“I’m not angry.”
“Your face, your mustache in particular, says otherwise. It twitches when you’re pissed, and that thing is jumping around like a coked-up squirrel.” He talks all snooty too, but I decide to leave that out for fear he may implode. Adorably, he purses his lips. I think it’s an attempt to control the quiver.
“My mustache does not twitch, and I am not angry. One has to care to remain affected by another’s betrayal, and since I don’t, I’m not.” After dropping his satchel bag by the bed, he washes and dries his hands at the tiny basin he dwarfs, moves the row of stainless steel draws holding medical supplies and pulls out some tape and scissors, I think he’s done. He is not. “If I was angry I might ha
ve spent hours pondering how you could risk my career so thoughtlessly, or how out of all the people you could discuss things you promised never to discuss, you chose your teammates. The people I have to work with and treat everyday.” James turns and approaches, eyes trained to the floor, which is disappointing since I’ve already removed my gear in the hopes the nips might win him over before I needed the note. A roll of tape is deposited beside me and he stands between my spread legs. He smells amazing. It’s agony. “But I haven’t. Not a single moment.”
Twitching must be contagious, as maintaining a solemn expression is killing me. “Glad to hear it, Jamie.”
Eye’s falling shut, he does the other thing I’ve noticed him doing a lot, a slow puffed cheek inhale, then exhalation. “Good.”
“Great.”
“Okay then.”