“What does that have to do with you?”
“Nothing. I . . . I thought maybe it’d be something you’d want to be involved with. Some original artwork for the lobby or something?”
Harlin looks me over like he’s trying to decide if I’m telling the truth. “You don’t mention anything to me? You just sneak out?”
“That was stupid. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry,” he repeats calmly. “I spent the night looking for you, completely freaking out. But you’re sorry. That’s nice, Charlotte.” He goes back to eating his pizza, no longer looking at me.
I’m so tired that I feel like I could just confess everything to him. The nights I’ve been out. The things I’ve seen. The people I’ve saved.
Harlin’s face is hard, but then he looks me over and his eyes weaken. It’s like he just remembered I’m injured.
“Damn,” he says. “I’m an ass.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I am. I’m sorry.”
I know that I’m the one who should be apologizing, but I take a bite of pizza instead. I just want to forget about today.
“How’s your head?” Harlin asks, the softness of his voice making me melt a little.
“Hurty.”
“And your legs?”
I smile. “Bruisy.”
Harlin’s foot touches mine, and heat shoots up my leg. I’d forgotten what we were doing just before I’d left his apartment. I bite my bottom lip and narrow my eyes. I want him. He reacts, taking in a breath, and then blows it out with frustration.
“Completely crazy,” he says with a laugh. “And we’re not . . .” He motions to my body, then groans longingly. “Not when you have stitches in your head.”
“I’ll have them for, like, two weeks.”
He freezes, looks around the pizza place and then back to me. “Two weeks?”
“Uh-huh.”
“All right, Charlotte,” he orders, nodding toward my food. “Hurry up with that pizza. I’m not going home until I finish kissing you.”
“You sure?” Harlin asks, his mouth against mine as we stand in front of my building. “I could come in for a few minutes.”
I kiss him back, my hands tangled under his coat in his T-shirt. His fingers find the bare skin just above my jeans and dig in, pulling me close. I sigh. “Can’t tonight.”
“No fun,” he murmurs, not letting me go. “What if we fall asleep and Mercy comes home or something? She’d kill you. Like stab-your-balls dead.”
He pulls his head back. “Mood killer, Charlotte.”
I smile and peck his lips again before dropping my arms and motioning toward my apartment. “I should go in,” I say. The night around us is dark and starless and Harlin is the only beautiful thing in sight.
“Tomorrow’s going to suck for you,” he says, glancing at my thighs as he backs toward the curb. “Call me when you get up. Maybe if you’re a good girl I’ll take you to VooDoo Donuts for a bacon maple bar.”
I laugh. “You know me so well.”
He winks and climbs on his bike. I stand, watching him leave, and I miss him the minute he’s gone. I have reasons other than Mercy to not let Harlin upstairs, the main one being my golden skin. I have to find a way to fix it. I have to—
“Charlotte?”
I jump at the sound of the voice and turn quickly. Monroe walks up from the sidewalk, his car parked down a few buildings. He’s still in his loafers and work clothes, so I wonder how long he’s been waiting here. The clinic closed nearly two hours ago.
“You scared the crap out of me,” I gasp. “Maybe you could have called first?”
“You didn’t answer your phone.”
I go to check my pocket and remember that I’d left my coat, with the phone in its pocket, at Harlin’s.
“Can we talk inside?” Monroe asks, stepping closer. His blue eyes are serious and I’m suddenly frightened about what he’s here to say.
But Monroe didn’t run off when he saw my skin at the clinic. He’s a doctor. And unless I want to become Oregon’s newest science experiment, it seems that Monroe might be the only person who can help me.
I look him over, fear and anticipation prickling my skin, and then I take out my key and lead us inside.
Sitting uncomfortably on the wooden stool at the kitchen counter, I face the living room as Monroe searches through his coat pockets, looking for something. No one else is home. Mercy’s working, Alex is with his boyfriend, Reggie, at a party somewhere in the Pearl, and Georgia . . . she’s wherever it is that she goes at night. Right now there’s just me, Monroe, and the hum of the refrigerator.
“Ah,” he says as he pulls a small black journal out of his pocket and takes a pen from inside the worn pages. I’ve seen him write in it before. His medical journal. He jots something down and then sets it next to him on the couch. After a long pause, he looks over at me.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” he says softly. “I’m glad you’ve finally come.”
My black shoe slips off the rung of the stool and I almost fall. When I right myself, I’m shaking. “What are you talking about? You’re freaking me out!” My fingers tremble as I grasp the edge of the counter, trying to keep steady.
“Don’t be scared.” He holds up his palms, his expression full of compassion. But I am scared. I’m terrified. “I’m going to help you through this.”
“Through what?” I demand. “What’s wrong with me?”
“Wrong with you?” He laughs to himself, though his eyes are shining with tears. “That’s the thing, sweetheart. This isn’t wrong—even if it feels that way right now.”
I’m offended that he’d even say that. I push my shirt off my shoulder, exposing the golden area. “Look at me!” I yell, but a new worry grips me. Doctors don’t make house calls like this. “Wait. Are you here because I’m dying? Oh God. Am I dying?” I cover my mouth with my hand. I start to cry until I notice the tears brim over his eyes and run down his cheeks. He looks away from me, wiping harshly at them.
“Please don’t,” he says, his voice cracking. “Don’t cry, Charlotte. You must be strong right now. This is going to be very difficult and you have to be strong.”
Dozens of diseases run through my mind. Cancer, MS, leprosy. “Please,” I whisper. “Help me.”