as the case may be.
“Do you have ibuprofen to take for now?” he asks.
I nod. “Thank you,” I manage. It pains me to say it almost as much as it pains me to move.
Noah stands up, so I am overcome by his shadow. It feels nice and cool outside of the sun.
He glances at my mug on the side table. Raises his eyebrows at me like,you must have really wanted to avoid me if you settled for tea.
My caffeine addiction dates way back.
“If you want actual coffee, I made some—iced actually like we both like. If you still take it that way. There’s plenty in the kitchenette. I’m going to go get dressed.”
I shrug, like I could take it or leave it. But the truth is, I will definitely take it. I am now in his debt, both for the coffee and the medical consultation, and it’s the worst.
Who is this man, so much like and also unlike the boy I knew?
