Sweet Tooth: A Second Chance Romance

by Aria Ford

  Okay, so the thing that makes me want to cry the most is thinking about Griffin. Maybe I have a little crush on him that won’t go away. Maybe I sleep in his Armani shirt every night. Maybe I wrote it all down in a notebook so I wouldn’t forget a thing. And sometimes I read it, like a favorite movie I can’t quit watching or the dirtiest diary on the planet. It doesn’t just turn me on, though. It makes me yearn for him. Like a throat-squeezing, misty-eyed longing in my chest. I do need to get over the Griffin part of the crying, but that should end pretty soon, I think. How long can a girl cry over someone she only knew for less than twenty-four hours? Surely not more than the, let’s see, six weeks or so since I saw him. I bet I quit missing him any day now.

  I’ve been thinking that for weeks. That I’d just forget to think about him all day. That I wouldn’t look for him in the restaurant whenever there’s a dark-haired customer. That I wouldn’t stop and hope so hard every time my phone gives me a text alert—maybe he’s tracked me down. Maybe he’s found me and wants to see me. He could track me down if he wanted to. I’m not stupid. I know he could have his secretary call Marilyn’s office and have my contact info in about six seconds. It’s obvious that he knows as well as I do that we’re not meant for each other. We had one amazing night together, but we don’t make sense. That he’d only break my heart. My dumbass heart that keeps scanning every crowd of people for his perfect face.

  My alarm goes off on Friday morning. Instead of hopping up and making my bed like I usually do, I lay there. My head hurts. Not a little, but like that dull, horrible headache you get when your whole body hurts and you can’t drag yourself up to get Tylenol. I had some kind of virus. One of the kitchen crew at the restaurant had a sick kid last week. I bet she brought the germs in. I groan, wishing for sleep, for Tylenol and a glass of water. I stagger up and get to the bathroom. I have two pills in my mouth when I start throwing up in the sink. It’s miserable. It’s like some monster just stuck its finger down my throat. I drop to my knees and lean my head on the cabinet. I have to get up and go to work. I pull myself up and then retch again. I manage to get back to the bed and text Dominic. I’m too sick to go to work. I flop back on the bed and try to sleep, but I’m too wretched.

  When Amy gets home, I moan loud enough she can hear me and she comes in the room.

  “What’s wrong? You’re supposed to be at work.”

  “Sick,” I mumble, “Do we have any ginger ale? Please, please take money out of my purse and go buy some.”

  She goes, comes back and brings me a glass. I try to sip it and bolt for the bathroom to throw up again.

  “So much for that settling your stomach,” she says. “Just try to drink when you can. You don’t want to dehydrate.”

  “I know, Dr. Amy,” I say.

  Amy’s a CNA, which means she does the dirty work and doesn’t get paid very well. She rolls her eyes at me and leaves me in peace. Hours later, I wake up to an alert from my phone that I have a catering event at seven. I can’t. I’m too exhausted. I message the manager and go back to bed. It’s much later before I feel like taking a shower and trying to eat. As soon as I do, the ginger ale and cracker come right back up.

  I spend the whole weekend sick. I’m so weak I can hardly even move from the bed. When Amy checks I don’t have a fever. She tries to get me to swallow a sports drink and talks about my electrolytes and I just curl up miserably. Monday morning, my alarm goes off. I feel so tired. I message Dominic and tell him I’m not better yet and I’m sorry. I really don’t want to lose my job. But I can’t do it. There’s no way I can get dressed and carry food and talk to people. I might make them sick, for one thing. For another, I feel like I’m going to vomit again.

  Dominic issues me a stern warning about my hours being cut if I don’t show up tomorrow. I start to cry. I want to wear Griffin’s shirt for the comfort, but I don’t want to get vomit on it when I inevitably start throwing up again. So I lay it on the bed beside me and hold the cuff like I’m holding his hand. I don’t bother to worry about how pathetic that is.

  Amy bursts in when she gets home. “You’re going to the doctor,” she says.

  “No,” I say, “I’ll be okay. I just need to rest.”

  “That’s all you’ve done for three days. If it were a virus, it would’ve run its course by now.”

  “It’s the flu. The flu can last over a week,” I say.

  “Yeah, but two problems there. One, the actual flu is respiratory, and you’ve been puking. Two, it’s not flu season. There have been zero cases of the flu in like two months. So it’s not the flu.”

  “Shut up,” I mutter, “I’m getting better. Last night I ate three crackers and kept down some water.”

  “You don’t look good. No fever. Sick as hell. You need to see a doctor.”

  “No,” I moan, “I just got some money saved.”

  “I know. You look at that bank app like three times a day to gloat.”

  “It makes me feel good,” I say.

  “You have to take care of yourself. It’s not like Dominic will let you keep that job if you don’t show up.”

  “Everybody gets sick sometimes, Amy. It’s not like I won’t get better. I just need to rest. I do not need to blow all the money I saved on some stupid doctor bill. I’ll go to the ER, and they’ll bill me like a thousand bucks to give me IV fluids and tell me it’s a virus.”

  “I’m serious, Caleigh,” she says. I know that voice. There’s no arguing with her now.

  “The free clinic doesn’t do acute care,” I whine.

  “No, but they do pregnancy tests. You slept with that guy last month, didn’t you?”

  I nod. It hurts to nod.

  “Did you at least use a condom? Tell me you did.” Amy says.

  “No,” I moan, “we didn’t.”

  “So you lied to me. You didn’t take care of your safety, and now you’ve either got an STI or you’re pregnant. Do you have abdominal pain? Does it hurt to pee?”

  “No, I’m sick at my stomach, and I’m tired.”

  “You’re peeing on a stick.”

  “No, it’s not that. I’m sick,” I insist.

  Even as I say it, I wonder. Could I be pregnant? By Griffin Doyle? I feel tears sting my eyes. It would be so inconvenient. I’d have to take time off, find a daycare, somehow pay all kinds of bills, and still find time to read to a baby and cuddle him and—and I want Griffin’s baby. I want my baby, when it comes to the point. I bite my lips.

  Amy’s already left, presumably to get a pregnancy test. I know she’s right about the condoms. I know she’s right about all of it, but I wish she’d leave me alone to sleep.

  When she comes back, she makes me take the test. The two lines come up almost instantly.

  “That’s some seriously pregnant pee you got there,” she smirks, “those things are supposed to take three minutes.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” I whisper.

  “Say I was right. Then get your pants on. We’re going to the free clinic. You need to get checked out. Figure out what you want to do.”

  “I’m keeping him.”

  “What?”

  “I’m going to have a baby. I’m going to be a mom.”

  I start crying. She goes in and gets jeans and a T-shirt for me, makes me put them on. I know she should be asleep now. I know she’s being a good friend. But I don’t want to face the PA down at the free clinic and explain that I had unprotected sex with a stranger and now I’m knocked up. It seems so trashy. I don’t feel trashy, though. I feel shocked and scared and lucky all at once.

  Amy goes with me. I can’t tell if she’s being supportive or if she just wants to make sure I follow her advice. We’ve never been really close, but I’m happy to have her with me, whatever the reason. She sits by me in the waiting room. She waits outside while I have tests.

  At the free clinic, they do a blood test. They swab me for STIs. They give me a prescription for prenatal vitamins and tell me which grocery store pharmacy fi
lls them for free. I have to come back in three months for another HIV test, but everything was negative this time. I breathe a sigh of relief there. Then a nurse makes me sit and listen to lots of information about risky behaviors and the consequences of having unprotected sex. She gives me a free three-pack of condoms. I take my condoms, my prescription, and my flaming, embarrassed face out of the clinic.

  I am completely exhausted, but I’m happy. It’s the stupidest sensation, this bubbling well of happiness inside me. I’m having a baby. A baby I want and love. After years of being alone, I’ll have a family again. Someone who belongs to me. I try to keep my mind on that, not on the sheer panic I feel about how I’ll handle the responsibility. I’m going to have to look in to what kind of maternity leave I get at work, the unpaid kind I assume. I make myself send Amy home to sleep. I go to a bodega down the block from our apartment and buy some stuff I think I can eat. Soup, some canned fruit, saltine crackers. I must sit down at the table before I can even heat up the soup. Now that I have a baby to take care of, I know I have to eat. I take my time and get the soup ready and make myself swallow tiny spoonful’s of it. I can do this.

  Although happy about what was becoming in my stomach, I go to bed early and cry. It’s all I can do. My dreams of going back to school or even taking online classes are over for good. I have a child to support. A maternity leave and hospital bills to save up for. Childcare costs and clothes and toys and a crib. I may have to look for a new job if I can’t make the hours work. I think about it—about how my mom will never know she’s a grandmother, never hold my baby, never smooth the sweaty hair back off my face when I’m in labor. I want her now very strongly. The only thing I want more than my mom is Griffin.

  I could call him. I could tell him. But I don’t want him to think I’m a gold digger. That I got pregnant on purpose to trap him or take his money. I don’t want him to know because he’ll hate me. He’d do the right thing. He’d help with the baby, make sure we didn’t have to worry about money, but that’s not what I want for my child—to be someone’s financial obligation. Griffin doesn’t want a relationship with me. I know it’s for the best. I’d rather struggle on my own than take the easy way out.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Griffin

  The board of directors is pissed off at me. It’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last.

  I just couldn’t stomach it. Doing business with the Simpson brothers. Not after what Randy did to Kate. I didn’t handle it well at the time. I should have put him in the hospital and told Nathan to fuck himself and then trashed the deal. I can do Thorns anywhere. It doesn’t have to be the Simpson’s shitty pirate club. There’s plenty of real estate in this city, real estate that’s not associated with a goddamned rapist. It made me sick to think of him profiting off the deal. Making a decision, I ended it.

  Now the board is making me explain myself. I don’t like answering to anybody. Since I sold off some shares to investors a couple years ago when I needed capital for new projects, I have to answer them. I have to answer their questions. I practiced looking humble in the mirror while I shaved this morning. I’m not very good at it, especially since my first instinct is to tell them to fuck off. I make the decisions. I’m the one who started pop up clubs in college and parlayed that into a chain of wildly successful nightspots in four major US cities. They’re just money men who want an explanation.

  “Gentlemen,” I say by way of greeting, “I’m sure you invited me here today to speak to you about Thorns. The prospective location you approved purchase of has proven to be less than viable for our business model.”

  “Is there any truth to the rumor that you backed out of the deal over a woman?” Charlie Price says.

  “No, I withdrew from the agreement as a result of a felony. I witnessed Randy Simpson raping a waitress at a private dinner. I stepped in to prevent further assault, but even after the ink was dry on the contract, my conscience wouldn’t let me go forward.” I say. It’s a diplomatic way of telling them that I want to ruin the son of a bitch, not buy his club.

  “Is there litigation in the case?” one of the lawyers says.

  “Not currently. No criminal charges were filed, and Simpson’s office indicates there is no civil suit pending,” I say. “Regardless, it would damage our brand to be associated with the Simpsons. I hope you agree that we don’t wish to grant tacit approval to sexual harassment or assault by doing business with them.”

  The board agrees, and I am fully empowered to scout a new location. Which is good since I found one already and put in a bid on it. I didn’t doubt my ability to sway the board. Just like I don’t doubt my ability to drive the Simpsons out of business and out of town.

  I’m not just backing out of a deal.

  I’m taking them down.

  For Kate. For every woman Randy has mistreated, hurt, harassed, and raped. And for myself, because I know it’s the right thing to do—as much as revenge can be right. My mother didn’t raise me to be vengeful, but she did raise me to stand up for what was right. One might say I’m putting my own spin on those teachings.

  It’s something I can do for Kate. She’s never far from my mind. I think of her all the time. When I wake up certainly. And during the day. I was in Tokyo, and I thought of her when my taxi drove past a McDonald’s. Of the crazy-happy smile she gave me over a couple of sausage burritos. When I could give her diamonds. I could give her the world, but she didn’t want the world from me. I gave her my card. She could have contacted me at any time during the last few weeks. Six. Six weeks and four days to be exact. Not that I’m the kind of man who wastes time keeping track of things like that.

  I went out on a date. A couple of them, as a matter of fact. One of them was a pretty redhead, MIT graduate, didn’t laugh too much or talk about being a vegan all the time. Everything was in her favor. Except after dinner, I took off. Told her I had a headache or an early meeting or an emergency—I don’t remember which. I just knew where it was headed—she expected me to kiss her, to take her to bed. She put her hand on mine at dinner, and I pulled mine away like she’d scalded me. I didn’t want a beautiful and accomplished woman to touch me even for a second. I am not a man who has dry spells, who goes a month or more without having sex. Until now.

  I haven’t touched another woman since Kate.

  I haven’t wanted to.

  That’s the scary part. I’m not attracted to anyone else. Usually I have to tell myself two or three times a day to be professional, to not check out some fine ass or great cleavage that I see. Now I won’t even talk to a woman who sends over a bottle of wine and her number when I’m at a business dinner. Back then I would’ve sent her my room key and made a night of it. Now, I just send back the wine with an apologetic smile and a note that says ‘no, thank you’. My secretary has overstepped the bounds of our working relationship twice to ask if I’m sick or secretly married. Because she’s not having to make reservations or send flowers or make orders from La Perla. I don’t think I’m sick. I know I’m not married. I just lost interest as if I’m already taken.

  I would rather be alone with the memory of that night, of having her up against a brick wall, her flesh trembling under my hands. I would rather think of her on my own than be with another woman.

  Nothing takes my mind off that woman.

  I finalize the deal on the new club in less than half a day. Then I call in my design team to talk rebranding so Thorns will fit our aesthetic. I call marketing and tell them to get a teaser campaign placed in all the Rose clubs to whip up interest in the new club. I’ve done a good day’s work. So, when I head out to the gym and see a blond ponytail swish by, I’m surprised when it catches me in the gut. It’s not her, but I always think it will be. Every blond. Every woman I see, my eyes are searching for the mysterious and captivating Kate.

  I could have my secretary call EA and have that waitress’s information on my desk within minutes, perhaps even seconds. Griffin Doyle does not chase women though. She made i
t clear she didn’t want more than one night, no matter how many times I made her scream. I couldn’t make her want to be mine. I’ve never had to learn to handle rejection, since she’s the first woman who’s ever seemed able to resist me. Maybe I just want what I can’t have.

  But that’s not it, she has to want it too. I want the way she kissed me. The way her hands clutched at my shirt. The way she held me when we slept—the time she spooned up behind me, and it felt like paradise. I want her. I don’t know her name, but she’s in my head. I’m afraid she may be in more than just my head.

  I haven’t been sleeping either. When I do, I dream about her. Not about the fiery intensity of our night together, but about trying to get to her when Randy Simpson had his hands around her throat. I dream about it over and over, and sometimes I don’t get to her in time. She haunts me.

  When Gina calls, even she notices something is off with me.