by Penny Reid
I hadn’t pushed the issue. Not at first. I figured he’d eventually come around. He didn’t. Seven days with the barest of touches.
Or rather, he didn’t touch me when I was awake. But sometimes at night, I’d feel his hands on my back or gliding up my thigh, his fingers running through my hair—gently, gently—his hot breath fanning along my chin just before he’d place a heartbreaking, featherlight kiss against my lips.
Fucking hell, Thor.
That’s right. I was cussing. Pregnancy made me cuss. Like a fucking sailor. Or maybe the lack of Quinn while I was awake made me cuss.
I missed him. I missed him so much.
To say I hadn’t been myself since becoming pregnant would be an understatement. And to say Quinn hadn’t been himself since I told him I was pregnant would be an even bigger understatement.
I’d stopped researching what to expect of pregnancy months ago, during the first trimester, when I could only keep food down after eating three entire grapefruits. Much of the nausea had passed by the end of my second trimester, just in time for me to be placed on bed rest at week twenty-eight.
The day had begun like any other. I’d gone pee—for the seventeenth time in a three-hour period—and saw blood. Not a lot, just a little. Unable to get through to my OB, I’d messaged Elizabeth and she told me to go to the ER, which I did, calling Quinn on the way to give him a heads-up.
I don’t know how to explain it, but I wasn’t really concerned. Which was completely bizarre.
I had no facts, no data, no experience, no touchstone to help me understand what was going on so I could appropriately calibrate how worried I should be. However, those things didn’t seem to matter. The further along I progressed in my pregnancy, the quieter my mind grew. Perhaps I was just too exhausted to be anxious. Or afraid.
My thoughts were, There’s nothing to worry about, the baby is fine. You got this. You’d know if something was wrong.
As Sandra would say, all I felt was Zen.
But not Quinn. Quinn was not Zen. He was the opposite of Zen. I’d made a mental note to look up what the opposite of the word Zen was, thinking it should be something like “zook” or “z-oh-shit!”
Or maybe it was “zinn.”
That very day, he’d stopped touching me, except holding my hand. Hand holding was all I got; the doctors were unable to pinpoint the reason for my spotting. Maybe an undetectable placental abruption, maybe an incompetent cervix, maybe aliens.
Of note, I may have lost it on the student physician who suggested I might have an incompetent cervix. What a craptacularly idiotic diagnosis. Whoever thought it was a good idea to tell a pregnant lady she had an incompetent anything should have been punched in the throat. Repeatedly. Then thrown into a vat of lava.
A moron of diagnosticians, where moron is the collective noun. . .
“Best to play it safe.” Quinn had relayed my OB’s instructions. I’d been asleep in the hospital room when she’d stopped by, having come down to the ER from the maternity ward. “No strenuous activity.”
I’d nodded at the time, not feeling worried, but also not understanding that Quinn would interpret strenuous activity to mean anything more taxing than me brushing my teeth.
As an aside, I never did look up what the opposite of the word Zen was. I should have, because life had been the opposite of Zen for the last week.
He. . . hovered. A lot. He worked from home. He ran on a treadmill in our living room instead of outside in the park. And he followed me around if I stood up, asking, “Where are you going? What are you doing?” And then he tried to hire a nurse and a chef and a housekeeper, so they could also hover.
It was hovering-squared. Exponential hovering. I was followed around by four people asking, “Where are you going? What are you doing?”
“I’m going to stab someone”—I’d said, lifting my crocheting implement between me and Quinn one evening—“with this dull hook, if people don’t stop following me around every time I stand up. And I’m pretty sure stabbing someone with a crochet hook would be classified as a strenuous activity. . .”
Finally, he was open to negotiation.
The chef and the nurse were nixed. It was decided that the housekeeper would come twice a week, picking up groceries and pre-made meals on her way.
Which brings me back to now and my glorious second dinner, a second dinner I’d made for myself while Quinn was out of the apartment meeting with Dan about something urgent. A dinner that made my tummy happy and the tiny human living there send me hearts and flowers of contented bliss.
Together, my baby and me, we ate that second dinner and we were happy.
Until—
“Janie. . .”
I glanced toward the door of our bedroom, having not heard Quinn come home.
His glare moved between me and my plate. “What are you eating?”
I frowned, first at him, then at my food, then at him again. “Pickles.”
I couldn’t help but think, If I were a Hobbit, I wouldn’t have to explain myself.
“Pickles, and. . .?”
Taking a deep breath through my nose, I spoke around the pickle spear. “Pickles and the butter of peanuts.”
Quinn’s non-expression was tinged with distaste. He swallowed once but said nothing. He didn’t have to say anything because I could read his mind.
Sodium. He was worried about sodium. I knew this for a fact because he’d been trying—and failing—to nonchalantly bring up the risk of preeclampsia and the involvement of sodium for the last week, citing statistics as though he’d written the textbook.
I couldn’t help but wonder, had I been that bad? Had I driven him bonkers with all my fact quoting? How had he been able to stand it? I would have gagged me.
Although, there was that one time in Paris. . .
A shiver of lovely memory, followed closely by discontent, had me returning his glare with one of my own.
We stared at each other, at an impasse, while I took another bite. I chewed three more times, enjoying the satisfying crunch crunch crunch as a burst of pickly goodness invaded my mouth, the very necessary taste of vinegar and peanuts cooling the fervor of craving-related frustration.
But in the end, I caved. The urge to justify my dinner decision was too strong.
I pointed another pickle spear at my hovering husband. “The baby, your baby, wanted pickles and peanut butter for dinner.”
“And mustard.” He indicated with his forehead towards my other plate on the bed, which—yes—contained a pile of yellow mustard. And Dijon mustard. And stone ground mustard.
I sniffed at him, lifting my chin. “Are you… are you judging me?”
Quinn’s teeth slid to the side as he released a tired breath, his chin falling to his chest. For maybe the first time in three weeks, I allowed myself to take a good look at him.
He was in a suit, a dark gray suit with a light blue tie. A suit that would have inspired nothing but frustration over the last few weeks since he refused to let me undress him. Or undress for me. Except, his shoulders were slouchy, and his posture looked defeated.
I felt my face crease with unhappiness because this man didn’t look like my Quinn. He didn’t stand like my Quinn. This man made me sad.
I swallowed, placing the pickle spear back on the plate, wiping my fingers with a napkin as I stood. “Quinn—”
“You should be resting.” He lifted his head just enough to peer a warning at me.
I ignored him and waddled over to where he stood, hesitating for just a second before reaching for his tie.
He caught my hands, shaking his head. “What are you doing?”
“I’m taking off your clothes.”
Making a low sound in the back of his throat, he continued shaking his head. And when he spoke his tone was edged with both frustration and desperation. “What is it going to take for you to rest?”
I twisted my lips to the side, considering him, spotting the dark circles under his eyes and the new lines
around his mouth.
And I knew what I had to do.
Gathering a bracing breath, I said, “If you get naked, I will rest.”
Quinn stood perfectly still. Truly, he did not move a muscle. His eyes bored into mine, and his lack of expression told me he thought I was nuts.
Taking advantage of his stunned state, I withdrew my hands from his tie and moved them to the buttons of my pajama top.
His gaze wavered, flickering to the progress of my fingers, then asking sharply, “What are you doing?”
“If you won’t let me take off your clothes, then I’m taking off mine.”
An inelegant groan, truncated by his will of steel, escaped his lips, followed by an emphatic, “Janie, no.”
“Yes. And call me Kitten.” I took a step away from him, forcing him to follow me to the bed.
“We can’t—”
“Unless”—my fingers stilled on the last button—“unless you don’t find me attractive anymore?”
His eyes flashed, his hands balling into fists, and he didn’t need to answer. I knew it was a ridiculous question, meant to elicit a visceral response rather than a spoken one.
I knew.
He loved me, and I knew he still loved and craved my body. My pregnant body made him wild.
I knew this because, before the order of bed rest, he’d still been hiding my underwear and he’d started hiding my pajamas, enticing me to sleep naked with his fingers and his tongue. He’d kiss my pregnant belly with reverence and pride.
Yes. Pride.
Like some sort of caveman, puffing out his chest as though my new shape was a testament to his virility. Now who was the Neanderthal?
But not for the last three weeks.
He moved like he was going to reach for me but stopped himself, snatching his hands back and gritting his teeth. “I need you to take this seriously.”
“I am very serious. Get naked, or else.” I finished unbuttoning my pajamas and let the shirt fall to the floor, reaching behind me to unhook my bra.
Before I could pull my straps from my shoulders, he gripped my upper arms, scowling with intensified frustration and desperation. “Don’t.”
I blinked at him, something in his tone giving me pause, a quality that sounded completely foreign to his voice.
Could it be . . . panic?
I clutched his suit coat so he couldn’t retreat. “Quinn, you’re overreacting. You need to—”
“You could die,” he said, his grip tightening, the words rough and raw. “The doctor told me, while you were asleep, that you could die from this.”
I flinched back a half inch, inspecting my husband and seeing that he regretted the admission as soon as he’d said it.
“Quinn, I’m not going to die.”
“You don’t know that.”
I barely stopped myself from huffing a laugh. Oh, the irony.
“No. I don’t.” I slid my hands up his chest to cup his jaw, reveling in the feel of his skin, his warmth, his closeness. “Just like you don’t know if one day I’ll go crazy and kidnap your dog.”
Confusion clouded his features as his mind worked, and then finally comprehension. The line of his mouth was grim, but something around his eyes eased. “That’s not the same.”
“It is the same.” I lifted to my tiptoes and stole a quick kiss before he could step away, adding ardently, “I’m going to tell you something a very wise—yet mysterious and stoically handsome—man once told me.”
He didn’t step away, thank God. Instead, he stared down at me and my heart ached because he looked a little lost, a little hopeful, and a lot exhausted.
Oh. My poor McHotpants.
“You can’t prepare for every scenario or eventuality in life.”
His forehead dipped to touch mine. “I won’t take the risk.”
“I know we can’t do anything, I’m not suggesting we do anything risky.” I took advantage of our proximity to steal another kiss, this one slower, softer, better. “If you recall, I’m risk averse. I just need you to stop being so afraid of touching me.”
“Kitten,” he whispered brokenly, his fingers flexing, and my heart soared. Yes! I mentally high-fived myself because I could see his resolve crumbling.
“Okay, fine.” I twisted my arms around his neck, tilting my head to the side so I could see his expression. “What if I didn’t ask? What if we left it to chance?”
“Chance?” He squinted at me.
“Yes. Chance. Let’s play poker.”
A whisper of a smile tugged at the right side of his mouth as comprehension glittered behind his eyes. He shook his head, a subtle movement at first, and then increasing in speed.
I was about to make another plea for poker when he cut me off, “We’re not evenly matched.”
I grinned, my heart expanding and constricting.
And wouldn’t you know it, the dictator in my stomach chose that moment to roundhouse kick my belly button.
I gasped lightly, caught off guard by the movement, and Quinn’s mouth dropped open. Clearly, he’d felt the force of the kick where our middles were pressed together.
“That was…?”
“Yes,” I confirmed, feeling strangely proud of the little person wreaking havoc on my insides. “Fiona has been teaching the baby jujitsu.”
A miracle happened in the next moment. Quinn laughed. And then he slipped my bra straps from my shoulders, his hands gliding around my waist to my back.
I watched him in wonder and relief, immeasurably happy to see the lines of constant worry ease, if just for a moment, though I hoped it would be longer. I hoped, insomuch as was possible and feasible, the cessation of his worry for my health would be permanent.
“I miss you.” The words fled before I could catch them, and he affixed me with a sober stare, softened by reverence and love. “I miss you and I need you, more than I ever have before. And the best way you can demonstrate how much you love me is by treating me just the same as before. And that means snuggling with me, right now, naked.”
He sighed, nodding, rubbing slow, caressing circles on my back. “Okay.”
“Okay?” I wasn’t going to squeal, because I wasn’t the squealing sort. But in that moment, I considered a change in my squeal policy.
“Yes. I promise. Things will go back to normal. But I should point out . . .” he paused, kissing me, keeping the pressure maddeningly light, but it was better—so much better—than before. On a whisper, he continued, “If you wanted me to get rid of all your underwear, you should have just asked.”
Part Two
Elizabeth and Nico
Deleted Scene: Original opening of ‘Friends Without Benefits’
Author’s Note: This is the original beginning of ‘Friends Without Benefits,’ but it was removed upon the advice of my editor at the time. In retrospect, I know she was 100 percent right; this short scene would have slowed the book. Ultimately, I couldn’t find a place to put it, so it was cut. This scene has never been published or shared, but parts of it were pilfered for other scenes in the finished book.
“YOU CAN’T DO this!”
“Just watch me.”
“But what if–”
“Stop being such a Penelope-Party-Pooper and hand me the lotion.”
Meg pursed her lips, her black eyes narrowing. Flagrant disapproval paired with preachiness was not a good look for her.
“What if someone else uses this room? What if Dr. Botstein uses this room today? Do you think he is going to find your joke funny? Remember the last time you were caught pulling a prank and–”
“Dr. Botstein will never know it was me.” I shrugged–hoped she’d quit yapping–and put aside the X-Acto knife used to slice through the glue at the base of the cardboard box. With a great deal of care, I withdrew the latex gloves from the bottom. I was vigilant in my diligence to ensure the gloves retained their neatly folded structure.
As was my habit when concentrating, I bit my tongue; this caused the tip to protrude just sl
ightly from between my lips. The air in the emergency department clinic room smelled and tasted like bleach, the smell I associated with the hospital.
Meg’s whispered reprimand grew louder as she waved her fists through the air, “Dr. Botstein is your mentor! He can and will end your residency! Or have you forgotten that little, tiny, trivial fact? And what exactly is the plan here? Ken is going to take a glove from the box, pull it on his hand, and find his fingers covered in lotion?”
My lips pulled to the side. “Hopefully he won’t know right away it’s lotion. Hopefully he’ll think he’s stuck his hand into a mysterious white substance and be frightened–just for a little bit–that it’s a bodily fluid.”
“Ugh, Elizabeth, that is gross.”
I tried for a light chuckle but it came out more like a poorly suppressed maniacal laugh. “Yeah, I know. It’s going to be great. Now, hand it to me.”
Meg held her hands up, palms out, “No–I refuse to be a part of this. I won’t–”
I huffed, giving sound to my impatience, and reached into her lab coat to withdraw the lotion. She squeaked in protest. I ignored it. I selected three gloves from the top and set them aside, and then proceeded to fill the fourth, fifth, seventh, and tenth glove with Neutrogena moisturizer, watchful to avoid the rim where it met the wrist. With equivalent fastidiousness, I folded all the gloves and placed them back into their pile then back into the box.
Meg followed my glove-lotion-filling-procedure with rapt fascination. One would think a girl with a lifetime of free rides would be a tad more adventurous and a tad less sensitive about risky behaviors. Luckily for my sanity, she didn’t speak again till I was gluing the bottom of the box shut.
“This is such a bad idea.”
“This is a great idea. All my ideas are fantastic.” That wasn’t precisely true. However, it was something I enjoyed saying when people told me This is a bad idea; I’d heard the phrase regularly since childhood coming from a variety of people, most of them morons.
I could sense her stare as I concentrated. Admittedly, she was a tad odious, but we had a few things in common. Like me, she was younger than most second-year residents. Also like me, she was fumbling through the concept of becoming a responsible adult at the age of twenty-six. Again–like me–she was trying to find her way outside the comfortable and safe confines of academia.
