“I can’t blame you,” Eric said, letting me off the hook with a grin. “I don’t even have ovaries, and she makes mine explode—oh, but that reminds me.”
Even though we were in the stairwell and at least six boroughs away from where Bernice lived in Harlem, he lowered his voice to tell me, “I’ve got possible tea. Get this, I had my car at work the other day, so I gave Bernice and O2 a ride home. This G-Latham song came on, and she was all like, ‘Turn it off’ even though it was the Pure Pop radio edit, so no curse words. Then O2 was like, ‘I love this song!’ And Bernice gets into this weird argument with her, asking her where she heard it, telling her she didn’t want her listening to ‘his’ music. Then she flat-out yells at me to turn it off—so do you think G-Latham is O2’s secret father?”
I squinted, and though I tried my best always to be polite, I had to tell him, “The only thing crazier than you insisting on hanging on to that car in this city is the idea that some country singer is the father of her daughter.”
“Okay, first of all, I am a Californian—that means I need a car. It’s in my blood. And second of all, he was a country trap artist—so hitting all the markets, including people who like hip-hop.”
“You’ve been living on the East Coast for eighteen years,” I answered. “And maybe Bernice just really hates country music, even if there’s a trap beat underneath it.”
“I will never give my car up,” Eric insisted, his voice righteous and resolute. “And she’s cousins with Colin Fairgood. How can she hate country music?”
“She’s his cousin-in-law,” I edited. “Just because her favorite cousin married a country superstar, doesn’t mean she—”
“Plus, O2 is obviously biracial,” Eric pointed out before I could finish my sensible argument. “And I’ve never seen Bernice date a white guy.”
“Half of New York is multiracial, and we’ve never seen Bernice date anybody,” I retorted.
We were both doctors, but sometimes it felt like I was the only one who believed in reason and logic. “It could be anybody.”
“Yeah, anybody.” Eric opened the first floor’s heavy metal door for me. “But if it were a famous somebody, that would explain why she won’t tell me who it is. Or you—you know, the woman she named her whole baby after?”
Of course, Eric was wrong about G-Latham. But I had to admit he had a point about Bernice’s secretiveness on the subject of Olivia 2’s father. Still…
“It’s her business,” I reminded Eric as I walked through the door he was holding open for me. “And we have no right to pressure her to tell us who it is or to gossip about her behind her back. Now can we please change the subject?”
“Fine!” Eric answered with a dramatic roll of his eyes. But he perked up to ask, “So, where’s your future baby daddy taking you for your birthday?”
“Oh, well, he asked me to wear an evening gown tonight because….”
Eric’s eyes widened. “Ooh, is he taking you to the new production of Chrysanthemum with that one autistic opera singer? I hear it’s spectacular, but I couldn’t even get tickets!”
“…we’re going to a charity gala to celebrate Chrysanthemum’s upcoming opening night at his parent’s place,” I finished with an apologetic wince.
Eric deflated—then jerked his head. “Wait. Are you trying to tell me he’s making you go to some charity gala? On your birthday?”
“No,” I answer, rushing to Garrett’s defense, the same way I still cheered for the Louisville Cardinals, even though I had serious reservations about the long-term effects of concussions.
But then I had to admit. “I’m pretty sure Garrett didn’t remember it was my birthday when he told me I needed to be there.”
“What?” Eric caught my arm to stop us walking. “And what did he say when you reminded him?”
I silently sighed. “Um…”
Eric’s mouth dropped open, and he stared at me for a long disbelieving second before guessing correctly, “You didn’t tell him!”
He threw up his hands. “Why are you like this? Why don’t you ever stand up for yourself?”
“Garrett’s been crazy stressed at work lately,” I rushed to explain.
Eric jerked his head back. “Bitch, so are you. You founded, run, and work at an accessible clinic for women with disabilities. And you still managed to find the time to throw him a surprise party on his last birthday.”
True. But… “I don’t need anybody making a huge fuss about my birthday anyway. And reminding Garrett would have just made him feel guilty when he already has so much stuff on his plate—ooh, isn’t that the construction worker you were flirting with last week?”
I pointed at the tattooed honey brown man standing in line for the Smith machine.
Eric followed my finger and let out a frustrated growly sound when he saw who I was pointing at. “Yes, that’s him. And I know I shouldn’t let you change the subject, but those tattoos….”
Eric fanned himself. “You know I’m powerless when it comes to racially ambiguous bad boys.”
“Yes, I know you are,” I said, sympathetic to his dilemma but also grateful for the distraction from my disappointing birthday plans. “And you should go talk to him while he’s still standing around and waiting.”
Eric shifted hesitantly from foot to foot. “Do you think so?”
“I’m not even sure why we’re even having this conversation,” I answered with a shake of my head. “I mean, we both know you’re going over there.”
Eric grimaced and inhaled through his teeth. “Yeah, I am. But really quick before I go….”
He spewed advice while walking away backward. “I understand that your biological clock is ticking, but is Garrett truly everything you want in a marriage partner? I mean, you don’t even feel comfortable enough to tell him that he forgot your birthday. I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure engagements aren’t supposed to be this much of a trudge. Okay, love you, bye!”
I wasn’t any kind of expert either, but Eric’s words echoed in my mind as I walked over to the treadmill section.
I mean, I wanted to have a baby, and Garrett and I were great on paper. Perfect even. Both my mother and my sister insisted that I was so lucky to have gotten a second chance with him.
They’d been pleasantly shocked that despite my “circumstances,” I’d been able to land an i-banker who hailed from the prominent Easton Whiskey family and hadn’t understood why I broke up with him ten years ago.
So, they were overjoyed when I started dating him again five years after our breakup. And they’d acted like it was a miracle akin to Jesus turning spinster water into wife wine when he actually asked me to marry him.
And they were right. I’d been sure they were right…at least up until I delivered Luca and Amber Ferraro’s baby. The mafia don had been so connected with his blind wife during her difficult delivery, so obviously in love with her.
It had made me want things I never had before in my relationship with Garrett. Not just respect and occasional companionship when our schedules synced, along with the eventual birth of our double heir child.
I hungered for things like passion and tender love. The kind of things that I’d assumed only existed in books and films until I witnessed it for myself in real life.
Amber was blind and couldn’t see the way her husband looked at her. But I had no doubt she’d felt it.
And over a year later, as I climbed on the only empty treadmill in the packed gym, I wondered what it would be like to have someone look at me the way Luca Ferraro looked at his wife. With such intensity. With such love….
Though, speaking of intense stares—a little old lady walking slowly on the treadmill beside my chosen machine did a visible double-take when she saw me.
Then outright stared.
Oh, no, here we go again. Most days, I loved Eric’s neighborhood gym, which bordered Chinatown because it was still somewhat diverse compared to the rest of a rapidly gentrifying Manhattan. But there was a particular
portion of the population among their membership—like little old Asian men and women—who didn’t mind openly staring at me when I wandered into their purview. As if I was a freak of nature, a blue-black giraffe who’d somehow wandered into their ecosystem of Chinese people and gay men.
And unfortunately, this particular gaper wanted to talk.
After a shocked moment, she immediately began to babble in a language that sounded like Chinese.
Okay, well….pretending not to hear or see her, I punched in a light six miles an hour jog into the machine and stuck my AirPods into my ears.
Lizzo’s voice filled my headphones, replacing the old woman’s nosy questions. But then I startled when someone patted me insistently on the arm.
It was the little old lady trying to get my attention.
And darn my polite southern upbringing, I just couldn’t bring myself to keep on ignoring her. I took out my AirPods and turned to politely answer her questions—
One moment she was there, smiling because she’d gotten my attention, and the next, she was whipping backward. She hovered horizontally in the air for a brief heart-stopping millisecond before gravity re-introduced itself most brutally.
Her upper body hit the tread, and her dentures went flying before the unfeeling machine ejected her unceremoniously onto the gym floor.
They always make it look so funny in movies and commercials when people fly off treadmills. But I can tell you right now, watching it happen in real life was one of the most horrific non-childbirth-related things I’d ever witnessed in my entire life.
Gasps went up all around us as I jabbed my finger into the treadmill’s emergency stop button.
“Call 9-1-1!” I yelled out before running to the little old lady’s aid.
2
Everything happened in a whirlwind after that.
“No! No!” the old lady cried out when I tried to move away after the paramedics arrived.
She didn’t speak much English beyond that, but she managed to make her feelings clear on the subject of me leaving her side. She held on to my hand with both of hers, her grip surprisingly strong despite her injuries. There were lacerations and friction burns all over her face. Blood and nasal discharge streamed from her nose. And we really couldn’t rule out a possible concussion.
Leaving her side agitated her and her wounds, so after finding out I was a doctor, the paramedics let me stay so that they could check her over without upsetting her too much. Then I somehow found myself running alongside the gurney as they rushed her toward the ambulance.
She still wouldn’t let go of me when they put her in the back of the emergency vehicle, so I ended up racing toward Chelsea Sinai with her, even though I didn’t have privileges there.
She didn’t have a phone on her—just a single gym membership card with her name. And unfortunately, she’d been with the gym so long her only emergency contact was for a husband who’d died over ten years ago.
One of the nurses who helped the paramedics and me transfer her from the stretcher to a hospital bed figured out that she was speaking Cantonese. And she called up a medical interpreter on an iPad.
Considering the little old lady didn’t speak a lick of English, you’d think she would have let me go when we managed to find someone who could communicate in her language.
But she continued to grip my hand tight as she went back and forth with the interpreter…
“She’s saying to tell you that her grandson isn’t a villain,” the interpreter told me after a few moments. “She says he looks like a villain, but he is a sweet boy underneath all that scary. She wants you to promise to stay until he arrives.”
I scrunched my forehead. “What? Why?”
“No idea,” the medical interpreter answered, looking just as baffled as me. “But she’s saying she won’t give us her grandson’s number unless you agree to stay until he gets here. She says it’s very important because she wants to uh…die?”
The interpreter’s tone went up with confusion, turning the last word into a question. And I blinked several times myself.
“Should we get psych down here?” I asked the nurse holding the iPad.
The nurse frowned. “Possibly…”
We both glanced over at the old woman, who didn’t look suicidal at all. She gave me a huge gummy smile as if she couldn’t even feel the pain from her wounds and surely broken nose.
“Either way, we need to get her grandson down here,” the nurse added. “Do you mind just agreeing with her so that she’ll give us the information we need?”
I glanced at my watch. The gala was about to start.
But the little Chinese widow was old and alone and in a hospital where she didn’t speak the language. I couldn’t just leave her here. So I agreed, “Sure, I’ll stay.”
And after they got her all patched up, I used my free hand to text Garrett.
Sorry, running late. Emergency at the hospital.
Garrett’s answer came back in an instant.
GARRETT: You can’t skip out on this. I already told my mother you’d be here, and you know how she gets.
Irritation flared because I was spending my birthday in a hospital with an old woman who refused to let go of my hand, trying to explain my tardiness to the fiancé who’d forgotten about it altogether.
But I tamped that anger down before it could rise to my texting thumbs. Garrett was right. I had promised, and the only thing I hated more than not keeping my word was being late.
I’m genuinely sorry. I’ll be there as soon as I can.
Dots filled up my screen, and I wondered if this would finally lead to the fight we’ve never had, not even the first time we broke up ten years ago.
Maybe Garrett would finally yell at me about my schedule or demand that I cut back my hours and spend more time with him.
Or maybe he would be the braver one in our relationship. The one who finally admitted out loud that we weren’t the match my mother and sister insisted we were.
I mean, surely he had to feel it too. That we weren’t a real couple but two people playing the roles assigned to them long after the little real desire we had for each other had run its course.
I waited for his reply, literally holding my breath. And I couldn’t say what I’d feel if he wrote back either of those things. Sadness? The anger I never allowed myself to indulge? Relief?
But as long as it took him to type the message, his answer came back nice and short.
GARRETT: Okay. Understand. Text me when you’re on your way and I’ll meet you outside so that we can walk in together.
I let out the breath I’d been holding in a weird anti-climatic spurt. I should have known he’d be fine. Garrett was always fine. That was what made him such a perfect fiancé.
My mom and sister were probably right. I should try to be more grateful for the successful and handsome fiancé who put up with me instead of daydreaming about a guy who’d look at me like Luca Ferraro looked at his wife.
That hypothetical man was a ridiculous fantasy. Garrett was my real life. And as my sister, Skylar had pointed out on more than one occasion, there were plenty of other women in New York who’d be happy to snap him right on up.
I slipped my phone back into the Hermes bag my mother had gotten me as a graduation present from medical school—not because she was proud of me. She and my sister were the sort of old-school Southern rich that didn’t believe in modern things, like wives working outside the home for actual money.
They were the kind of women who sat on non-profit boards for popular charities and volunteered their nannies and maids for any and all grunt work. So Mom had been embarrassed, verging on mortified when I showed up to the graduation party she insisted on throwing for me back in Kentucky carrying a sturdy cross-body Baggallini I’d scored at Century 21.
I’d received the graduation gift the next day not in a box or bag but with the contents of my disappeared Baggallini already deposited inside my purse.
Of course, I hadn’t be
en bratty enough to turn down the gift—or even ask where my original bag had gone. I’d just taken diligent care of it ever since.
Because I was lucky and should be grateful for everything I’d received.
I needed to remember that. I mean, who complains about receiving a Hermes bag as a graduation gift? Or puts off marrying her gorgeous fiancé for two years when she’s supposedly dying for a baby?
I chastised myself as I turned to hang the expensive leather bag off the back of my seat as opposed to just plopping it down anywhere—
Without warning, a wave of adrenaline surged through my body, and every fear response I’d read about in medical textbooks started happening all at once.
Goosebumps—check.
Hair rising on the back of my neck—check.
Sudden urge toward flight or fight paralyzing me into freeze mode—check.
What the heck?
Only one person had ever made me feel like this in my life, and somehow I knew who had just entered the curtained-off cubicle even before I unfroze enough to look up.
This only made the internal reaction worse. My sympathetic nervous system released even more adrenaline and cortisol, increasing my heart rate and shunting blood away from my digestive system, which caused that butterflies in the stomach feeling that books are always talking about.
Sure enough, it was him…the huge Asian man who’d paid a visit to my office to talk about Dawn Kingston, the Mount Holyoke grad who’d mysteriously dropped out of her internship just a couple of days before she was due to start.
That had been ten years ago. But not much had changed.
The man who stood at the hospital cubicle room’s curtain was still difficult for me to describe—to look at even.
I was tall. Five-nine without heels. He wasn’t just taller than me but larger. So large that I was sure a lot of tailoring must have gone into his outfit—both the dark grey suit and the black wool coat he wore over it. Maybe even the scarf had to be lengthened to accommodate his height and girth.
Phantom: Her Ruthless Fiancé: 50 Loving States, Kentucky (Ruthless Triad) Page 2
