More than a Melody (H.S) ON HOLD

36

thirty six

He was going to kiss me.

I didn't even think about Miles for the rest of the night. I thought about Harry, how he was leaning in and how I was so close to doing the very same. To feeling the pair of cherry lips I haven't had pressed against mine since February.

The anxiety I swallowed with the thought of him was the only fragment of normalcy I had left. So despite how debilitating it was, I savored it, because it was far more bearable to think of him than the copious other issues I was forced to reckon with.

I couldn't possibly cope with a relationship right now, though. Not when I could hardly withstand the downfall of my own mind. I was grateful for Harry, that he was here, but in no way shape or form was I mentally stable enough to go above and beyond a platonic relationship.

Simple as that.

Right? No. Not simple. At all.

"He's here."

Harry is opening the door as I reposition myself along the sofa, forearms pressed into the cushions so I could lift my head to greet the doctor. The pain was tolerable today, but sitting in certain positions heightened the discomfort. Lying down was far easier.

"Morning, Doctor Bisset, sorry this was all so last minute," I hear Harry say with a clearing of his throat, shuffling to the side to allow the doctor inside.

Doctor Bisset, though... the name sounded familiar, but I was better with faces than names.

"Not a problem, you actually chose a perfect time, works within my schedule well."

The voice.

He approaches, Harry pulls out a chair for him to rest in, and when I see his face I know instantly who he is.

"Olive, it's been quite some time."

Harry stands anxiously off to the side, toying with the hem of his shirt. Doctor Bisset holds his hand out for me to shake, the hardened ice of his touch a stark contrast to the burning warmth of mine.

"Hi," my voice cracks with reluctance while he just smiles. The grey flakes of hair woven amidst the strands of dirty blonde, the stubby remnants of a beard shadowing beneath the pointed tip of his chin and along his jawline. He wears a white coat and a sea blue button up tucked into black dress pants, the title "Dr Adam Bisset, MD" embroidered boldly across the upper right pocket.

He was the doctor who was in the trauma room the night my father died. The doctor who fought to pump the toxins out of my mother so many years ago. The doctor who treated Vince after he was so ruthlessly attacked.

"I've been told you had quite a fall last night, is that right?"

He has a file in his hands that he flips through briefly before settling on a single stack, the folder now creased over to earn a better view of the sheet. The click of a black ink pen is presently in tune with the shifting of his leg over his knee, my eyes observing every nanoscopic wrinkle there is.

"Olive?"

Oh shit, right, he asked a question.