How Much I Feel

by Force, Marie

  “I feel it, too,” I whisper against her lips. “In case you were wondering.”

  Her nervous laughter is the best thing I’ve ever heard. “I don’t do stuff like this.”

  “Stuff like what?” I shift my attention to her neck, which is every bit as appealing as her lips.

  She shivers and buries her fingers in my hair. “Make out like a teenager on Miami Beach.”

  I’m unbearably aroused by her, so much so that I feel even the most innocent of caresses everywhere. “You should do it more often.”

  “Spoken like the devil himself, leading me astray.”

  Smiling, I lean my forehead against hers, counting backward from one hundred as I remind myself to go slow with her, to respect what she’s been through and to understand that it’s a far bigger deal for her to be starting whatever this is between us than it will ever be for me.

  She blinks and seems to realize quite a bit of time has gone by since we first sat in the sand. “We should go. It’s not the best idea to be out here after dark.”

  I stand, brush the sand off my shorts and reach out a hand to help her up, releasing it only long enough for her to deal with the sand on her clothes.

  We reach for each other at the same moment and then share a smile at how silly we are, two grown adults acting like teenagers in the throes of first romance. But that’s how it feels, to me at least. There’s an innocence about it, a throwback to a simpler time, maybe because I have to be so careful with her.

  With any other woman, I might be suggesting we find the nearest horizontal surface after a make-out session of such epic proportions. But this woman is special. She’s had her heart broken and managed to put her life back together. Nothing more will happen between us until she says so.

  We ride back to my hotel in companionable silence. I’m not ready for our day together to end, but I’m resolved to proceed with caution so I don’t scare her off by wanting her too much. It’s amazing to me that Ginger might never have happened for all I care about her since meeting Carmen, who has more substance and integrity in her little finger than Ginger has in her whole body.

  With hindsight, I’m ashamed of the way I was taken in by Ginger, bowled over by how she looked and the way she seemed to want me so fiercely in bed. I wonder now if even that was part of her ploy, to pretend to be so wildly attracted to me that I’d lose my mind over her, which is exactly what happened. I was so deeply in her thrall that I didn’t even realize someone else was in the room watching us until it was far too late.

  I shudder remembering the horror of that moment and all the ones that followed, as the story blew up into a scandal within hours of the husband I didn’t know she had discovering us naked in his bedroom. That he was also the chairman of the board of the hospital where I worked only made it that much more horrific, especially when I was called into the president’s office and asked to relocate.

  “What’re you thinking about?”

  Carmen’s question interrupts the disturbing path my thoughts have taken. “Nothing, really.”

  “If it’s nothing, then why is your whole body tense?”

  “I was thinking about things I’d be better off forgetting.”

  “Ah, I see. Don’t you wish you could flip a switch and not think about that anymore?”

  “More than anything.”

  “You’re the brain surgeon. You should know where the switch is located.”

  When I find myself laughing, I realize how quickly she defused my tension and got me thinking about other things, such as when I might get to kiss her again. “Maybe you’re the switch.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re doing a very good job of making me forget something I thought I’d never stop thinking about.”

  “Clearly, I’m not doing that good of a job if you were thinking about it just now.”

  “You’re doing a very good job. I was only thinking about how if that hadn’t happened, I wouldn’t have met you. That would’ve been truly unfortunate.”

  “I’m sorry you went through what you did, but I’m glad you landed in my city and that we had the chance to meet.”

  I reach for her hand and hold on to her all the way back to my hotel, where I’m forced to let go. For now.

  When we’re standing beside my car, I notice she seems reluctant to leave. “I’ll be by around eight, okay?”

  “I’ll be here. Take some of these leftovers.”

  She takes a few of the containers her parents packed up for us. They’d included one of those plastic ice packs to keep them cool.

  “Don’t get coffee in the morning. I’ll take you to my ventanita for cortadito, which is Cuban espresso topped with steamed milk.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “Trust me. You’ll love it.”

  I place my hands on her hips, bringing her closer to me. “I have no doubt. Today was fantastic. Thank you for sharing your family, your restaurant, your hometown, yourself with me.” I kiss her gently, or that’s the plan anyway, until she winds her arms around my neck and kisses me back with all the desire and need I feel for her.

  Pulling away from her is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I want to take her by the hand and bring her with me when I go inside. But more than that, I want to do the right thing by her. So I walk her to her car and hold the door while she gets in. When she’s settled, I lean in and kiss her one more time.

  “Text me to let me know you got home okay.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Text me.”

  “If you insist.”

  “I do.” One more kiss and then another. I can’t get enough. I force myself to step back, to let her go, to wave her off as she drives away. I take several deep breaths of the warm, humid air before heading into the icebox lobby and up to my room, where I immediately turn down the air. There doesn’t seem to be a happy medium when it comes to temperature in South Florida. I’m either sweltering or freezing.

  Of course, it doesn’t help that Carmen has my blood boiling from her sweet kisses.

  As I’m stashing leftovers in my minifridge, my phone rings. My heart skips a happy beat, as I hope it might be Carmen, and then falls just as quickly when I see MOM on the caller ID. I take the call, dreading what I have to tell her. “Hey.”

  “Hey, yourself. What’s happening?”

  Everything. Everything is happening. “Not much. Just getting acclimated to Miami while I wait to see if the board at Miami-Dade is going to extend privileges.” I cringe as I say those words, knowing what her reaction will be.

  “What do you mean waiting for privileges?” My mom is a general practitioner in the Milwaukee area. The proudest day of her life, or so she always says, was my graduation from medical school.

  “Just what I said. They aren’t sure they want me after what happened in New York.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “I wish I was.” One of the most difficult moments in a nightmarish month was calling my mother to tell her what happened with Ginger so she wouldn’t hear about it somewhere else. The two of us and my younger brother, Ben, have been a team since my dad left. Disappointing her crushed me. “The board has asked for two weeks to consider the request, and in the meantime I’m working with one of the hospital’s public relations professionals to change the narrative. She’s helped me land a pro bono gig at a local free clinic and is working on other publicity that we hope will help to sway the board.”

  “Dear God, Jason. How can this be happening? You’re a board-certified pediatric neurosurgeon. They ought to be rolling out the red carpet.”

  “Well, they’re not. I guess they’re afraid I’ll sleep with their wives—or their husbands.”

  “How can you joke about this? Your entire career is on the line.”

  “If I don’t joke, I’ll lose my mind. I know what’s on the line, Mom, believe me. I’m doing everything I can to win them over. I’m not sure what else I can do besides hope for the best.”
<
br />   “You could apply elsewhere.”

  “And abandon my research? I can’t do that. It’s not just about me but everyone else who’s been involved.”

  “This PR professional who’s helping you? She knows what she’s doing?”

  “She’s outstanding.” And brave and smart and so beautiful she makes me ache. I can’t say anything like that to my mother, who’ll think I’m insane for getting involved with another woman so soon after what the last one did to me. Hell, I think I’m a little insane, but damned if I can stop this thing that’s happening with Carmen. I don’t want to stop it. Nothing has ever felt as good as being with her does.

  “Check out my new Instagram account.” I give my mom the account name. “Carmen is posting pictures of me getting to know Miami. We’ve got permission from the clinic to post pics of me working there, with patient consent, of course, and there’s a possibility of a local TV interview, too.”

  “The pictures are great. You look happy.”

  “It was a good day. It’s nice to think about something else besides the disaster in New York.”

  “I’m sure it is.”

  “We’re doing everything we can. I have to believe if it doesn’t work out here, something else will pop.”

  “I hope that bitch in New York is proud of herself. All your years of hard work . . .”

  “My credentials haven’t changed, Mom. She can’t take that away from me. Someone will want me, scandal or not.”

  “I hope you’re right about that.”

  “Try not to worry. This, too, shall pass.”

  “I’m glad to hear you sounding better and more optimistic anyway.”

  I have Carmen to thank for the attitude adjustment. She’s giving me reason to feel optimistic, among other things. “I’m doing what I can to get the train back on the tracks. That’s all I can do.”

  “Keep me posted?”

  “I will. Watch the Instagram account for updates.”

  “I’ll do that. Call me if you need to talk.”

  “Will do. Love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  I grab a beer from the stash I put in the fridge last night and twist the cap off before sitting down to do something I’ve been avoiding—check my email. I’ve got messages from a number of people I worked with in New York, many of them deriding the “raw deal” I got from the board and asking me what I’m going to do now.

  “Good question.”

  I write back to each of them, thanking them for their support and telling them the truth—I’m waiting to see if Miami-Dade will extend privileges so I can continue my research. If not, I’ll be looking to start over elsewhere.

  One of the residents who’s been working on the tumor project with me writes that she sent messages to each of the board members, telling them they’re crazy to let me get away, especially when we’re on the brink of a major breakthrough that could bring international prestige to the hospital.

  I can’t thank you enough for the support, Daniela, I write in my response to her. Please don’t risk your own neck on my behalf. It is what it is, or at least that’s what I tell myself. I have to believe it’ll work out and we’ll be back on track before too long. In the meantime, keep monitoring our patients and inputting the data.

  I scroll through other messages from friends and colleagues before stopping dead on one from Ginger.

  Jason,

  I don’t know what to say other than I’m sorry. I know you won’t believe me when I tell you I have genuine feelings for you or I enjoyed every minute we spent together, but both those things are true. I’ve appealed to Howard not to retaliate against you for my sins. I told him you had no idea who I am to him. Everything that happened was my fault, and I hope someday you can forgive me for the mess I made of something so wonderful. I would love nothing more than to have another chance with you, to pick up where we left off and to move forward from here. You have my number. Call me anytime.

  With love,

  Ginger

  I read the message twice, the first time in complete disbelief and the second time with rage boiling inside me. She fucked up my entire life, and she wants me to forgive her for that and pick up where we left off? We “left off” when her husband caught her giving me a blow job. Is she for real? I block her, delete the message and empty the trash so there’s no chance I have to see that bullshit again.

  Disgusted, I get up and step away before I’m tempted to hurl my laptop against a wall. I take the beer with me to the small balcony that adjoins my room and look down over the hotel’s pool area, which is still busy even at almost nine o’clock.

  Goddamned Ginger. She had to make it even worse than it already is. After making a total fool of me and costing me my job and sterling reputation, she actually thinks I might want to get back together? Is she insane?

  If there’s one kernel of good news, it’s that she appealed to her husband on my behalf, or so she says, not that I think that’ll actually help. He’s not going to have the man who screwed his wife and humiliated him on his staff. What’s funny, if you want to call it that, is how she fucked with both of us. He and I ought to get together, have a beer and talk about the many ways she did us both wrong. We might even be friends after that, a thought that makes me laugh.

  As if.

  I’d never claim to have been a saint in my dealings with women, but married women are a hard limit for me. Not that good old Howard would ever believe that in light of what I did with his wife. I think about what he saw that night in his bedroom in the Hamptons and cringe. Sex with Ginger was always “energetic,” and that night was no exception. He walked in to see my bare ass and his moaning wife on her knees as she sucked me off.

  “Ugh.” I down the last of the beer and go get another one, wishing I knew the location of that switch Carmen mentioned, the one that could turn off thoughts we no longer wish to have. Maybe I should focus my research on figuring out that mystery. It’d be worth billions to people who’d give anything to be able to selectively forget upsetting or painful things.

  I wish I’d never checked my email, even if it was mostly uplifting, with supportive messages from colleagues and friends. I didn’t need to see the nonsense from Ginger, not when I’ve been making progress in trying to move on from that shit show.

  Grabbing my phone, I sit on the bed and open a text to Carmen. Talking to her makes me feel better. Why? Who knows? It just does.

  I stare for a long time at the text that says she’s safely home before I type a reply.

  I wish you hadn’t left.

  Send.

  CHAPTER 13

  CARMEN

  I’ve just stepped out of the shower when my phone chimes with a text. I wrap my hair in a towel and grab the phone off the bathroom counter.

  Jason.

  My heart does a funny flip-flopping thing that leaves me breathless.

  I wish you hadn’t left.

  What does that mean? Is he saying he wishes I’d stayed and spent the night in his bed? And if so, why does the thought of that make everything inside me go haywire? My chest feels too small for my heart and lungs. My belly is fluttering, and the hot, tight feeling of desire that’s been missing from my life for five long, lonely years has come roaring back to remind me that while Tony is gone forever, I’m still very much alive.

  And I want this man.

  My phone chimes with another text from him.

  Sorry if that’s too blunt. He includes the smiley face and red-face emojis. But it’s true. I wish you were still here.

  Before I can give in to my propensity to overthink everything, I respond to him. I wish I was still there, too.

  Really? You do?

  I laugh out loud at his silly reply and send the laughing and crown emojis followed by a text. Drama queen.

  No, seriously. Today was just so . . . perfect. It was an absolutely perfect day, and that’s because of you.

  And you. I enjoyed it, too. So much.

  My pho
ne rings, and it’s him, asking to FaceTime with me. I run my fingers through my wet hair and take the call. “If I look frightening, it’s because I had no time to brush my hair.”

  “You couldn’t look frightening if you tried.”

  I swallow hard at the sight of him sitting up in bed, his chest bare and the sheet gathered around his waist. Is he naked under there? I zero in on the golden hair that covers his chest and abdomen, arrowing down toward the sheet. I lick lips that’ve gone dry as I check him out. “You should see me first thing in the morning.” The words are out before I take a second to contemplate what exactly I’m saying.

  He responds with a wolfish grin that melts my panties. Oh wait, I’m not wearing any. Crap. “I’d love to see you first thing in the morning. When would you like to do that?”

  I giggle like a silly girl, which is exactly how he makes me feel. Like I’m once again young with my heart still intact the way it was before tragedy shattered my world and crushed me. I’ve forgotten how it feels to be lighthearted, whole, happy, excited for the future. These emotions wash over me in a tidal wave of elation that meeting Jason has brought back into my life.

  “I apologize for being inappropriate,” he says, bringing me back to reality.

  “You were joking. I know that.”

  “Um, well, no, not really. I can’t stop thinking about being with you and kissing you and how amazing that was.”

  “It was pretty amazing.”

  “I’m glad you think so, too.”

  “I do.”

  “So yeah, not joking about wishing I could see you first thing in the morning, and all the rest of the time, too.”

  He’s so cute and so sexy and so . . . I have to stop myself from diving straight off the cliff into whatever this is with him. I have to remember the years I spent in school preparing for my new job. He is my job for the time being, and as much as I want to take that dive, I probably shouldn’t do that right now. Although, after kissing his face off, it’s a little late to be warning myself off him.

  “I know what you’re going to say.”