Suicide Med (17 page)

“Look to your left, look to your right. In four years, both of these people will be doctors.”

Following the instructions of the dean of the medical school, I look to my left, coming face to face with a maroon-painted wall.
I blink a few times, then turn to my right, where there is an empty seat. And next to that empty seat is my roommate Mason, who looks like he has completely lost respect for me now that I’m playing along with the dean.

I don’t entirely blame him.

I sigh and am about to turn my attention back to the dean, when something catches my eye. Or should I say, someone. Her.

The girl I’m going to marry.

You’re probably rolling your eyes right now and I don’t blame you. I feel sort of like a tool saying it. My friends from college would kick my ass. But I can’t help myself—I’m freaking in love. This girl, this crazy beautiful girl, is my exact type. I didn’t even know I
had
a type until I saw her. I’m not what you’d call a ladies’ man. But at the moment I saw her, I could practically hear harps playing in the background. I knew I’d be willing to do anything for that girl.

Most of the rest of the morning, I can’t quit staring at her.
I try not to be too obvious about it, but sheesh, I’ve really got it bad.

And then at lunch, I manage to step on her toes with my big clumsy foot.
And I find out her name is Heather. And she has a boyfriend.

But who knows?
Maybe I’ll get lucky.

Stranger things have happened.

_____

I’ve never had a girlfriend before. For obvious reasons. If any girl found out about my… well, you know… it’s just not something I’ve ever wanted to risk. There hasn’t been a girl I’ve met before that I thought would be worth it. I was lonely, yes—but not lonely enough.

Heather is worth the risk though.
For sure.

Not that I have any chance with her.
She is
way
out of my league. Sometimes I think I’m completely kidding myself by holding out even the tiniest hope I’ll end up with her.

I assume she doesn’t do it intentionally to seduce me, but Heather is pretty touchy feely.
She’s always poking me in the arm or playing footsie with me under the table. I know she means it to be innocent and doesn’t have any clue how much it simultaneously excites and tortures me. She’d probably be horrified if she had any idea.

As we’re studying the female pelvis side by side in the library, Heather does that adorable thing she always does when she doesn’t understand something, which is to crinkle up her nose.
She leans forward over our anatomy atlas and I get a whiff of her shampoo. Peaches, like usual. I’m starting to really love the smell of peaches. I bought a bunch of them for our refrigerator, just so I can smell them.

Is that weird?
Yeah, probably.

“Why is the female pelvis so confusing?” Heather moans.

She flips the anatomy atlas upside-down, as if that might clarify things.

“I know, it’s really confusing,” I agree.
Although truthfully, I’m not
that
confused. But it seems to comfort Heather when I agree with her about the difficulty of the material.

She yawns.
“Oh God, I am
so
tired right now.”

I expect her to reach for her coffee and take another sip
(she’s an addict like I am), but instead she does something totally unexpected. She drops her head onto my shoulder and shuts her eyes.

I freeze up, scared to move because I don’t want her to pull away and I
really
don’t want her to realize how much this is turning me on. I feel like she’s got to hear my heart pounding in my chest. I feel like the people at the next table can probably hear it.

Then Heather lifts her head up and yawns again.
“Maybe I need to take a break. I’m going to walk around a little.”

“Sure,” I reply, too quickly.
“Do you want to grab some more coffee?”

She shakes her head.

“Actually,” she says.
“I was thinking I’d give Seth a call. Is that okay?”

Seth.
That asshole boyfriend of hers. I hate that guy.

“Go for it,” I say, forcing a smile.
“Tell Seth hi,” I add, then I hate myself.

My hands clench into fists as I watch Heather fiddling with her phone as she leaves the library.
This is really frustrating. Sometimes I’m not sure how much more pining over Heather I can take. But then again, I don’t think I could ever give her up, even as a friend.

“Quit staring at Heather, you pervert.”

The voice above my head nearly makes me jump out of my skin until I see Mason slide into the seat next to mine, a knowing grin spreading across his face. Mason can be annoying, but it’s hard not to like the guy. He’s entertaining and he’s incredibly funny, especially if you’re not someone who’s easily offended. Before classes revved up, we shot pool together a few times at a local bar and had a great time, but now Mason is too focused on studying to socialize. I’ve got to admire all the hours he puts into his schoolwork—I work hard but Mason really goes all out.

“Hey, Hulk,” Mason says, that grin still plastered on his face.
He’s been calling me Hulk, after the Incredible Hulk from the comic books. I admit it’s not an entirely unfair comparison. “So what’s going on with you two?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lie.

“Bullshit,” Mason says.

I shrug innocently.

“Yeah, okay,” Mason says, still smirking. “I can see why you don’t like her. I mean, she’s only a five. Maybe a six, at best.”

Asshole.
Heather is a ten. She’s an eleven.

“Just ‘fess up,” Mason says.
“Maybe I can help you.”

I look at Mason with some interest.
I’ve noticed the way the pretty girls in our class drool over him. Maybe he actually could give me some decent advice. God knows, I have no clue what I’m doing.

“Okay, fine,” I say.
“I’m interested in her.”

“No kidding,” Mason says, rolling his eyes.

I fold my arms across my chest. “So what do I do? How do I get her?”

“First off,” Mason says.
“You need to grow a pair, Abe. Seriously, man. Have some confidence—Heather isn’t that great. She’s just Heather. She’s not out of your league or anything.”

That’s debatable.
Also, Mason isn’t aware of my whole… situation.

“What about the boyfriend though?” I say.

Mason laughs. “Boyfriend? Come on—that won’t last. Give it two more weeks.”

And as it turns out, he’s absolutely right.

_____

Two weeks later, on the dot, Heather knocks on the door to my dorm apartment. I hadn’t been expecting her, and strangely enough, when she sees me, her face falls.

“Oh,” she says.
“Is, um, Mason here?”

Why is she looking for Mason?
She hardly talks to him, even in lab. She seems to almost hate him, based on the comments she’s made.

“No,” I say.
“He’s probably at the library.”

“Oh,” she says again.
And then her face crumples.

“Heather…” I follow her to our futon, where she collapses into deep, wracking s
obs. She buries her face in her small hands and I rub her shoulders to comfort her. Comforting Heather is definitely not a chore. I feel sleazy though about using the fact that she’s sad as an excuse to touch her. Then I feel like a tool for feeling sleazy.

“Seth broke up with me,” she blurts out between tears.

Seth broke up with her? The asshole boyfriend is out of the picture? Holy shit, that’s the best news I’ve heard all year. Except…

Why the hell did she come here looking for
Mason
?

Of course, the answer is painfully obvious.
She was hurt that her boyfriend dumped her and she was looking for a little rebound hook up. And the first person she thought of was Mason.
Mason
. Not me. I’m probably not even on her short list.

Shit, if Mason were here right now, they’d probably be in our bedroom hooking up right now.
Well, maybe not. Mason wouldn’t do that to me. But just the fact that it was even a remote possibility makes me sick to my stomach.

Mason’s the biggest asshole in the class and Heather wanted to hook up with him.
There’s probably a lesson in that. If I want Heather, I should be a jerk to her. Being a nice guy is getting me nowhere.

But the truth is
, I don’t have it in me to be mean to Heather.

Still, Mason’s right about one thing.
It’s time to grow a pair. So I lean forward and before I have a chance to chicken out or overthink things, I kiss her.

“Abe?” she gasps for a second before she melts against me.

And Christ, her lips are so soft. Her lips and her skin are the softest things I’ve ever touched in my entire life. How can I be expected to think straight when she’s so goddamn soft? And… here’s the crazy part… she doesn’t slap me. She doesn’t pull away either. Against all odds, she’s kissing me back. She’s surprised, but it turns out she wants me too. Not as much as I want her, but that’s pretty much impossible.

Just like that, she’s mine.
It’s everything I ever wanted.

And I’m not going to let anything screw that up.

Dr. Martin Adamsky is one of the most talented plastic surgeons in the area, so it takes me a few weeks to get in for an appointment. I want to get this taken care of as soon as possible, but at the same time, I don’t want it mucked up.

Dr.
Adamsky’s waiting room looks like a spa. The chairs are plush and leather, and there are fancy cookies on the coffee table in the middle of the room. I look around at the other patients and try to guess what each one is here for. It’s harder than you’d think. I look at one girl, who is tall and thin with sleek dark hair, big boobs, and tanned skin, and I can’t even begin to imagine what she could hope to improve with plastic surgery.  Maybe she’s post-op.

After close to an hour, I’m ushered into the examining room, which ends up being just another smaller waiting room.
I change into the flimsy gown that the nurse gave me. The room is cool, but I almost never feel cold. I’ve got a lot of extra padding on me. Heather sometimes says that hugging me is like putting on a really cozy, warm coat.

I’ve probably been waiting close to
two hours total when Dr. Martin Adamsky enters the room. He’s a slim, tall man with an arrogant air about him. Adamsky’s white coat seems to glow in the fluorescent light of the examining room and he yanks my chart off the front of the door.

“Abraham Kaufman?” he asks.

I nod.

Without looking at the chart, Dr.
Adamsky grins at me.

“Let me guess,” he says.
“Liposuction?”

I hate this guy already.
If he weren’t so good and I wasn’t so desperate, I’d be out of here in a second.

“No,” is what I finally say.

Adamsky decides to actually look at my chart rather than just insulting me. I watch his face, his jaw falling open.

“You’re serious about this?” he says.

I nod again.

“I have to admit, this is a new one for me,”
Adamsky says. “I’ve never even heard of anything like this before.”

I’m not exactly surprised, but it’s not the sort of statement that instills me with confidence.

“Well, let’s have a look,”
Adamsky says.

I take a deep breath.
I turn so that my backside is facing the doctor and open up the back of my gown. I wait for Adamsky’s response, which is, unfortunately, exactly what I had expected:

“Whoa.
Look at that.”

“Yeah.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah, I know.”
Okay, enough.

“Can you… control it?”

I shake my head. “No, I can’t.”

“So it just moves on its own.”

“Pretty much.”

“Jesus.”

I crane my neck to look back at the doctor, who is scratching his chin.

“So can you remove it?”
I ask.

Adamsky
shakes his head, “I don’t know. Have you ever considered going to an ophthalmologist?”

I’ve been tolerating
Adamsky so far, but that statement just floors me. I yank my gown closed in the back.

“Is that supposed to be some kind of a
joke
? What’s an ophthalmologist supposed to do?”

“Look,”
Adamsky says, folding his arms across his chest. “I remove wrinkles around the eyes. I don’t remove eyes.”

“It’s not an eye,” I say, “it’s a… a deformity.
A mutation. It’s a…”

“It’s an eye,”
Adamsky says. “Let’s not kid ourselves here. If you want it removed, we have to at least know what we’re dealing with.”

“Okay, fine,” I agree grudgingly.
“It’s an eye. Now take it off me.”

“Not so fast…” the doctor holds up his hand.
“I know you say you can’t control it, but
something
is making that eye move and I’d like to know what it is. If I’m going to do a surgery on you, I don’t want there to be any surprises.”

I’d do the surgery that afternoon if there were an open slot, but I can see that
Adamsky is set in his decision.

“What do you have in mind?”
I ask.

“For starters, I’d like to do a CT scan of the area,”
Adamsky says. “Find out if there’s anything else down there.”

What is he expecting?
A nose and a mouth?

“Okay,” I agree.

“And one other thing,” Adamsky says, “there are some patients who I strongly recommend see a psychologist before undergoing any kind of surgery. In your case, I don’t think I’d feel comfortable performing the surgery without you attending a few sessions.”

Christ, I don’t want to see a shrink.
I don’t think I need a psychologist just because I want the eye removed. I’d need a shrink if I
didn’t
want it removed.

“There’s a
counselor at my school,” I say, thinking of Patrice. “I can probably talk to her.”

“Good,”
Adamsky says. “Try to make an appointment as soon as possible.”

“Okay,” I mumble.

Adamsky shakes his head.

“Jesus,” he says, one last time for good measure.