in public with a cripple, but I suppose he’s seen it all. It’s his job, after all. Pushing my glasses up my nose, I peer around, uncertain what to say. I need a conversation starter, something to break the ice. But what?
Dr. Archibald leans back into his seat, cool as a cucumber. “Have you always had your limp?” Well, this wasn’t the breaking of ice I had in mind.
I squirm. Have I repulsed him somehow? “It comes and goes,” I confess, reaching for a sugar packet and turning it over between my trembling fingers.
“When did it go away?”
“When I went to the gym. And when I was participating in the clinical trials.” There is no need to elaborate on what comprised those trials.
He rearranges the sunglasses on his head, mussing his hair up further. “If your limp improved, the drugs must have had a positive effect then?”
“I suppose.”
He smirks, appearing amused by my evasiveness. “Yet you chose to cease the trials. Why?”
“What is this, twenty questions?” I snap, folding my arms over my chest. “You’re a doctor. I’m sure you have access to my files. All the info you require is in there.”
“I have read your files.”
My mouth falls open very ungracefully. “You? What? Why?” It’s all I can manage to spit out.
“Just answer the question,” he says lightheartedly.
I huff, blowing a stray piece of hair off my brow. “I’d rather we discuss anything other than this.”
“I’m just making conversation, Lola.”
His response isn’t snarky or invasive, but this is a very sensitive topic for me. I can’t casually discuss this decision over coffee like I’m talking about the weather. Anita returns with our coffee, breaking the sudden stale mood.
I bury my head into the menu, hoping Dr. Archibald will stop with the questions. He doesn’t. “So how long was the trial?”
“The triple cheeseburger with extra onions sounds amazing,” I reply, ignoring his question with my face still obscured by the menu.
My sanctuary only lasts for a second because the menu is lowered slowly by two stubborn fingers. Raising my eyes, I meet the amused baby blues of the annoying doctor.
“How long?” he presses, revealing he won’t let the matter drop.
Surrendering, I drop the menu with a sigh. “A year.”
He nods, deep in thought. “You do know that the trial was a success, correct?”
“Yes, and…?” If he has a point, I hope he makes it soon.
“And I wanted to know why you chose to stop.” He leans back into the booth, never breaking eye contact with me.
“Because life’s a bitch, Dr. Archibald.” A lot more venom laces my sentence than I intended. I instantly feel terrible for snapping, but why is he pressing my buttons?
Reaching for his coffee, he appears quite pensive once again, which makes me nervous. If I knew where the hell we were, I’d flag down a cab and escape a conversation sure to end in tears. “How about you call me Roman, and we cut the bullshit, Lola?”
My mouth hinges open as I was not expecting that response. “I don’t know what you want from me.”
“I want you to be honest with me and yourself. We’re just two friends out for coffee.”
“I don’t dabble in make believe, Dr. Archibald,” I snap, his name never sounding so dirty. I really must calm down, but he’s pissing me off.
My bravado, however, seems to please Roman…Dr. Archibald. His mouth curves into that bold, trademark grin. “You really have no idea just how special you are.” I almost choke on thin air. “And stubborn…”
“Am not,” I oppose, but quickly shut up when I’ve just proved his point.
He continues. “You’re also a fighter. I’ve seen it. Last night you stood up before anyone else. And today, you had no qualms about riding my bike.”
“Have you been testing me?” I don’t see the point in being coy. We’re well past that.
“What if I have?” he replies, steepling his fingers under his chin as he places both elbows on the table.
I eye my cup, wondering what a scalding hot coffee facial would feel like if I threw the contents into his smug face. He reads my thoughts instantly and laughs hoarsely.
“What are you trying to achieve with your guerrilla tactics?” I ask. Leaning forward, I’m not the slightest bit intimidated. “If this is your idea of a pep talk, then I suggest you rethink your approach because it fucking sucks. Death is looking more appealing by the second.”
He continues laughing, not at all offended. Well, screw him.