Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 82883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
She clears her throat, voice barely above a whisper. “I remember too.”
The silence between us is electric, the library heavy with old dust and the scent of impending rain. I watch as Mary Kate traces another line on the map, her hand trembling ever so slightly.
In that moment, I know: I’m never going to let her go.
The first thing she does is set the guidebook aside, closing it with a thumb pressed between the pages, as if to hold her place in that other, safer world. She folds her hands together, the knuckles blanching white, and looks at me with an intensity that reminds me how little separates her from the teenaged girl I first met years ago. Then, she says:
“Mom left already.”
It lands with a soft thud, like a pebble dropped into the thickest part of memory. I keep my face still—an old surgeon’s trick, the art of looking unflappable even as the world unspools around you. “I know,” I say. “Jeannine told me she’d be taking the job as soon as the contract came through.”
Mary Kate’s mouth makes a perfect “O,” then collapses into a half-smile. “I thought she’d at least give it some time. I didn’t think she’d be on a plane so fast.”
I shrug, keeping it professional. “She said you two talked already?”
The beautiful blonde nods, gaze drifting to the shelves behind my head. “Yeah. Jeannine sounded… excited? I don’t know. She said you were only slightly ill, and that I should just keep you company.” The words are laced with uncertainty, as if she can’t believe this is happening either.
I walk to the window, hands clasped behind my back, and let the silence grow. It’s not awkward; if anything, it feels appropriate. The city outside is blue and smudged, the sky just beginning to surrender to night.
Behind me, Mary Kate clears her throat. “Are you really okay, Kent? Jeannine asked me to move back because of your, ah, medical problem. So it can’t be nothing.”
I turn, slow and deliberate, and this time I let myself look at her fully. She’s bracing for bad news—maybe cancer, maybe worse. But I don’t want to play that game. I sit on the edge of the window seat, just across from her, so close I can see the faint sheen of lip gloss on her mouth.
“My health,” I say, and pause, because it’s a difficult thing to make sound casual. “I do have a condition. It’s painful, at times. But it’s not fatal. And it’s not contagious.”
She waits, patient as a priest. I almost laugh. “It’s called testicular lithiasis,” I say, and the clinical name sounds ridiculous, obscene, spoken aloud in the safe cocoon of the library.
Mary Kate blinks, then tilts her head. “I’m sorry?”
“They’re basically calcium deposits that form in the testicles. Kind of like kidney stones, except these are in the testicles, as opposed to the kidney. But like the aforementioned kidney stones, they can be unpleasant and even painful.” I hear myself fall into the old doctor’s cadence, measured and slow, the voice that makes patients believe even the worst news can be managed if you just keep your hands steady.
She bites her lip, and for a second she’s a child again, scared of blood or bruises. Then she rallies: “So what do you do? Surgery?”
I shake my head. “No. There’s a treatment, but it’s conservative.” I watch her face as I say it, searching for any hint of disgust, any spark of fear or curiosity. “It involves massage. Deep manual manipulation. To break up the deposits and restore blood flow.”
Mary Kate goes very still. Her eyes widen, and her cheeks flush, but she doesn’t look away. “Massage,” she echoes, voice barely audible.
“It’s more complicated than it sounds,” I say, and for a moment I want to explain the biology, the cell structure, the slow agony of pressure building in such a small, sensitive space. But all I say is: “It’s tricky. If it’s not done right, or if it’s not done regularly, there’s a risk of permanent damage.”
She swallows, her throat working. “Who does it?”
I exhale. The answer is obvious, but it still feels filthy to say it. “Normally, a partner. Or, failing that, someone trusted. I’d been hoping Jeannine would help because I only developed these stones recently. But she was uncomfortable and disgusted, to be honest. And now she’s gone.”
We let that hang in the air, thick and sour. Mary Kate fidgets with the cuff of her sweatshirt, twisting the fabric between her fingers.
“So that’s why I’m here,” she says, not quite a question.
I don’t answer. Instead, I let the silence answer for me. Her eyes flick up, meet mine, and the blue is so innocent it hurts to look at. She speaks again, this time softer: “You want me to help give you the massage?”