“Well good,” I say, as I help Whitney off the desk. “I was hoping you had some dirt on him.”
I pull up my pants as she does the same and then goes to sit at her computer chair.
“Can you please hold off on the official business for a minute?” I ask her. “I just need a moment to sit here and bask in how hot that sex was just now.”
“It was amazing,” she says, smiling.
I had waited for what felt like a really long time, without really thinking I would ever get to be with her again. But as soon as I was with her, my body knew just what it had been needing. I finish getting dressed and then I sit down at the chair across from her desk.
“I think the signs were always there for me with Dr. Davis. I just didn’t want to see them,” I tell her. “But the more I thought about it, the weirder things seemed. What I’m the maddest at myself for, though, is not trusting you. I know you would only ever have my best interest at heart. I just couldn’t believe it because I’m not used to being in a relationship.”
“So we’re in a relationship, are we?” she says, grinning.
“You’d better believe it. And you’d better remember it if you keep wanting wild office sex.”
“About that…”
Her grin turns mischievous.
“Yes?”
“I’ve applied to medical school.”
“That’s great! Whitney, really? All because of what I said?”
She shrugs.
“Well, it’s something I always wanted to do. You had a point. And I didn’t see a future here for me anyway.”
“Smart move.” I wink at her.
“So now can I tell you what I’ve found out?” Whitney begs, obviously anxious to spill the beans.
“Sure. I’ve sufficiently recovered from our knock- down drag- out sex session.”
“Okay, here’s a print- out of all the patients Dr. Davis has treated,” she says, reaching to retrieve a piece of paper from her printer, and handing it to me. “I’ve redacted their names and any other identifying information for patient privacy sake, but, the important thing to look at is the colors I’ve used to highlight them.”
“Little Miss Type A,” I say, impressed.
I look at the sheet of paper but it’s not very helpful since I have no idea what I’m looking at. It vaguely reminds me of a Christmas decoration.
“The red color represents all the patients that Dr. Davis has treated initially but never went any further with. The green color represents patients that he’s continued to treat, and referred to physical therapy.”
There are only three green names.
“One of those is you,” Whitney says.
“Is the other one named Alex Crenshaw?”
Whitney looks surprised.
“I can’t say. But the other two are recent post- surgery patients. They were in traumatic accidents but, like you, they recovered rather quickly.”
“I guess the other one isn’t Jesse Morrow?” I ask, already knowing the answer since Dr. Davis had told me, but hoping that he somehow still made it through.
“You know Jesse Morrow?” Whitney asks, her eyebrows raised.
“You know Jesse Morrow?” I ask, throwing her own question back at her.
“I did a little recon,” she says, her cute cheeks blushing a shade of rose.
“Very nice,” I tell her.
“Let’s just use him as an example,” she says. “Since both of us are familiar with his situation. He’s an average service member, wounded in the line of duty, with some pretty major injuries and a lot of work that needs to be done.”
I nod.
“He’ll probably never end up back in active duty— but still, very few do— and he could benefit from intense physical therapy and further treatment, probably with an integrated approach. Occupational therapy, counseling, and some sort of guidance or transition as to what he should do with this future.”
“Sure,” I say, nodding my head. “Jesse Morrow deserves that. They all deserve that.”
“You know…”
She begins, and I can tell she almost thinks better of telling me whatever she was about to say.
“What?”
“It’s just, when I was talking to Jesse, he mentioned that he’d asked you to come to his surgery, and had never heard another word from you. I mean, he was really understanding and nice about it, but I was just surprised that…”
“Fuck,” I say. “Fuck fuck fuck.”
“What?”
“Damn Dr. Davis. I went to see him, but his surgery had just finished and he was too doped up to recognize me. I left a card for him. Dr. Davis acted hella sketchy, which makes perfect sense now. He said he would make sure he received it, and would let him know I dropped by.”
“Well, lo and behold, Dr. Davis didn’t live up to his word,” Whitney says, and I nod.
“How can I get in touch with him? I need to explain what happened.”
“I may be able to get you some contact information from his file,” she says, with a sly smile.
“Awww. You’re the best. I knew there was a reason I was into you.”
“Very funny,” she says. “But let’s get back on track. We are using this patient as an example, correct? He deserves further treatment, correct?”
I nod.
“But Dr. Davis doesn’t want to work with him,” she concludes, marking a big X next to his redacted name. “Or him, or him, or her, or any other average service member.”
Soon her X’s line the page, and it’s obvious how angry she is. And it’s touching to see how much she cares.
“So this is where I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but it affects you.”
“Okay. Shoot. I’m ready.”
I’ve been on such a roller coaster ride since meeting Whitney— or since my helicopter crashed, actually— that I shouldn’t think it’s possible for me to be surprised by anything anymore. But I never expected her latest revelations, and I know I can’t be sure of what’s coming down the pipeline. I just want her to tell me, so that we can deal with it together.