I say.
Nick gives a quick nod. “Exactly.”
I stare at the snake’s eye one second longer as Dr. Nick washes and dries his hands, slips on latex gloves, and gently peels the handkerchief from the wound.
“What happened here?” he says, adding, “Wait, don’t tell me. Knife fight in Central Park.”
“Just two women colliding in spectacular fashion and a broken jar of spaghetti sauce. I’m sure it happens here all the time.”
I hold still as he cleans the wound with peroxide, trying not to flinch at the sudden, cold bite of pain. Dr. Nick notices and does his best to distract me with small talk.
“Tell me, Jules, how do you like living in the Bartholomew?”
“How do you know I live here?”
“I assumed that if Leslie brought you to see me then you must be a tenant,” he says. “Am I wrong?”
“Partially. I’m a—” I search for the term Leslie had used earlier. “Temporary tenant. Right next door, in fact.”
“Ah, so you’re the lucky apartment sitter who snagged 12A. You just move in?”
“Today.”
“Then let me officially welcome you to the building,” he says. “I hope my medical expertise will make up for the lack of a casserole.”
“What kind of doctor are you?”
“Surgeon.”
I glance at his hands as he attends to my arm. They’re definitely surgeon hands, with long, elegant fingers that move with steady grace. When he removes them, I see that the cut looks less severe now that it’s been cleaned. Just a two-inch gash that’s quickly covered with a rectangle of gauze and sealed in place with medical tape.
“That should do it for now,” Dr. Nick says as he peels the latex gloves from his hands. “The bleeding’s stopped, but it’s a good idea to keep the bandage on until morning. When was your last tetanus shot?”
I shrug. I have no idea.
“You might want to get one. Just to be on the safe side. When was your last checkup?”
“Um, last year,” I say, when in truth it’s another thing I can’t remember. My approach to health care is not seeing a doctor unless I absolutely need to. Even when I had a job, the idea of regular checkups and preventive visits seemed like a waste of money. “Maybe two years ago.”
“Then I’d like to check your vitals, if you’ll let me.”
“Should I be worried?”
“Not at all. This is just precautionary. The heart can sometimes beat erratically after a fall or loss of blood. I just want to make sure that everything’s okay.” Dr. Nick digs a stethoscope out of the medical bag and presses it to my chest, just below the collarbone. “Take a deep breath.”
I do and get a whiff of his cologne in the process. It has hints of sandalwood and citrus and something else. Something bitter. Anise, I think. It has a similarly sharp tang.
“Good,” Dr. Nick says as he moves the stethoscope an inch, and I take another deep inhalation. “You have a very interesting name, Jules. Is that short for something? A nickname?”
“No nickname. Most people think it’s short for Julia or Julianne, but Jules is my given name. My father used to say that when I was born, my mother took one look into my eyes and said they sparkled like jewels.”
Dr. Nick peers into my eyes. It lasts only a second, but it’s still long enough to make my pulse quicken. I wonder if he can hear it, especially when he says, “For the record, your mother was right.”
I will myself not to blush, although I suspect it’s happening anyway. A noticeable warmth spreads across my cheeks.
“And Nick is short for Nicholas?”
“Guilty as charged,” he says while wrapping a blood pressure cuff around my upper right arm.
“How long have you lived at the Bartholomew?”
“I suspect what you really want to know is how someone my age can afford an apartment in this building.”
He’s right, of course. That’s exactly what I want to know. I blush again, this time for being so easily read.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s none of my business.”
“It’s fine. I’d be curious, too, if our roles were reversed. The answer—to all your questions—is that I’ve lived here my whole life. This apartment has been in my family for decades. I inherited it after my parents died five years ago. They were both killed in a car accident while visiting Europe.”
“I’m sorry,” I say again, wishing I had just kept quiet.
“Thank you. Losing them both so suddenly was hard. And I sometimes feel guilty knowing that if they hadn’t died, I’d be