41
The weirdest thingabout me and Matt (and there’s some stiff competition) is that pretty much all we ever talk about is anatomy. I’m not even kidding. We can be intimate and have amazing sex, but then when it’s over and he’s holding me in bed, he starts talking about study strategies for the upcoming exams.
Sometimes I wonder if he’s afraid of discovering that we have absolutely nothing in common.
After about two weeks of nothing but sex and anatomy lessons, I decide I’ve had enough. As we’re lying in bed together under the covers, my body cuddled against his, I say, “I’m going to make you dinner tonight.”
“You shouldn’t,” he says. “There’s a quiz tomorrow. I can order in some food, and I’ll help you study. You need to become more familiar with swallowing.”
At first, I think he’s making a joke. But he isn’t. He actually means that I need to learn more about the cranial nerves involved with swallowing, not… well, you know.
“Hmm…” is all I say.
I’m hoping that will be a cue to let it go, but apparently not.
“What cranial nerves are involved in the oral phase of swallowing?” Matt presses me.
I sigh and pull away from him, propping myself up on one elbow.
“Matt, this is not what I want to think about right now.”
He smiles sheepishly, “Sorry. I just want you to do well. I mean, this ismyclass. I ought to be able to help you a little bit.”
“Well, yourefusedto help me,” I point out. “You have your morals and all…”
I try to sound teasing, but I can’t help but be irritated by his continued refusal to alter my grade.
“I just don’t think you need to go through your life this way,” he says. “You’re an extremely bright girl, Rachel. You just need to focus a little bit.”
Oh no, another infamous Matt Conlon Pep Talk. Yes, he is amazing in bed, but sometimes he acts like he’s myfather. I’m beginning to seriously worry that if we start talking, I’ll realize he’s more like my parents than he is like me.
“You don’t know what it’s like,” I say. “Medical school is very intimidating.”
“I don’t know what it’s like?” He snorts. “Watch it. You’re talking to a med school dropout, baby.”
I stare at him. Is he serious? I think he is. “You went to med school?”
“Yeah.” At first, it looks like he’s going to tell me more, but then his eyes cloud over. “So, um, you want to get dinner?”
Geez, it’s impossible to get this guy to open up. “Why did you drop out of med school?” I ask him.
He’s quiet for a second. He’s not wearing his glasses, and it makes him look so much more vulnerable somehow. Younger.
“You really want to know?”
“I asked, didn’t I?”
He ducks his head down and uses his left hand to part his black hair with his fingers. And that’s when I see it: a thick scar running practically through the entire length of his skull. It’s an old scar, long since healed up.
“What happened?” I breathe.
“I got shot in the head,” he says. “That’s what happened.”
I stare at him. “Seriously? Oh my God.”
“It was my roommate first year,” Matt explains. He rests his head on the pillow and stares up at the ceiling, his eyes glassy. “Kurt. Kurt Morton. I’ll never forget that name for as long as I live.”
“Your roommate shot you?” I gasp.
