Nothing Feels Better (Better Love 3)

“Right,” I say sheepishly. “Sorry, Dr. Rana. I got excited. This is my friend, Captain Meatball. Captain Meatball, this is Dr. Rana.”

“Captain Meatball?” She glances down at her tablet. “I must be in the wrong room, then. The little boy I’m looking for is named Jude Thompson.”

“That’s me,” the kid says with the most adorable fucking lisp. Jude. I like Meatball better, but Jude is good too.

“Ah, well, nice to meet you.” Dr. Rana gives him a warm smile. “I’m going to call you Jude for now. Is that okay?” Jude nods once. “Good. Now, it says your father brought you in. Where is he?”

“Smoking,” a small voice answers, and Dr. Rana and I turn toward the chair in the corner. On it sits a young girl, maybe seven or eight, with big eyes, long dark hair, and cheeks full of freckles. She’s got her knees pulled up to her chest, her arms wrapped around her legs, and her chin resting on top. It’s like she’s trying to shrink herself down, to become as small and unnoticeable as possible. It almost worked. I had no idea she was even in the room until she spoke. I wonder if Dr. Rana knew she was here. “Dad went outside to smoke a cigarette and call Mom,” the girl clarifies.

Mom. That’s right. The Hot Mom. I glance at the door.

“I see.” Dr. Rana sends one of her smiles toward the girl, and I watch as the girl’s muscles grow less rigid. And that’s on bedside manner. I need to take notes. Would it be weird to ask Dr. Rana to record a short clip of her smiling? I should practice in the mirror. “Well, my name is Dr. Rana, and this is Mr. Hernandez. He’s helping me out today. Are you Jude’s sister?”

“That’s my sister, Doonie,” Jude chimes in from the bed, and the girl’s face flames red as she narrows her eyes at him.

“It’s June,” she stresses, then averts her eyes to the floor. June and Jude. Well, that’s just adorable.

“It’s nice to meet you, June,” I say, and she forces a grimace-like smile, but doesn’t look back up. Dr. Rana turns back toward the bed and asks the kid how he’s feeling, just as a guy—the dad?—walks back into the room, reeking of Swisher Sweets and coffee. He’s wearing jeans and a Colts sweatshirt, and his hair is buzzed short. He’s broad shouldered, and even with the sweatshirt, I can tell he’s built. But I’m taller than him, and that makes me smile.

“Ah, y’all are here,” he says when he sees us, flashing a smile. I can tell it’s fake. “I had to step out.”

“Sorry for your wait,” Dr. Rana says, as diplomatic as ever. “My name is Dr. Parisa Rana and this is Jesse Hernandez. He’s shadowing me today. Is it alright if he’s present during our examination?”

“That’s fine,” the guy says with a nod of his head. “I’m Patrick Thompson. Jude’s dad.” He’s all smiles and respect, but I don’t miss the way he doesn’t mention or even look in the direction of the girl, or the way he speaks more to me than he does Dr. Rana.

“Is Mom comin’?” June asks from her chair in the corner, and her dad flicks his eyes toward her dismissively.

“She’ll be here soon.”

“Alright, well, how about you tell me what happened? I hear you had a pretty bad fall,” Dr. Rana says to Jude, redirecting the conversation. The kid nods.

“I climbed.” He says the l like a w.

“Are you supposed to climb?” the dad interjects sternly.

“No,” Jude whispers, then looks up at me through his lashes. I have to hold back a laugh. He reminds me of a little puppy who just pissed on your rug and is trying to use its cuteness to get out of trouble. I don’t know if it’s working on the dad, but it’s definitely working on me. I wanna scratch his head and give him some treats.

Dr. Rana goes on to ask Jude about the fall and how much it hurts, then she does a physical examination of his arm, prodding it and moving it gently. She tells him she’s ordering some x-rays, then addresses the room.

“Mr. Hernandez is going to take Jude down for x-rays and will bring him back when they’re finished,” she tells the dad and June. “You are welcome to wait in here.”

“My wife is on the way,” the dad says. “Will she be able to come back here?”

“I’ll tell the front desk. They’ll bring her back when she arrives.”

“You ready, Captain?” I ask Jude after he’s seated in the wheelchair a nurse brought. His entire body fits on the seat, just his little feet hanging off, and he wiggles his toes. He nods and cradles his arm to his chest. I roll him out of the room and head toward x-ray.

“It hurts,” he whispers, and I hear him sniffle. Ugh, my heart aches for this kid.

“I know, buddy. But we’re gonna get you an x-ray and then we’ll have you all fixed up in no time.” I keep my voice soft but try to infuse it with encouragement. “Just hang in there, okay? You’re doing so good.”

“What are they gonna do?” he asks. His voice is small, but I don’t hear fear. Just curiosity.

“They’re gonna set you up next to a big machine and take pictures of your arm, so Dr. Rana can see if you need a cast or not.”

He wiggles his toes some more. “How will she know?”

“The picture is going to show her. It’s gonna be a picture of your skeleton.” I add quickly, “your bones.”

“How’s it gonna show my bones?”

“Well, it’s really cool, actually,” I tell him. “The machine emits a fractional amount of ionizing radiation that passes through your skin and tissues and is captured on another device to produce a two-dimensional image of the internal structure of your body.”

“Oh.” Jude goes quiet for a second, tiny feet wiggling in Spider-Man socks, then asks, “Like magic?”

I chuckle. “It’s better. It’s science.”

He tilts his head up and looks at me with a smile, giant eyes all lit up and glowing. I mentally fist bump myself. Nice job, Hernandez.

“Does it hurt?” he asks as I wheel him to the x-ray room.

“Nah,” I tell him honestly. “Not any more than it did when you fell.” His eyes get even bigger, his face falls, and his little chin bobs. Shit. “Nah, Captain,” I scramble to fix it, “you’ll be alright, and it will be over quickly. Just be brave.”

He clamps his mouth shut and jerks his chin. “Kay.”

The x-ray tech takes over, and I move behind the barrier window to observe. Jude takes it all like a champ.

“I was brave,” he beams when I step back into the room. His r sounds like a w too. Bwave. Fuckin’ adorable.

“Dude, you were so brave. You did better than some adults, you know?”

“I did?” His little feet wiggle once he’s situated back on the wheelchair. “I didn’t cry even once. Only a little bit. But I stopped fast.”

Own-wy. Wittle. I just want to ruffle his hair or pinch his cheeks or something.

“Wow,” I say with surprise. “I would have cried. I had a pretty nasty fall when I was younger, and I cried a lot.”

“Really?” Jude gasps, then adds incredulously, “boys don’t cry. It’s not brave.”

“Sure they do,” I say honestly. “I cry. My dad cries. My best friend cries. I’ve even seen my papa cry, and he’s the bravest man I know. He used to fly the helicopters that put out wildfires. Boys can cry too.”

As I round the corner with Jude, I see Stefan and nod my head. He’s got an armful of something, but he nods back before walking into one of the treatment rooms. Nurses work their asses off, and I’ve got mad respect for them. My dad is a nurse anesthetist—that’s how he met my mom—and I’ve heard some crazy-ass stories about his experiences climbing the ranks. He started as a certified nursing assistant and worked his way through school to be an RN, then just kept going from there. Nurses are beasts.