Doctor-Patient Confidentiality: New Adult Enemies-to-Lovers Romance

Chapter Sixty-Nine

🌻Hey, gorgeous! You can read this episode and much more of DOCTOR-PATIENT CONFIDENTIALITY and other sizzling web series from Emended Hearts at www.EmendedHearts.com or click the external link at the bottom of the page.🌻

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[*A super random note from Eme (that may or may not be helpful to you...Okay, let's be honest here, chances are it won't be, but what the heck. I can't help myself so I'm going to say it anyway):

Apologies for the interruption, but please note that, despite its number, there will be absolutely no 69ing whatsoever in this chapter, or any reference to it...except for the one I'm making here, of course (^_^). Lol. So, um...yeah. You can go ahead and get your mind out of the gutter now :). That is all. Okay, carry on!]

Four days later...

The auditorium is at full capacity for the first time in over two months; every seat occupied by a body that's either hunched over and furiously taking notes, rapidly typing away at a keyboard, whispering something to their neighbor, or busy checking Twitter or Instagram on their phone. I'm seated in one of the rows further back as usual, amidst a sea of other music majors and minors, some of which I haven't seen since the beginning of the semester. We only have a few weeks left until finals, and quite a few people are finally playing catch up with school work; trying to make up for skipped lectures, missed assignments, backlogged studying, and any other academic slacking that's ensued over the course of the semester.

Mr. Petrov, our head music composition instructor, has been droning on about the rise and evolution of musical romanticism in the nineteenth century for the last hour and ten minutes. As usual, his loud and raspy voice booms throughout the vast room, spearing through the collective background noises of pen stroking paper and finger pads on keys, his heavily accented words echoing those on his signature long and tedious Power Point slides. But today, for the first time ever, I can barely hear him. Everything that comes out of his mouth goes through one ear and straight out of the other, my brain unable to really focus on or retain a single thing he says.

I look blankly into my notebook, the page as blank as my stare. For the first time in my life, I feel none of the urgency that seems to be consuming everyone else; not a single bit of the typical exam-related stress or anxiety that comes with a quickly ending school semester. The pen between my fingers is motionless and feels unusually heavy. I can't even bring myself to write a single word down, but I keep my focus on the empty white lines. I continue to do this even after I hear the bell go off, and even when the signature rowdiness of class being over ensues. I vaguely register the collective sounds of shuffling bodies, textbooks slamming shut, and rustling backpacks competing with Mr. Petrov's closing words, telling us to create two original mock scores each and something else before next week's class—followed by a series of annoyed grunts and grumbles, plus a few muttered curses.

I carefully place my notebook in my bag, making sure not to look inside it as I do. I eventually rise from my seat slowly, feeling impossibly hollow, like the slightest breeze could knock me down the steps and break every bone in my body.

I make my way out of the auditorium like a zombie, my mind spacey and my body on autopilot, simply oblivious to and unaware of what is or might be happening around me. Someone bumps into me from behind, but I don't even so much as flinch, as if I can't feel a thing. It's like my reflexes are completely dead, but the truth is that I just can't be bothered to care. I can't be bothered to stop and acknowledge the half-assed, generic "Sorry" that follows, either. My legs just keep moving like clockwork, taking me further and further away from the busy hallway one mechanical, unhurried step at a time. But in spite of my spaciness, my brain, much like the auditorium was, is at full capacity. But unlike the auditorium that was filled with many different things, my brain is preoccupied with only one; the folder in my bag.

Frost gave it to me yesterday after my endoscopy—right after telling me something I was not in the least bit prepared to hear.

For the billionth time in less than twenty-four hours, my brain reluctantly recounts the events of yesterday, even though I silently beg it not to. I plead with it to allow just a single minute without being consumed by the memory, but it won't listen.

I'd gone in for the endoscopy, arriving an hour early at Frost's insistence. The procedure itself wasn't that memorable. It was pretty cut and dry, actually, at least from what I can remember. One minute I was awake, and the next, I wasn't. And then I was awake again an hour later. I really wish I could say that the aftermath was just as unmemorable...but that would be a big fat lie.

Suddenly, I feel someone grab at my shoulder from behind. At first, I think it's just another accidental bump from someone rushing to go somewhere, but then I hear my name.

"Ramona! Hey, wait up!"

I wince internally at hearing my name being yelled so loudly. I reluctantly turn, knowing that that hand—and voice—belong to Trixie.

***

Hey, again! We'll post one chapter every Friday, but there are currently over 140 chapters in Season One, so this may take a while. If you just can't wait, you can read this episode and much more of DOCTOR-PATIENT CONFIDENTIALITY and other sizzling web series at www.EmendedHearts.com or click the external link below.

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Eme and the hearts at EmendedHearts