The Doctor And The Don

Soft Spot

His name was Rafael, and over the following week I learned that he was the closest thing Marco had to a friend, the kind of man who could talk his way through a locked door and then apologize to the door on the way out.

“You are still here,” he said one afternoon, watching me check Marco’s stitches with the interest of a man who found very little in his life boring anymore. “Most doctors run the other direction after the first visit.”

“Most doctors probably have not been personally threatened by their patient’s confidence issues.”

Marco, sitting on the edge of the exam table Cynthia had set up in an actual room of the house, gave me a look. “I do not have confidence issues.”

“You have several,” I said. “I am simply choosing to address one at a time.”

Rafael laughed so hard he had to leave the room, and Marco watched him go with the exasperated fondness of a man who had clearly given up trying to control that particular reaction a long time ago.

“He likes you,” Marco said, once the door closed.

“He likes anyone who is willing to insult you to your face. I imagine that list is short.”

“Shorter than you would think.” Something in his tone shifted, quieter. “Most people around me only tell me what they think I want to hear.”

“I have never once told you what you wanted to hear.”

“I noticed.” He studied me for a long moment. “It is refreshing. Uncomfortable, but refreshing.”

I finished the check up and packed my bag, aware of him watching me the entire time in a way that made my skin feel too warm.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asked.

“You do not actually need daily visits anymore, Marco. You are healing fine.”

“I am aware.”

“Then why keep asking me to come back?”

He held my gaze, unflinching, and for a second I thought he might actually answer honestly. Instead he said, “Because Cynthia likes having a doctor on call,” which we both knew was a lie, and neither of us called him on it.