Page 93 of Challenge
“Ah, Mr. Harris.” Dr. Prichard’s voice bellows from around the corner, causing the nurse to stop us in the doorway. “I was just coming to see you.” He’s out of breath as he grabs hold of the side rail of my bed. “Are you excited to get back on your feet?”
“I’ve been on my feet quite well for the past month now thanks to you,” I murmur. “But yes, I’m ready for all of this to be over.”
“I’m sure you are. I have a paper here I am hoping we can get you to sign before we wheel you in. It’s a basic release form to use your name in a medical article.The British Medical Journalis here to do a human interest story on Indie and me, and they’d like permission to reference you by name in the article.”
My cheery mood plummets as he hands me the piece of paper. “Does Dr. Porter know about this?”
His eyes squint a bit. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I told her several days ago. She’s quite keen. Her med school research project on the graft we placed in your knee is the talk of the hospital.”
“Right,” I grind out through clenched teeth. Shaking my head, I sign my name with the pen he hands me and feel something sharp digging into my back.
“Thanks, Son. We’ll see you in there…or after.” He winks and scampers away with an infuriatingly patronising waggle to his walk. He hasn’t a care in the world, oblivious to the fact that he’s completely crushed mine.
Here I thought Indie came to my flat to talk me into having the surgery because there was an ounce of her that actually cared—a tiny shred that might want what’s best for my well-being.
Well, Camden. This isn’t the first time she’s made you look like a fucking wanker.
If I could be any more done, I would be on fire.
As we begin moving down the hallway, I lean forward in the bed and ask, “Nurse, can you check my back and tell me if there’s a knife sticking in it?”
IPRESS DOWN ON THEmetal bar with my foot to kick on the water in the wash basin and begin the exhaustive process of scrubbing in for surgery. I don’t wear rings, watches, or bracelets because it’s one less step I have to deal with. I start with rubbing the antimicrobial soap scrub on my hands and arms, then move to cleaning out the subungual areas with a nail file. After that, it’s the two-minute timed scrubs on each side of my fingers, between my fingers, and the back and front of both hands. Finally, I move on to my arms. The whole process lasts ages.
Ages that I can do nothing but think about Camden and what he’s doing. Who’s with him? How he’s feeling? Is he nervous? Did he have a blowout with his dad, and is that why he’s having the surgery? I want to know all of these things and could have figured a lot of them out if I’d stopped by his room before the procedure. But I was a coward.
My heart is over-flowing with new feelings. Feelings that don’t do well bottled up. Saying any of this to Camden right now would be selfish, though. This procedure is difficult enough on him without adding our personal drama into the mix. I just have to hold my tongue, get through this, and hope that we can figure things out afterwards.
“Ah, Indie! There you are,” Prichard’s voice says from behind me as I go to do my final hand rinse. “You’re scrubbed in early.”
I want to tell him it’s because he tried to kiss me the last time we were in this room together, but I bite my tongue. “Just wanting to make sure everything is setup right.”
He cuts me a look as he ties his mask around his face and says, “I just came from Mr. Harris’ room.”
“Oh?” I ask, trying to remain calm but wanting to know everything in an instant. “How did he seem?”
“He seemed fine. Just fine. I got him to sign a release form so you can reference him in your interview withThe British Medical Journalafter surgery. It was something the hospital PR gal said we needed. I reserved the consult room in Hallway D for you to sit and talk with them when we wrap up here.”
“You told Cam—I mean, Mr. Harris about the article?” I ask, my voice tight and pinched.
Prichard moves over next to me at the basin and eyes me from behind his mask. “I did. Is that a problem?” he asks, revealing nothing with his eyes.
“No, no problem at all,” I grind, grateful that Prichard can’t see me chewing on my lip nervously behind my mask.
He begins scrubbing in, still watching me instead of his hands. “He seemed a bit put-off by it, but he signed anyway.”
My mind goes haywire.
What must Camden be thinking? Does he think I only came to him because of the article? Damnit, I should have told him! Why do I suck so bad at relationships? I can’t seem to stop screwing things up with him. Maybe I can catch him before the surgery.
Movement through the window to the OR catches my eye, and I see a nurse pushing Camden in on a stretcher. The pained look on his face makes me feel a sudden and overwhelming urge to draw a foul.
AN OVERWHELMING SENSE OFDÉJÀVu casts over me when the nurse positions me in the OR. Once again, Dr. Prichard says something that leaves me reeling minutes before I’m going to be put under. God, what an arrogant arsehole.
And, once again, Indie is in the forefront of my mind. After everything my father said about my mum and how she was all he loved, I wanted it. I wanted a chance to care for someone that much. To put it above football. Above everything.
And, bloody hell, I hate the fact that after all he said, it was Indie’s face that crept into my mind. My heart. My soul.
But if what Dr. Prichard said is true, then I’ve been reading her all wrong since day one. When I held her in my arms that night at Old George and felt her pain, I wanted to move mountains to take it away. I would’ve given anything. Been anything. Done anything. I wanted to be whatever she needed in that moment.
