In This Life by Christine Brae

boxer shorts.
    It wasn’t long after that when I felt him kneel down and wrap his arms around me from behind.
    “Hi,” he said as he leaned his cheek against mine.
    “Hi.” I held on to his arms and tightened them around me.
    We stayed that way for a minute until he let go and sat down next to me.
    “I’m sorry about all that,” he said, tucking his hands under his legs again. This time his posture turned stiff. There was no dangling of the legs, no leaning back on his elbows.
    “Did she have a right to get angry like that? Were you two hooking up or something?” I asked out of curiosity more than anything else.
    “What? No! I just met her last night at the house!” he sounded irritated. “She’s drunk and upset and homesick.” There he was again, making amends for everyone else’s shortcomings. He let out a deep sigh and continued. “Anna, about what I said earlier—”
    I had to beat him to it. He was about to voice the truth. “Absolutely correct. We’re not together,” I muttered.
    “It’s not that simple. I’m committed to making things work back home.”
    I took a deep breath. “Gray, we’re just having some fun,” I assured him.
    “You have to understand,” he explained. “I wasn’t expecting to meet someone like you.”
    Someone like what? “There’s nothing to explain, nothing to understand. It’s late and I’m going back to the house,” I said instead.
    “Please don’t. We were just getting to know each other,” he said, holding my arm in place.
    I gently pushed his hand away. There was a lump in my throat and a heavy brewing in my gut. “All good. Crazy day tomorrow. I should go,” I said with an artificial air of composure.
    “Don’t you ever just want to forget who you’re supposed to be and just be who you really are?” he whispered.
    “This is who I am, Jude. I have no idea what you’re getting at,” I declared, determined to have the last say. He stepped aside, allowing me to continue on. “I’m so tired, let’s just call it a night. Thanks for having me over.”

 
     
     
    EACH DAY AT the clinic was both stressful and exhilarating. I reveled in the fast pace of emergency situations, eager to assist the patients, most of them locals who couldn’t afford medical care.
    “Chiayo. That’s your name, right?” I said to the eight-year-old as I gently helped him lie down on the operating table. His foot had swollen three shoe sizes from stepping on a rusty nail and his skin was flushed with a very high fever. Dante usually helped out by manning the lines and preparing the paperwork, but today I needed an assistant.
    Chiayo nervously nodded yes. “Okay, sweetie, my friend Dante here will hold your hands while I give you an injection, and then we’re going to clean out that foot.”
    “We?” Dante flinched. “Who said I was going to help you?”
    I rolled my eyes at him. “Tey. Look around you. There’s no one else.” He twisted his head all around to verify my claim.
    The boy’s body stiffened as I pressed the needle into his foot. “It’s okay, little dude,” Dante said soothingly. “She’s going to make you better.”
    He then turned his attention to me. “So, what was with loverboy today?” Dante had seen Jude rush out of class as soon as he walked into the door. “I noticed you didn’t sleep over at his place last night.”
    “Crazy Paulina showed up. He got all freaked out when she thought we were together,” I explained.
    “And? What are you upset about?”
    “Nothing. He has a girlfriend.”
    “Did he say that?” he challenged.
    “Not in so many words,” I mumbled. I continued to drain the abscess from Chiayo’s wound. “Almost finished,” I said, concentrating on relieving this boy’s pain.
    “Well, unless you want a long-term thing, I don’t see what the problem is. I’ve changed my opinion. This guy seems to be taking your mind off things at home. It might be a good break for you.”
    “You’re just telling me this