I PRESS DOWN ON THE metal bar with my foot to kick on the water in the wash basin and begin the exhaustive process of scrubbing in for surgery. I don’t wear rings, watches, or bracelets because it’s one less step I have to deal with. I start with rubbing the antimicrobial soap scrub on my hands and arms, then move to cleaning out the subungual areas with a nail file. After that, it’s the two-minute timed scrubs on each side of my fingers, between my fingers, and the back and front of both hands. Finally, I move on to my arms. The whole process lasts ages.
Ages that I can do nothing but think about Camden and what he’s doing. Who’s with him? How he’s feeling? Is he nervous? Did he have a blowout with his dad, and is that why he’s having the surgery? I want to know all of these things and could have figured a lot of them out if I’d stopped by his room before the procedure. But I was a coward.
My heart is over-flowing with new feelings. Feelings that don’t do well bottled up. Saying any of this to Camden right now would be selfish, though. This procedure is difficult enough on him without adding our personal drama into the mix. I just have to hold my tongue, get through this, and hope that we can figure things out afterwards.
“Ah, Indie! There you are,” Prichard’s voice says from behind me as I go to do my final hand rinse. “You’re scrubbed in early.”
I want to tell him it’s because he tried to kiss me the last time we were in this room together, but I bite my tongue. “Just wanting to make sure everything is setup right.”
He cuts me a look as he ties his mask around his face and says, “I just came from Mr. Harris’ room.”
“Oh?” I ask, trying to remain calm but wanting to know everything in an instant. “How did he seem?”
“He seemed fine. Just fine. I got him to sign a release form so you can reference him in your interview with The British Medical Journal after surgery. It was something the hospital PR gal said we needed. I reserved the consult room in Hallway D for you to sit and talk with them when we wrap up here.”
“You told Cam—I mean, Mr. Harris about the article?” I ask, my voice tight and pinched.
Prichard moves over next to me at the basin and eyes me from behind his mask. “I did. Is that a problem?” he asks, revealing nothing with his eyes.
“No, no problem at all,” I grind, grateful that Prichard can’t see me chewing on my lip nervously behind my mask.
He begins scrubbing in, still watching me instead of his hands. “He seemed a bit put-off by it, but he signed anyway.”
My mind goes haywire.
What must Camden be thinking? Does he think I only came to him because of the article? Damnit, I should have told him! Why do I suck so bad at relationships? I can’t seem to stop screwing things up with him. Maybe I can catch him before the surgery.
Movement through the window to the OR catches my eye, and I see a nurse pushing Camden in on a stretcher. The pained look on his face makes me feel a sudden and overwhelming urge to draw a foul.
