The Cure for My Ruined Wrist Is My Childhood Crush

PROLOGUE

Thanksgiving break, and the neighbor s doctor son is back.

My mom says I m a creature of the night, sleeping all day and prowling the internet until dawn, and she insists he needs to check my pulse.

There is no way in hell I m letting that happen.

He absolutely, positively cannot find out I m a total Archive Fiend.

Later, as I m handing him a clementine, he suddenly clamps a hand around my wrist.

His brow furrows in concentration for a solid three seconds.

Then, his gaze lifts to mine, slow and deliberate, and he gives me a look so knowing it probably violates my HIPAA rights.

"Lay off the... stuff."

01

Boom.

Just like that, I am a living, breathing emoji the one sitting calmly with a smug little smile while its entire body glows with the heat of a thousand suns.

My mother, bless her oblivious heart, leans in. "What stuff?" she booms, her voice loud enough to alert the neighbors.

I am fine with death.

It s a natural part of life.

What I am *not* fine with is death by terminal cringe, executed by my own mother in the family living room.

"Fanfiction!" The word bursts out of me, a desperate shield. "He means I read too much fanfiction!"

He just gives a noncommittal "Mm."

"You should read less," he adds, his voice smooth as silk.

My mom s glare drills into me. Then she turns back to Simon Beckett, her face wreathed in a beatific smile.

"Is there anything else wrong with her?"

I m staring daggers at Simon, trying to send him telepathic messages involving pain and suffering if he says another word.

But the man is apparently blind to psychic threats. He looks back at my mom. "Does she have a boyfriend?"

Excuse me, shouldn t that question be directed at *me*?

Before I can open my mouth, my mom intercepts the pass like a pro linebacker. "Nope. Comes home alone every year. No boyfriend in sight."

She punctuates this with another withering glare in my direction.

I ve had enough. I try to yank my hand out of his grip.

He just tightens it, his touch surprisingly firm, and continues his impromptu diagnosis.

Simon: "You have a preference for cold things, don't you?"

I manage a sneer. "I never eat anything cold."

Simon: "You just never eat anything hot."

I can feel my mom s rage starting to radiate from across the coffee table.

Simon: "You stay up late, I assume."

Me: "I m in bed by nine every night."

Simon: "Nine in the morning."

That s it. My mom is on her feet, her eyes scanning the room for the nearest blunt object. A broom, a lamp, anything.

"You little brat! So that s why I can never reach you during the day! You re pulling all-nighters?"

A jolt of pure panic shoots through me. I launch myself off the couch like a startled cat and scramble behind Simon, using his tall frame as a human shield.

Simon turns and gives my mom a gentle, disarming smile. "Auntie Sheridan, it's alright. Her condition... I can fix it."

Just like that, my mom s attitude does a complete one-eighty.

"Oh, that s wonderful! I was hoping you two would get a chance to& connect."

"This girl is so lazy. If you have time, maybe you could take her out for some exercise."

The more I listen, the more this feels like a trap.

It s not until I m strapped into the passenger seat of Simon Beckett s car that I realize what kind of trap it is.

02

"I think my mom just sold me in some kind of back-alley deal," I mutter.

Simon glances over, a faint smile playing on his lips as he reminds me to buckle up.

I click the seatbelt into place and turn to him. "Seriously, what kind of deal do you think it was?"

His eyes are fixed on the road ahead. His lips part slightly.

"A blind date."

My jaw hits the floor.

"A blind date? With *you*? That s insane."

Simon is five years older than me.

But the age gap isn t the issue. The issue is that I ve known him for what feels like my entire life.

He knew me when my fashion sense was a chaotic mess of neon and angst. I knew him during his regrettable emo-hair phase.

He s seen me in diapers. I ve seen him with braces.

This isn t a date. This is like going out with your own brother. A very, very judgy older brother.

Not to mention, as far as I knew, he had a girlfriend. I remember his mom, Mrs. Beckett, mentioning last year that he was bringing someone home, but she never showed up.

Simon breaks the silence, his voice laced with amusement. "So, you want to see a movie?"

I nod. "Sure."

"I m not picky. You choose." He offers me his phone.

I take it and open the movie ticketing app.

I m hesitating between two different rom-coms when the screen suddenly goes dark.

I tap it twice. A password lock screen appears.

"Password?" I ask.

Simon recites a string of numbers. "110909."

That sequence feels& weirdly familiar.

My fingers type it in, moving with a strange muscle memory. The phone unlocks. "Is that your girlfriend s birthday?" I ask, trying to sound casual.

"It s a funny coincidence, isn't it? It's the same as mine."

Simon suddenly turns his head, his eyes catching mine, a genuine smile in them.

"Not a coincidence. And I don t have a girlfriend."

His words hang in the air, and I m suddenly at a complete loss for my own.

I manage a weak, little laugh and quickly turn to stare out the window.

Right. I ll just pretend I have no idea what he s implying.

That seems like the safest option.

03

We get to the theater, and Simon goes to buy the tickets.

He comes back with a tub of popcorn so enormous it could double as a small boat.

I hold up my hands in surrender. "I can t possibly eat all that."

Simon plucks a kernel from the top and holds it to my lips. "That s what I m here for."

I open my mouth, and the rich, buttery flavor explodes on my tongue.

I grab a handful for myself, my words muffled by the popcorn. "I also want a Coke."

"Alright. I'll go get it."

He places the giant tub in my lap and walks off before I can protest that I was just thinking out loud.

The man is dangerously efficient.

Once we re inside, the theater is packed. We find our seats quickly.

The popcorn sits on the armrest between us, a fluffy, buttery buffer zone.

Every so often, our hands brush as we both reach for a handful.

At first, I instinctively pull back, waiting for him to finish before I try again.

But after the tenth time, all pretense of politeness is gone. I start intercepting his hand, snatching the best pieces right from his grasp.

Each time, Simon lets out a soft, low chuckle and simply reaches for a new handful.

He s a doctor, alright. The patience of a saint.

The movie is hilarious. The whole theater is roaring with laughter.

But then comes the turning point. The scene where the male and female leads are having a moment, the air thick with unspoken tension.

And that s when the couple to my left decides to have their *own* moment.

I catch a glimpse of them out of the corner of my eye, locked in a full-on make-out session.

I nearly choke on a piece of ice from my Coke.

Simon turns and pats my back gently. "You okay?" he whispers.

I cover my mouth and cough, and as I lift my head, I notice the couple on *his* other side is doing the exact same thing.

My face instantly flushes. I whip my head around to stare determinedly at the screen.

And the couple in the row directly in front of us starts kissing.

In the darkness of the theater, I feel like a whistling kettle about to boil over.

I lean sideways, getting close to Simon s ear to whisper-complain. "It s not even Valentine s Day! Why is everyone making out?"

He leans in, his head dipping low, and the soft strands of his hair brush against my ear.

"Because they want to."

04

His voice is a low murmur, but it hits me like a jolt.

The sudden proximity of his face, handsome and sharp even in the flickering half-light of the theater, makes me recoil slightly.

I can see the clean line of his jaw, the glint in his eyes as he watches me.

My brain short-circuits. "You& you can kiss the person next to you," I stammer.

The words are out before I can process the catastrophic ambiguity of that sentence.

*I* am the person next to him.

Sure enough, Simon s head inches closer. I instinctively slap a hand over my mouth, my eyes wide.

We re locked in a silent, wide-eyed standoff, so intense I think I m about to go cross-eyed.

Then, he breaks. A slow smile spreads across his face, and he pulls back, turning his attention to the screen. "You're overthinking it," he says, his tone infuriatingly calm.

My face, which was already hot, now feels like it s actively on fire. He was just messing with me. And I fell for it completely. He basically just called me out for having my mind in the gutter.

I spend the rest of the movie mentally strangling him. Three hundred times.

After the movie, Simon asks if I want to walk around the mall for a bit.

I shake my head, eager to escape. "No, I have to get back. I need to work on my comic."

I m a webcomic artist. My buffer of pre-drawn pages is gone, and my editor has been on my case about not missing an update. Plus, my book signing is right after the holidays.

Simon doesn t push. As we walk towards the elevators, he asks casually, "Is that for your new series?"

The question, so nonchalant, makes my heart stop for a beat. I freeze, staring at him.

He sees my expression and clarifies. "You posted about it on your Instagram story a while back, remember?"

I wrack my brain, trying to remember my semi-private art account. I think I did post a promo image for it once, maybe last May? But I deleted it after a day, just like my editor asked.

I hate having people I know in real life know about my work. It feels& exposed. Like they re reading my diary.

"Oh, yeah& maybe," I mumble, rushing into the elevator. "So, when do you have to go back to work?"

Simon follows me in, his pace unhurried. "The sixteenth."

I feel a pang of jealousy. The perks of owning your own practice.

But he steers the conversation right back to the comic. "I remember that one. It's a romance, right? The male lead is a doctor who practices traditional medicine, and the female lead is an editor& "

That s it. My carefully constructed composure shatters. "The male lead is not you! Don t get the wrong idea!"

Simon just gives me a small, knowing smile and says nothing.

I hang my head, staring at my shoes and digging my nails into my thigh. Why did I react like that? I basically just held up a giant, flashing sign that said, "IT S TOTALLY ABOUT YOU."

05

I bolt from his car without so much as a "goodbye" and flee into my house.

I lock myself in my room and slump down at my desk, logging onto my work chat. My editor, Ruby, has pinged me twice, each time with a little red envelope emoji, which is her passive-aggressive way of asking for the new pages.

I open my drawing software and fire back a message: 0Send another one and I ll start drawing.0

Ruby: 0I ll send you my fist. Just lost fifty bucks playing mahjong.0

Me: 0You re playing mahjong while I m slaving away? Where is your conscience!0

Ruby: 0Capitalists have no conscience. If you don t send me that update, I will personally fly to your house and watch you draw. I ll even stay up with you tonight.0

I banter with her for a few more minutes, then check the stats on the latest chapter of my comic.

Over ten thousand likes and a thousand comments. A wave of satisfaction washes over me, and I dive into drawing tomorrow s update.

Two hours later, I reach for my glass of water. A searing pain shoots through my wrist.

The glass slips from my fingers and shatters on the floor.

I ignore it, rummage through my suitcase for a pain-relief patch, slap it on my wrist, and keep drawing.

My phone buzzes. It s a text from Simon.

0I noticed your wrist was bothering you. Don t overwork it.0

My fingers hover over the screen. During the movie, I d switched my drink to my right hand a few times because my left wrist was aching. I d rubbed it, trying to ease the soreness.

He noticed.

I type back a simple reply: 0K, got it.0

Then I proceed to ignore his advice completely.

By two in the morning, I m finally done. I package the files and send them to Ruby.

I chug the last of my iced Americano with a splash of kombucha, my signature "punk wellness" concoction. No reply from Ruby. So much for staying up with me. Liar.

I ll make her pay for lunch for a month when I get back.

I tiptoe out to the bathroom to wash up, then creep back to bed. The moment my head hits the pillow, a dull, throbbing ache starts up in my wrist again.

I m too exhausted to get up and change the patch. I ll just sleep through it.

But when I wake up in the morning, my left wrist is practically useless.

The slightest movement sends a shock of agony through my arm that brings tears to my eyes.

My parents burst into my room at the sound of my cry.

"We need to go to the hospital," my dad says immediately, seeing the tears streaming down my face.

My mom tries to examine my wrist, but the moment her fingers brush against my skin, I cry out from the sharp, drilling pain.

She gives up and just drapes my winter coat over my pajamas. As we re heading downstairs, our front door opens, and Simon steps out of his.

His eyes immediately lock onto my wrist. My mom quickly explains, "Her wrist just stopped working all of a sudden! We don t know if it s broken. We re taking her to the ER."

Simon s brow furrows. He reaches out a hand to touch me.

I flinch back, shaking my head violently. "Don t! It hurts& "

The words are choked out between sobs. My mom wraps an arm around my shoulders. "Honey, Simon s a doctor& We won t touch you. Just watch your step."

We get to the bottom of the stairs, and my dad smacks his forehead. "Damn it. I had a beer this morning. I can t drive."

My mom looks like she s about to throttle him. Before she can, Simon has already ducked back into his house and re-emerged with his coat on and car keys in hand.

"Mrs. Sheridan," he says, his voice calm and steady. "I ll drive."

The ER is quiet, thanks to the holiday. The doctor on duty takes one look and says it s not a fracture. Simon agreed.

But my mom insisted on an X-ray, just to be sure.

The final diagnosis came back: Tenosynovitis. A severe case of it. The doctor prescribed some heavy-duty pain patches, told me to apply heat, massage it, and wear a wrist brace. And the most important part I had to rest my wrist. Completely.

But I m a comic artist.

I have today s update, but what about tomorrow? The day after?

"Once the pain is gone, I can use it again, right?" I ask desperately.

Before the ER doctor can answer, Simon s voice cut in, cold as ice. "So you can forget the pain as soon as the scar heals? Doctor, don t bother treating her."

His words shut me up instantly. I just sit there, obediently silent.

The ER doctor seemed to recognize Simon as a fellow professional. They chatted for a moment, and then he turned to me. "You re lucky to have a doctor in the family. Make sure you follow his orders."

I just stared back.

Since when was he *my* family?

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