The Junior (College Years 3)

“No, that’s usually not the case.” She studies the screen, her eyes narrowing as she concentrates. “This fibroid isn’t too large. I’m just surprised it’s causing you pain. You do have a few options in regards to treatment, which I will be glad to go over with you.”

I listen as she discusses a few options. I could have an ablation, which I’ve heard of, but then I probably couldn’t get pregnant afterwards.

Like…ever.

Possibly surgery, which sounds scary, but that’s only in extreme situations. She describes a focused ultrasound where they send waves into my uterus that helps break up the fibroids, which sounds like the safest procedure for me.

“I recommend you make an appointment with your gynecologist and have another ultrasound. I’m sure you and your doctor can come up with a proper treatment plan.” She smiles and pulls the freaking wand out of my vagina.

We chat a little more about my options, and what I should do to help ease the pain. Ibuprofen and rest is her recommendation. I should take tomorrow—well, actually today—off of work. Maybe the next day too.

By the time we’re finished and I’ve been released, I’m a sleepy, confused mess. I stagger into Caleb’s arms, who makes me wait on a bench in front of the emergency room entrance so he can go get his car and pull right up to the curb. I let him steer me into the car. I even let him put my seatbelt on me so I don’t have to lift a finger. He’s so attentive, all I can do is watch him fuss over me, murmuring a thank you before he shuts the car door.

“The doctor said I shouldn’t go to work. She even wrote me a note.” I hold it up to show him.

He sends a quick stern look in my direction. “You shouldn’t go to work then.”

“I need the money though. My time is winding down. I’ve saved up a lot of my earnings this summer, but I don’t know if it’ll be enough. I was thinking of asking Michelle if I could work weekends at the fountain until the season ends,” I say, nibbling on my lower lip. It’ll be exhausting, working two jobs, seven days a week, but do I really have a choice?

I don’t think so.

“You won’t be able to come to my games,” he says, sounding dejected.

“Do you really want me there? Would you even notice? Don’t you have enough fangirls supporting you in Bulldog stadium?” I rest my head against the seat and close my eyes, grateful that he’s driving a lot slower than before.

“Damn, you know how to wound a man with just a few choice words.”

I pop my eyes open to watch him rubbing at his chest, as if I actually hurt his heart.

“I’m sorry. It’s been a long night,” I murmur. “I’m tired. Grumpy.”

I don’t want to hurt him when he’s been so thoughtful and caring. Showing me a completely different side of him. He was so quick to come

to my aid, stepping in as if he knew I needed him, which I did.

He proved to me I can depend on him. I can trust he’ll be there when I need him.

No one’s ever really done that for me before.

“Are you still in pain?” he asks.

“Not really.”

“I’ll run you a hot bath when we get home,” he suggests.

I turn to look at him. “You’d do that for me?”

“My mom always liked soaking in her tub after a long, tiring day. It’ll relax you.” He shrugs, seemingly uncomfortable.

Maybe he’s not used to tender gestures toward the opposite sex. I know I’m surprised by it. “I’d like that.”

“Then I’ll do it for you,” he says, shifting in his seat.

“That’s very—sweet of you.” I pause. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

We’re quiet for only a moment before I say, “We’re not very good at this, are we?”