Origami Heart (Book 3 - DP series - COMPLETE)

7. Cheater

Photo Above: Abby (Lindsey's coworker)

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It's Thursday. Dreaded Thursday. Usually I'd be celebrating that I'd made it past hump day and closer to the weekend. Instead, I find myself moving slower as I ready for work and even slower as I bring my spoon to my lips, my cereal growing soggy as each Fruit Loop waits patiently for me to devour it. Haley finished her breakfast ten minutes ago, but I've barely noticed, eyes too glazed and mind too muffled. It's like a spider has built the world's thickest cobweb in my brain and I just need to take a broom to it. Unfortunately, I can't even see to find the broom.

I'm half expecting to find another note pinned beneath my wiper when I get to my car, but it's empty of any confessions of love. Strapping Haley into her car seat I decide that it's probably because Mike knows he'll be seeing me today and it'd be awkward to give me a note just before his appointment.

That's why I'm feeling like a bee stuck in molasses. I haven't seen Mike since our kiss almost a week ago and it's gonna be beyond uncomfortable. I'm expecting one of two things. One: he'll announce he's got feelings for me but that he's just not in a good place for a relationship, or two: he was too drunk to even remember we'd shared a moment. The prospect of there being a third option doesn't even cross my mind until it happens.

Twenty minutes later, I'm just getting my computer kicked on when Mike strolls in. He's composed as ever. His clothes clean cut and crisp, his face cleanly shaven and posture rigid from years of training. Even now, it's a complete one-eighty from the man I remember and it still throws me off. But, I can't deny the fact that I'm still equally enthralled by him.

"Morning," he greets, coming to take a stand at the counter.

"Morning," I respond, feeling as though my computer is smirking at me as it takes twice as long to boot up.

Mike folds his hands together, leaning his forearms on the counter as he gazes over the top of my head. He can't even bring himself to look at me. There's an added stiffness in his demeanor this morning that suggests he might be feeling the awkwardness just as much as I am. If that's the case, then I guess he wasn't quite drunk enough to forget what happened.

How unfortunate for me.

My nerves are fried by the time my computer flashes it's 'Welcome' sign and by now I have no patience to wait for the software to boot up while Mike watches me. So instead, I ask if he's had any changes to his basic information—address, telephone number, insurance, meds—and then have him take a seat.

That was it?

I'd expected some kind of uncomfortable small talk, or maybe a verbal apology for all the emotional confusion. Instead, he just nods, shoots me one last curious glance and then takes a seat in the lobby. My scar must have seriously freaked him out if this is his reaction to it. It's been six days and the look that I saw in his eyes the first time his fingers had slithered over the smooth blemish is still hidden in the depths of his blue gaze.

He finally gets called back and as he leaves my sight, I let out a breath. Just having him in the same room as me is suffocating. There's so much tension hanging off him that even I can feel it and it's an exhausting sensation to try and ignore.

I busy myself with charts and checking in patients until I know he'll be leaving. Then I ask one of the other girls to cover for me so I can use the bathroom. It's childish—I know—but I just can't deal with him. He's never what I'd describe as cold. He's always pleasant, but it's almost a formal pleasantry. Like we're strangers and he's simply biding his time with me until he can escape. Which is odd considering the way he kissed me last week. That was not a kiss between two strangers. That was the most familiar and comfortable place I've been with him since he arrived: in his arms.