by Kat T. Masen
I only want good things for Zoey.
And whether or not I’m a good thing is yet to be determined.
“Okay, Miss Richards. I need to take a swab. Do you want Mr. Baldwin present?”
I answer yes, the same time she says no.
“No,” she warns me sternly. “This is already so embarrassing. It would be nice to leave with some sort of dignity.”
I walk out shutting the door behind me. Outside the room, I sit in the waiting area along with the other patients. It feels like an eternity, the clock taunting me with its slow precise movements. The magazines that casually sit on the table beside me are dated and seem uninteresting. There is nothing else to do but close my eyes and wait.
Sometime later, she emerges, eyes swollen and bloodshot. Her lips are quivering, and with shaky legs, she walks to me almost collapsing in my arms. I jump to my feet, just in time, catching her as she falls.
“It’ll be okay, Zo. I swear my life on it,” I whisper, kissing the top of her head while she weeps into my chest.
It’s a big promise to make.
I have everything to lose, my whole life riding on it.
And that only confirms my feelings for Zoey.
She is my whole life.
And without her, I have nothing.
Chapter Seventeen
Zoey
I have never been so terrified in my life.
Dr. Taylor explained more about the STD, how it’s contracted, and if found positive, ways it could be treated. I told him about Callie and how she couldn’t have kids. He went on and explained further about the symptoms she would have experienced that led to her being infertile. The thought of not having kids weighs heavily on my mind. Much like Callie’s predicament, what man would want me if I couldn’t have children? It’s the only thing I can think about now that there’s this possibility of it being taken away from me.
I want nothing more than to pee on that stick, see the two blue lines, and feel the pure joy many women have told me they experienced. I want to attend an ultrasound, see and hear my baby’s first heartbeat. I want that first kick, and to have weird cravings and eat pickles with ice cream at three-o’clock in the morning. I want to go into labor, scream my lungs out, all the while blaming my husband that it was all his fault and march on over to the operating room for a quick snip.
I want to be a mother.
And that feeling alone is what hurts the most. That it may never be. Granted, I know there are other options, but this, this can’t be happening to me. I’m only twenty-nine. I studied in college and finished my degree in architecture. I wasn’t a complete airhead. I should have known better.
My head is on the verge of exploding. The clock is ticking, counting down to the grand finale, the explosion that sends me cuckoo and shaving my head like Britney Spears.
Jess and his need to fix things between us is an afterthought. Drew and our almost, but not quite, sexual encounter is placed on the ‘I’ll deal with that later’ list.
I just want to grieve the loss of something I never knew how much I wanted until this very moment, when the world feels like it’s spinning, and I’m completely standing still.
I stepped out of Dr. Taylor’s office feeling lightheaded and woozy collapsing into Drew’s arms. Confiding in Drew about what happened between us was extremely difficult but necessary. And the hardest part about this is that I knew I was hurting him. Communication isn’t our strongest trait at this point, and much like an ostrich, Drew has buried his head in the sand, ignoring the obvious problem at hand.
Since my admission of our encounter, things have been awkward between us. You’d be a fool not to see it. Drew tries his best to be supportive but also uses every opportunity to pick up extra shifts at the hospital with the excuse that they’re down in numbers. He struggles to make eye contact with me at the best of times, and maybe I am reading way too much into this, but even his mannerisms and body language aren’t the same.
If I get too close, he flinches.
It’s almost like I make his skin crawl.
And that cut me like a knife.
Despite everything going on, my feelings grow stronger every day. It should have worked in reverse. He isn’t Drew, my roomie. He is Drew, the guy I have a crush on. Yes, call me juvenile, but love is such a powerful word and one that I’m not ready to use.
At least, I don’t think so.
It’s what happens when you’ve used the term so loosely in the past.
In our teens, we threw around the word ‘love’ like it was a bag of potato chips. It didn’t much matter who it was, you called out ‘love you’ to every Tom, Dick, and Harry.
In our twenties, our maturity weighed in. You only used the word ‘love’ after a mind-blowing orgasm. Sex and love came in some sort of package. The better the sex, the more you apparently loved the guy.
And since I’m a week away from being thirty, the theory behind the word ‘love’ has become clearer. It means so much more than sex.
With life being one giant mess, the optimal thing to do would be to call in sick to work and stay in bed with a block of chocolate and The Cure on repeat.
Instead, I wake up at six every morning and hit the gym. I go grocery shopping and rid the fridge and pantry of any junk. I even find myself dressing more nicely each day, and I hate to admit that part of me is doing this so Drew will notice. His type of woman is the gym-hitting, healthy-eating, nice-looking type of girl.
I am appalled at myself for even factoring him into my wardrobe decisions. It’s high school all over again minus the braces and pom-poms.
Work is my haven. Mia is still on her honeymoon, due to return in a couple of days. We have so many new contracts with a ton of work to complete which would have been easy to get through if Mr. Becker was around to answer our questions.
On Tuesday afternoon, he turns up out of the blue and is quick to corner me at my desk.
“So, Zoey, any thoughts on the offer?”
“I’ve had a busy week. Been unwell. Sorry, I just haven’t had a moment…” I trail off.
“I understand, Zoey, but this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.” He laughs, shaking his head in amusement. “What is there to think about? You’re not tied down here.”
I could tell him about a number of things. How this is my comfort zone. How my family lives only an hour away, and as much as they drive me crazy, I can’t imagine being across the world from them. I’m worried that the food tastes different. That I won’t fit in. That the Brits will judge me by my accent, call me an arrogant yank, maybe even a wanker if I rub them the wrong way.
And how the thought of leaving Drew seems incomprehensible.
But they are all excuses.
And the more I think about it, the more it makes me seem stupid and unappreciative of his offer. I’m a grown woman for Pete’s sake. An independent, grown woman who should be able to get on a plane—by herself—and live in a foreign city for the sake of my career. I don’t need my mommy to hold my hand, and I shouldn’t be staying in a place for a man who can’t stand to be near me right now.
“I’ll have an answer by the end of the week, Mr. Becker.”
He leaves me alone for the rest of the day, emailing me links to a few apartments in London that his brother sent him. Curious, I open the links and browse through the pictures attached. It’s completely different, yet exciting. Small, I have to admit, but quaint. The thought of London is growing on me, but can it grow enough so I can leave everything behind?
I welcome the short distraction, until Wednesday morning, when the results come in.
I ask Mr. Becker for the morning off, telling him I need to meet with my realtor about renting my place out should I accept the offer to move to London. He’s quick to say yes, even suggesting I take the whole day off. I hate lying, but telling your boss you’re going to find out if you have an STD or not seems extremely disturbing.
Finding the courage to ask Drew to come with me to Dr. Taylor’s of
fice had been difficult, to say the least. The tension between us has only grown, given we are both on edge, waiting for the results. I need him in case things go wrong. The thought alone makes my stomach churn, and several times over the past few days, I’ve found myself hyperventilating, driven by panic attacks. I don’t have the guts to tell him, worried he will send me to the hospital for a check-up. The last thing I need is to be in the hospital again.
Dr. Taylor’s quick to read out my results—negative for any STDs. Accompanied with the results is a lecture on safe sex. Not only does Dr. Taylor give me multiple pamphlets on how to practice safe sex, he also gives me a handful of condoms. With Drew in the room, my embarrassment is taken to a whole new level. Vaginal, oral, anal, you name it—Dr. Taylor goes on and on. I don’t expect to be sexually active with a man anytime soon, but then again, my mind is only thinking about one person.
The person squirming uncomfortably beside me.
Then, it finally hits me.
This nightmare is over.
My body instantly breathed a sigh of relief when he gave me the all-clear, but soon followed with heavy, drawn-out sobs.
Dr. Taylor leaves the room allowing us a moment of privacy.
“How could I be so stupid?” I whimper, grabbing a tissue from the box sitting beside me, rambling utter nonsense. “I had the safe-sex talk in school. They even did the whole banana and condom thing. Sure, I thought it was hilarious at the time, and maybe my witty jokes which were a hoot in class distracted me from actually paying attention. I mean, that bubble thing you have to do… is that necessary? And what happens if you don’t? Do the sperm free themselves or what?”
Drew rubs my thigh letting out a breath. “We’ve all had our moments, Zo. This was just a stupid mistake…” he pauses, then continues, “Just… just next time listen to the doctor and be safe.”
“There’s no next time,” I blurt out.
He shakes his head trying to rid the involuntary smile gracing his lips. “C’mon, you’re not joining the nunnery.”
“Why not? Sex only leads to trouble. What a mess this has been. Plus, I read an article that nunnery enrollments are low. They predicted by the time 2040 rolls around, we could be nunless.”
“That’s absurd. I don’t know why or how you end up reading articles like that. And besides, if you do become a nun, some guy out there will be missing out on something good,” he says with a low voice removing his hand from my thigh.
I purse my lips, unsure of where to go from here. I swiftly change the subject wanting to leave this sterile environment that makes my skin crawl. “Can we get out of here? Could we maybe grab a bite to eat for lunch? I think we need to talk, Drew.”
“I’ve… um… actually promised my dad I would visit for a couple of days since the hospital allowed me to use some leave.”
“Oh,” I say, a little hurt. “Okay, so you’ll be back when?”
“Hmm… Friday, I guess.”
“Are you still coming out for my birthday?”
“Sure.” He smiles unconvincingly before walking out of the room and saying goodbye.
***
The apartment is lonely without Drew. True to his word, he left that day with his bag packed for his dad’s. I wanted to tell him to stay, to be with me. I wanted to open up about my feelings toward him. I wanted to be honest about how I felt that night when he touched me, and tell him how sick I am of walking on eggshells when we’re in the same room.
But that seemed so selfish, and my heart didn’t want to hurt him anymore.
The one thing I have learned throughout this is my ability to hurt the ones I love. I don’t want to be that person. I am hell-bent on changing my life and finally making grown-up decisions.
Drew’s absence has created more time for me to think, and when Zoey Richards thinks, no good can come from it. I busy myself with cleaning the apartment—every single inch of it. Even getting down on my hands and knees to scrub the orange stain I left on the hallway rug when I was on a bender one night and accidentally spilled a jar of Tang on it. The powder was dry and could have easily been vacuumed had my tears not fallen on the same spot. The rare jar of Tang was a gift from Drew. I’d gone on and on about how much I loved the stuff when I was growing up. One day, he surprised me with it. I was shocked, ecstatic, and extremely thankful for the thoughtful gesture.
And let’s go back to why I was on a bender on a Wednesday night. Jess. He drank every night, afternoon, and morning, and somehow I was dubbed the party pooper for not joining him. The more I thought about him, the easier it became to let go.
He didn’t care about my feelings. He wasn’t the one constantly nagging me to continue studying to further my career, nor was he the one circling job opportunities in the paper and leaving sticky notes with motivational quotes on them next to the pot of coffee some mornings.
Draining my bank account was his priority, making me pay anytime we went anywhere.
He wasn’t the one to secretly pay our electricity bill and not tell me about it, saying it got lost in the mail.
And he didn’t buy me a jar of Tang to cheer me up.
Drew. All Drew.
It became more and more clear that all along, Drew looked out for me. He had my back.
I’m desperate to call him, yet my insecurity is getting the better of me. He did all those things for me as a good friend. Not as someone interested in being my boyfriend.
On Wednesday night, he sends me a text. I almost fall off the couch when I see his name on the screen, beyond excited and nervous.
Drew: Don’t forget to water the plants.
The text alone is boring and uneventful. Usually, he adds something fun, just to rile me up. I can’t blame him. I’ve ruined things between us—lost that spark or whatever it was that made our relationship special.
Zoey: We have plants? Relax, control freak. Your precious plants are still GREEN.
He never responds. On Thursday night, he sends me another uneventful text.
Drew: It’s bin night. Don’t forget to take out the trash.
Again, I respond to him trying to goad some sort of reaction.
Zoey: Does that include the hussy that’s been banging on our door every night asking for you?
I manage to laugh at my joke. Lying in bed, thinking that if a hussy was banging on our door, I would get all kung-fu on her ass. Cue the jealousy, Zoey. I wait for his response, picking up my Kindle and trying to lose myself in a stepbrother romance that’s the latest craze in the book world. I find it hard to get into given every few seconds, my eyes glance to the screen of my cell. Then, I hear a bubble sound and drop the Kindle, picking up my cell, waiting in anticipation.
Drew: Funny.
That’s it? Funny? I’m starting to get annoyed and I type fast, knowing his phone will be near him.
Zoey: What are you up to? I’m reading a stepbrother romance. Do you think it’s weird that the stepbrother and stepsister do it in the house and the parents have no clue? Sure, you can block the noise, but what about the smell?
The bubble teases me again, and unwillingly, I find my legs twitching and waiting impatiently for him to respond.
Drew: Sex doesn’t have a smell, Zoey.
And he calls himself a doctor?
I type quickly.
Zoey: Yes, it does. It’s a combination of sweat, heat, and something I can’t put my finger on.
He quickly responds.
Drew: Cum?
I immediately blush with him using that word. Why? I have no idea. My palms begin to sweat, and suddenly the room is stifling hot.
Removing my shirt, I lie in bed wearing only my tank and shorts.
Zoey: Uh… sure? I don’t know, but your room reeks of it.
A witty response that’s sure to fire him up.
Drew: Stay out of my room, Zoey.
I can tell he’s trying his best not to encourage my immature behavior, but I have to admit, this is fun. Just like in high school when you’d pass notes in
class hoping it would make it to the back of the room and into the hands of your crush.
Mine made it halfway into the hands of Cindy Matthews. Word on the street is that she’s now a lesbian. I often wonder if it had anything to do with my note.
I type quickly, then hit send.
Zoey: Sorry, I went in earlier when I was short on cash for the pizza guy.
I put the cell down for a moment, rushing to the bathroom. Since I’ve adopted healthy eating habits two days ago, I’ve started drinking two liters of water a day. According to online articles, that’s how much water your body needs to stay hydrated. In turn, I need to pee every goddamn minute. A glimpse into life as an old lady with a bladder problem.
Feeling relieved, I wander back to my room and see his response.
Drew: Stay out of my room, Zoey!
I quickly type, noticing my battery is down to one percent. I can make it—live on the edge! Drew hates it when he sees my battery so low. He starts panicking at twenty percent, searching for a charger like he only has seconds to live.
Zoey: Kidding! I haven’t had pizza since last week. You’d be proud of me, I bought a pineapple instead. Bringing fortune and healthy eating into the house.
A smiley face appears on my screen accompanied by his message.
Drew: Good girl. I’ll be back tomorrow for your birthday. Stay out of my room!
Only one more day until he’s back. I’d be glad to have him back home despite the awkwardness between us.
Zoey: I will, drama queen. See you tomorrow, roomie.
