Love in the Time of Serial Killers(38)

“I hate doctors,” I said. “If I’m like, my sinuses are congested, they’re like, how many calories do you eat a day? If I say I have a UTI, they’re like, you should take the stairs at work instead of the elevator.”

“Gross,” Conner said. “Don’t mention UTIs.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to call Shani? She is studying to be a nurse, after all. She’d come out of professional curiosity if nothing else.”

He sighed, looking down at his wrist. It really didn’t look great. Not grisly or anything, thank god, but it was definitely all puffy and inflamed compared to his other hand.

“I texted her earlier,” he said, “but she’s probably in the movie by now. Shani is strict about no devices in the theater. She takes those please do not disrupt the movie commercials very seriously.”

“A woman of sense and sensibility,” I said. “Where do you land on the skate rink proposal now?”

“Ugh,” he said. “Don’t say land. Honestly, you’re right. That place smelled like feet.”

He looked so dejected, I took pity on him. “It was a nice idea, though. Going back to the scene of your first date. That was really thoughtful.”

“I guess.” He gave me a smirk that immediately made me want to take back any ounce of sympathy. “You want to talk about what you were doing over at Sam’s house?”

It already felt like a lifetime ago that I’d been there, eating pie and rambling on and on about In Cold Blood. A lifetime ago that he’d turned the full attention of those blue eyes on me, that he’d seemed only a second away from reaching out and touching my hair, and then . . .

I didn’t want to talk about what I was doing over at Sam’s house. And more to the point, I definitely didn’t want to talk about what I was not doing over at Sam’s house, which was getting any action at all.

Not that I wanted any action. Gah.

“We’re friends,” I said, more as a douse of cold water on myself than as any response to Conner. But I realized when I said it that it felt true. We were starting to become friends. I felt like Sam was someone I could talk to. Even having him next door made me feel a little less alone. “I’m not comparing him to Most Wanted sketches anymore, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“The start of every beautiful friendship.”

“Shut up,” I said. “You know I have a black, mistrustful pit where my heart is supposed to be.”

“I know that’s what you want people to think,” Conner said.

That threw me. I hadn’t expected him to go that hard. But before I could come up with a pithy comeback, there was a soft rap at the door and then a guy in scrubs entered, holding a thick gray tube with Velcro straps dangling off that must be the splint. It looked like part of Conner’s Rollerblades, to be honest.

The nurse undid one of the Velcro pieces that had reattached itself, stretching the splint a bit to loosen it up. He started talking to Conner, explaining how to wear the splint and what to expect, but I tuned out their conversation.

I’d always been protective of my heart. Even as a kid, it had been important to me that people not know too much about the way I really felt. In eighth grade, a (very true) rumor had started going around that I had a crush on this boy who styled his hair like Gerard Way in the “Helena” video. Mortified, I’d denied it to anyone who would listen, until Mini Gerard himself came up to me one day in the cafeteria.

“I like you, too,” he said.

My teen self short-circuited. I couldn’t handle it; it was too much. What was I supposed to do with that information? Hold hands? Make out? I’d heard the phrase but barely knew what it meant.

“Cool,” I said. “But for me it’s like, more as a friend.”

And then I’d dumped my lunch in the trash, tray and all, and walked away. I still felt terrible about that whole interaction. He didn’t deserve the rejection when he’d been brave enough himself to say something, especially after he easily could’ve joined everyone else in making fun of me. Also, the tray was made from heavy plastic. You weren’t supposed to throw them away.

“Phoebe!” Conner said now, ripping me out of my middle school reveries. The splint was on his arm now, and the nurse had already left. “Have you spotted the sailboat yet in that picture, or can we get out of here?”

Conner insisted he was fine to drive, and I wished I’d been paying attention a little more so I could remember if the doctor or nurse had explicitly forbidden him from doing that. Either way, I told him he wasn’t going to be operating a motor vehicle on my watch.

It turned out that Shani’s movie got out a little after we left the clinic. By the time we got to Conner’s apartment, she was there, immediately falling on him with hugs and comfort and precise questions about what had happened and what the doctor said. Conner visibly perked up from the attention but answered her questions with varying versions of I don’t know or I think so? Finally, he brandished the X-rays, but that was more because he wanted to know if she thought they’d clash with the shower curtain if they hung them in the bathroom than because he was looking for any medical feedback.

“What were you doing at the skating rink, anyway?” Shani said. “You haven’t been there since . . .”