Matt looks up at me, still cradling his hand. “Really hot wax,” he admits sheepishly.
“That’s what you get for trying to be too romantic,” I scold him.
“Yeah, I’m an idiot,” he says.
I run to the kitchen and get a paper towel, which I run under cool water for a minute then fold into quarters.
“Let’s see,” I say.
“Nah, I’m fine,” he says.
He’s trying to be macho—it’s adorable.
I have to coax him until he shows me the burn on his hand. It’s his right hand—the bad one. There’s an angry red area on the back of his hand where the wax got him, and I kneel beside him as I gently press the washcloth onto his skin.
“How’s that?” I ask him.
“Nice,” he sighs.
The fingers of his right hand feel very stiff, even more so than usual. I try to slip my hand inside his, but it’s difficult to pry his fingers apart.
Matt notices what I’m doing and says apologetically, “The muscles are probably spasming from the burn. Plus I’m overdue for Botox shots.”
“Botox?” I stare at Matt’s face. He has a few lines around his eyes, but he doesn’t seem like the cosmetic procedure type.
He grins crookedly. “Not for my face. It loosens up the muscles in my hand. I get shots to my finger flexors.” Then he adds, “Can you name the muscles that control finger flexion?”
I stare at him.
“Sorry,” he says quickly. “I shouldn’t have… this is your night to relax…”
I turn the paper towel over on his hand and say, “Flexor digitorum profundus and flexor digitorum superficialis.”
“That’s right,” he says, and he grins so wide that I’m really glad that I read ahead this afternoon. “Come here,” he says, holding out his arms to me.
An hour later, the specially prepared meal has gone cold, and the treacherous candle has burned down to nothing. But I don’t care.
I’m in love.
44
I’mcareful about when I go to Matt’s office. He said to me that I should only visit him at most once a week—any more than that is too big a risk.
But it’s hard not to visit him at school. I keep thinking about him all day, and it’s tempting to stop by, knowing that he’s sitting in his office, probably doing nothing.
A few days after Thanksgiving break, I find myself outside the door to his office. I see the light is on underneath the door, and I can hear voices coming from inside. I get a surge of jealousy until I realize both voices are male. I glance around and see the hallway is empty, so I press my ear up against the door.
“I don’t know what I’m doing wrong!” It’s the voice of Victor, my classmate from remedial anatomy. He sounds even more agitated than usual.
“Your score is better than last time,” Matt is saying. “I think you just need to dedicate more time to studying.”
Okay, I get it. I know exactly what happened. Despite the extra tutoring, Victor has failed the second anatomy exam.
“I just can’t do it, Dr. Conlon. I can’t!”
“Let me give you the names of a few upperclassmen that do tutoring,” he says. “I’m sure the extra sessions will get you a passing final grade, Victor. I know you can do it.”
I’m pressing my ear so hard against the door that I nearly topple over when Victor yanks open the door. He flashes me a seething look, which makes me take a step back.
