When peer pressure pushes Lenny to try out a new dating app, she starts to realize that the past may not always define the future.
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Lenny Harlow wants a lot of things, but a boyfriend isn't...
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THERE WERE FEWTHINGSMORE nauseating than vomit, and one of those things happened to be inside the human body. No, it wasn't the brain-it was the lungs. Lungs. So simple, yet vital. And unbelievably gross.
I stared down at the bloody red lump in front of me, wondering where to begin.
Quite honestly, I'd have been much freer if I'd been given access to a cadaver like a normal medical student, but apparently, we first years have to start small. And by starting small, they mean to hand us fresh pig lungs.
At least they weren't human ones. I could never (willingly or not) tear open a human organ just for the sake of a grade. I would happily fail the course. Die on that hill. Yadda yadda yadda.
Thankfully the lesson was nearly over, and even though my lung-which was somehow moving-had been untouched except for the one time I poked at it with a pen (which I dropped in the nearest bin), I was looking forward to getting out of there. The metallic smell of blood hung in the air, doing little good for my very healthy set of lungs. And though it might have been my fault for not putting on a surgical face mask, I can very well say I was not at fault.
The elastic string touched the lung. How was I supposed to put that on my skin?
Then again, I was human, and humans had lungs too. I supposed it wouldn't be that disgusting to make an incision.
Picking up the scalpel, I tried my hardest not to get too close to my specimen. I'd barely even touched it when I felt a presence behind me. No, I didn't look back-why would I? What if it was my professor and I accidentally head-butted her?
It wasn't my professor.
"Are you having trouble using the scalpel?" A sweet sing-song voice floated through my ears. Who was this girl and why did she assume I didn't have my bearings together?
"No. I'm just not a fan of lung," I said without looking back. I felt her lean closer until her-very soft-hand clasped over my own. "I don't need your help."
"It sure doesn't look that way."
"I have a highly contagious skin disease. I'm trying to look out for you. Get off of me," I all but snarled, gripping the scalpel tighter. Thank God she took that hint and laid off. The scent of roses mixed with something green was doing terrible, terrible things to my head.
Still persisting-trust me to grab the attention of a tenacious smartass-she stepped to the side, nose still poking very much in my business.
"You're not supposed to hold it that way," she whispered under her breath, a breath that she was clearly holding in. I wondered how much longer it would take for her to burst. "Loosen your grip a bit. It's supposed to slice through-"
"I can hold my own," I snapped. "Go help someone else."
For a nanosecond, I thought I'd shaken her. She'd definitely looked taken aback, eyes widened as though they were discuses. But then she cracked the tiniest smile, straightened the creases on her lab coat, and stalked off without another word.
