Melted and Whipped

by Cleo Pietsche

  I wrap my arms around Greg, and I cry, too. I can’t imagine how awful the last few hours have been for him, how terrifyingly bad the waiting was and will be.

  “I want to strangle her,” Greg says as I release him. He wipes his nose and eyes with the paper towel, then crumples it up. “I’m so angry, you can’t imagine.”

  “This is what she wanted,” I remind him. “She knew what could happen, and she was willing to risk it.”

  “But it’s not what I wanted to risk,” he says, and despite the logical way his mind is laying out the argument, I see a flash of the fire that makes him such a good match for my sister. “When she decided she had to get pregnant, she wasn’t thinking about what it would do to me. If she wants to get pregnant again, I’m divorcing her.”

  He squeezes his fist around the paper towel.

  “Don’t say that,” I say. “You’re just scared.”

  “No. I mean, yes, I’m scared, and I’m pissed. I’m… I’m going to strangle her the second she gets out of the hospital.” He sounds serious, but I know he would never hurt her.

  “There you are,” I hear Dad’s voice saying. Then, “Emily?”

  I step to the side so I can see past Greg. “I got in a few minutes ago.”

  Dad crushes me in a bear hug. He’s been wearing the same aftershave for as long as I can remember, and the barest traces of the spicy scent are always more than enough to whisk me right back to my childhood.

  “How are you, Em?” Dad holds me at arm’s length to scrutinize my face. “You look well.”

  “Really? Because I didn’t get much sleep, and I feel like crap. You’re the one who looks great.” And he does. He’s got a little less hair, and he’s gained a few pounds, but having taken an early retirement from his career as a bookkeeper suits him.

  Dad squeezes me close as we walk down the hall. “Stacy’s surgery went very well, and the baby is fine. They’re going to do a C-section as soon as the surgeon arrives.”

  “Who did the surgery she just had?” I ask.

  Dad answers. “That was emergency only, to stop the bleeding. Actually delivering the baby requires a specialist.”

  “You’d think,” Greg says, “that she’d at least have planned things so that this would all be happening in the spring or summer, when ninety percent of the hospital staff isn’t on vacation.”

  “It’s going to be fine,” Dad says, slipping into his role of reassuring the anxious and spreading some optimism. “Stacy’s tough.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Greg says. “You should have warned me.”

  “As I recall, he did,” I say. On their first date, no less. Of course, it was useless because Greg had already known Stacy—known all of us—for years and was already head over heels for her.

  Greg’s parents and one of his two brothers are gathered in the waiting area. I greet them, and for the next three hours we alternate between asking and answering questions about each other’s lives.

  I’m telling a story about the Tibetan monks I gave ski lessons to when Dad’s face goes white. He rests a hand on my forearm, but I’ve already fallen silent, already turning in my seat to look at the doctor.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The doctor is barely my age, dressed in a white coat and clutching a clipboard like it’s a prop. “Greg,” he says. “I have a bit of good news.” He grins. “Congratulations. You’re the father of a beautiful little girl.”

  “What?” Greg asks, stunned. “How? She’s not due for surgery yet.”

  “It was a bit of an emergency situation. We had to act quickly, and…” The doctor looks uncomfortable. “We’re understaffed right now. The flu’s going around, and we’re making do with fewer nurses than is ideal, or someone would have come out and told you what was happening several hours ago. After, there was a mix-up. I had another surgery and believed you had been updated.”

  Greg is shaking his head. He doesn’t care; there’s only one thing on his mind. “Can I see them?”

  “Yes.” The doctor addresses all of us. “You can all see her and meet the newest addition to your family, but we have to restrict you to two visitors at a time. If she gets tired, then you’ll have to let her rest.”

  “Greg, Dad, you two go first,” I say. It’s fair considering they’ve been here, dealing with this for hours.

  I don’t have to tell them twice.

  I’m aware I’ve got a silly, stupid smile on my face. Stacy is fine, and I’m officially an aunt. When I found out Stacy was pregnant, I refused to allow myself to consider what that truly meant because I didn’t want to get attached to a future that might not happen. Now it’s sinking in, and it feels like everything’s happened at once. Mentally, I’m not prepared for this. It doesn’t feel real. I wonder if it’s the same for Greg.

  Dad returns. “She’s perfect,” he says. His eyes are dry, but he sounds a little choked up. He squeezes my elbow. “Your turn. When Stacy heard that you’re here, she demanded I send you in. I’m trying not to take it personally,” he says with a smile.

  He never takes anything personally, which is probably how he survived raising two daughters on his own.

  “Which room?”

  “Eight doors down.”

  Torn between running to see my sister and giving Stacy and Greg a few extra moments of privacy, I take my time walking to her room. Most of the beds I pass are empty. I wonder if there’s some kind of phenomenon whereby sick people are able to put off major medical mishaps on official holidays. I smile, imagining it. Why fall ill on a paid holiday if you can wait twenty-four hours and use a sick day?

  I reach the door and stand there, taking in my sister, her face shockingly pale but a warm smile on her lips. Her reddish-blonde hair looks like she spent eight hours on the mountain during a storm without a hat on. Next to her is a baby incubator or some kind of sterile bassinet; I’m hardly an expert. Greg is standing behind the bassinet, staring into it with the most joyful look on his face that I’ve ever seen.

  “You spawned,” I say.

  Stacy’s head turns at the sound of my voice, and her smile gets even bigger. “My favorite maniac,” she says. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Hey,” Greg protests. “Watch the language in front of the kid.”

  I raise my hand like I’m volunteering. “If you’re going to institute a swear jar, let me sponsor it. I’ll never have to work another day of my life.”

  “Your sister’s the one with the potty mouth,” Greg says. He can’t tear his gaze away from his daughter.

  “You both curse like sailors.” I walk across the room. “She looks like a grub.”

  “Told you,” Stacy says. “Greg insists she’s the cutest kid ever. I thought maybe the painkillers were warping my vision or something.”

  “She’s lovely,” I say. “I meant the way they have her wrapped up, and that hat on her head. Wasn’t there some worm or caterpillar in a book we had when we were kids that looked like that?”

  “The Happy Caterpillar.” Stacy never forgets anything. “Anyway, I appreciate that you’re trying to put a positive spin on things, but can I point out the true silver lining here? If she’s homely, she’ll be more likely to develop hobbies and pay attention to her studies.”

  “Why? It didn’t work for you,” I say.

  Stacy grins. She was always the beautiful one, and she knows it. “You don’t see supermodels on the Supreme Court is all I’m saying.”

  “It’s the drugs talking,” Greg announces in a stage whisper to the baby. “Pay no attention to your mama.”

  “Wait.” A frown troubles Stacy’s features. “What the hell are you doing here, anyway? I thought you had to work.”

  Oh… the one thing I forgot about. If Stacy realizes that I flew across the country to see her, she’ll skin me alive. “One of my friends has a private plane,” I say. “He was coming this way anyway. I thought I’d surprise everyone.”

  Greg’s glance flits up my way, then dives down again; he’s n
ot about to confess the truth and get yelled at by Stacy for worrying me.

  “You have a friend with a private plane?” Stacy asks. “Since when? Is he a hundred years old?”

  “It’s someone I went to college with. Porter Loughton. You never met him.”

  “Porter with the golden eyes? The guy you saw spanking that girl behind the movie theater?”

  Stacy’s question finally pulls Greg’s attention away from the baby. He even straightens. “Who’s getting spanked at movie theaters?”

  Heat flushes through my face, and I’m aware I’m way overdressed for a warm hospital room. “No one,” I say quickly, too quickly. “Why do you remember Porter’s name?”

  “Because you talked about him all the time,” Stacy says.

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “You did. Let’s see. He’s six-two, has dark hair, golden eyes, a smile that makes you forget his slightly crooked nose. He smells like—”

  “That’s enough,” I blurt. I’m perplexed because I really don’t remember ever mentioning Porter to my sister.

  “You even broke up with what’s-his-name, but Porter had already moved on. Then you moped around for an eternity and a half.”

  “I’ve never moped over anyone,” I insist, but the seed of doubt has been planted. If she didn’t have so many details, I’d think she was making it all up. “And why do you remember Porter’s name but not Mike, the guy I dated for years?”

  “First, I’m drugged up. Second, I remembered right after,” she says haughtily. “Emily, I love you to death, but you have the absolute worst memory sometimes.”

  “And you’re like the NSA,” I say. “I shudder to think of what you’d be saying if you weren’t all doped up.”

  A sloppy smile takes over her face. “It’s good stuff. The doctor says I’ll be in agony later, so I should enjoy it now. Which is what I’m doing. Are you dating him?”

  “What? Who? No!” I can’t take any more of this conversation. “I think your parents want to meet little Emily,” I say.

  “Jada,” Greg says.

  “Brünnhild,” Stacy says. “But we’re still deciding. I might be more open to compromise if Greg agrees to redo the kitchen.”

  “Not happening,” Greg says.

  I give my sister a careful hug. She smells funny, like disinfectant and… something I can’t put my finger on. Not like herself, that’s for sure.

  Then I realize. It’s what our mom smelled like when she was in the hospital. It must be some kind of industrial detergent or something.

  “Smile, cutie pie.” I pull out my phone and snap a fast photo. She does look like a grub, but she’s adorable, too. “I can’t wait to spoil her,” I say. “Get her tattoos, a drum set, a pony… whatever she wants.”

  “Ski lessons will be fine, evil fairy godmother,” Stacy says.

  I blow her a kiss. I know our lives will never be the same, but as I walk back down to the waiting area, I can’t help but admit I’m rather relieved that my sister’s body hasn’t been inhabited by a rabidly obsessed mommy.

  For the briefest moment, an unfamiliar sensation rolls through me.

  Envy.

  I want what she has. I want an adoring husband who loves me just the way I am, and I want a grub. What leaves me shaken is that when I imagine myself in the maternity ward, it’s Porter who’s standing protectively over our baby.

  Did I really talk about him that much? I guess I must have. All this time I thought it was a silent crush.

  As I think about it, I can almost kind of remember maybe mentioning him once, when I was trying to decide if it was worth ending things with Mike myself or if I should wait for him to meet someone else.

  I remember my promise to give Porter an update, so I text him the photo. Meet Emily the Grub. The name is a work in progress. My sister is great. Thank you so much.

  Those last four words are woefully inadequate to convey my gratitude to Porter for what he did. Even setting aside the emergency, I’m glad I’m here to be part of the baby’s welcoming committee, and as bad as Stacy claims my memory is, I know I’ll never forget that first glimpse.

  What Porter has given me is something I’ll cherish the rest of my life.

  He texts back. That’s a beautiful baby. Not surprising as she shares genes with you. And it was a pleasure to have you as my captive audience for so many hours.

  I stare at what he wrote, and I feel like I’m sixteen again, analyzing the words sent by a boy I like. Because I do like this boy, very much.

  Should I text back? Wait a few minutes?

  Screw it. I write: It’s weird. After hearing your voice so much since last night, it’s in my head. I feel like you must be somewhere nearby.

  That’s a really cheesy thing to write, and the way I said it is awkward, so instead of sending the text, I erase it and try again.

  This time I write: I’d like to take you out to dinner to thank you for all your help.

  The phone rings. It’s Porter, of course.

  “I’ll take you out to dinner,” he says.

  I find myself smiling. “When?”

  “Whenever you want. It turns out there’s quite a bit of work waiting for me here, but other than that, I’m free.”

  “What about tonight?” I ask. “It’s Christmas. Maybe you have plans.”

  “It’s just another Thursday,” Porter says. “My family doesn’t really celebrate the holidays anymore. All my siblings are step-siblings with other families to appease, and my parents are remarried. It’s too complicated when there are so many people involved. Everyone has somewhere else to be.”

  Everyone except Porter, it seems. The thought of him alone for the holidays fills me with sadness.

  “You should come have dinner at my dad’s house,” I suggest. “There’s always way too much food, and we’ll be short one—probably two people.” Because I’m sure Greg will want to stay at the hospital with my sister and their new daughter.

  “Are you sure I wouldn’t be intruding?”

  “Positive. It’s not unusual for us to have a few strays. Not that you’re a stray or anything.”

  Porter’s laugh is rich and deep. “I wasn’t offended. What time do you want me there?”

  “Let me text you in a couple of minutes.”

  “Sounds great. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  After I’ve managed to subdue the schoolgirl-crush grin that wants to take over my face, I go to find Dad.

  “Dinner?” he says when I tell him I’ll be bringing a friend. He slaps his forehead. “I completely forgot. We’ll have to cancel. I’m not ready.”

  I guess Porter and I will have to find something else to do.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Porter is waiting when I walk out of the hospital. His car is pure white, an impressive feat given how much mud and salt is on the streets.

  He’s my knight in shining armor, I think. Because it’s true. When I most needed help, he was there, knowing exactly what to do and what to say. He got me to my family, and he kept me distracted during the flight.

  I feel a little guilty that all I want to do is rip off his clothes. Well, maybe I want him to rip off my clothes. Yeah, that sounds much better.

  “What’s that little smile for?” he asks as he holds the door open for me.

  “You don’t have to do that,” I murmur. “And it’s nothing. I’m just excited that I get to see you so soon again.”

  “Glad to hear it.” He grins. “And I’ll get the door because I’m a gentleman. If that’s a problem, we can settle it in the bedroom.”

  “As I recall, you’re no gentleman. Anyway, how would we do that?” I ask as he slides behind the steering wheel and shifts the car into first gear.

  He shoots me a look. “Well, it could happen a lot of ways. I could strip you naked, tie you up, and spank you until you’re a sobbing, quivering mess.”

  My face flushes with heat. Thirty seconds of being near him again and my body is primed, ready for—no, desperate for
his dominating touch.

  “Are you hungry?” he asks.

  I am, but food is the last thing on my agenda. However, I haven’t eaten since getting off the plane, so I tell him, “Yes.”

  “That was a long pause,” Porter says. “Why?”

  “I…”

  “You’re turned on?”

  I nod.

  “My cock has been hard ever since you called to say it would be just the two of us. Up for something naughty?”

  “Sure,” I say.

  Porter unzips his pants. “There’s a red light ahead. Take me in your mouth. I want you to suck me off before the light turns green.”

  “And if I can’t?” I ask, panicked, remembering how much control he showed last night.

  “You can,” he says.

  I unfasten my seat belt and lean across the center console and the gearshift, which jabs into my stomach. Porter gathers my hair in his hand and tightens his fingers. Like this, he’s able to control everything.

  So when I find my mouth full of pulsing, hard cock, it’s because Porter lowered my mouth over his shaft.

  He gives me a second to catch my breath. I can smell the fresh scent of his recently laundered jeans. He moves me up and down on his cock.

  “More suction,” he says.

  I give him more suction, and even more when I’ve got just the tip between my lips. He’s pulsing his hips up lightly toward me.

  “Almost there,” he gasps.

  Green light splashes in from above. A horn blares behind us.

  I try to move away, but Porter won’t let me go. His hand firmly pressing on the back of my neck, he tells me, “Almost there. Almost there. Concentrate.”

  The car behind us really lays on the horn. Two more horns add to the cacophony.

  A thrill runs through me. This is, by far, the naughtiest thing I’ve ever done.

  Porter groans. The hard muscles of his thighs become even more taut as his cock jerks, pumping come into my mouth and throat.

  I swallow, then swallow again, and when Porter lets me sit up, I can’t help but smile.