The Reason for Me

by Prescott Lane

  Suddenly his grip on me tightens, his nails digging into my flesh, but he’s not awake. It seems whenever his defenses are down, his demons come out to play.

  He darts awake, sitting straight up. “Annalyse!”

  I sit up and wrap my arms around his waist. “Here, I’m here.”

  “Christ,” he pants.

  He pulls me into his lap, cradling me. “Was it real? Was the dream about something real?”

  “No,” he says. “It was about you.”

  “You had a bad dream about me? What was it? On second thought, if I died a thousand horrible deaths or something, I don’t want to know.”

  He takes a few more deep breaths. “It wasn’t anything like that. It’s stupid now that I’m awake, but in the dream, the feelings were so real.”

  “Well, now you have to tell me,” I say.

  “Nope,” he says, tickling me a little.

  “Please,” I say.

  “Not a chance,” he says then smacks my ass. “Come on. The Christmas tree farm opens in an hour.”

  It’s not long before we’re off. And like a teenager who wants the latest and greatest gadget, I hound Holt the entire car ride about his dream, but he won’t tell me. Some macho guy thing, I think. Don’t know why it bothers me so much; he never tells me anything, anyway. I thought we’d turned a corner last night. I guess the only corner we turned was from Dirty Sex Street to Sweet Fuck Lane.

  “That was the first time I’ve ever woken up before you,” I say. “I’ve never seen you actually sleep other than when you were sleepwalking that first night.”

  He shrugs and says, “I don’t need much sleep.”

  “Maybe you slept longer because you didn’t open up the dresser drawer.”

  He doesn’t pull away, but I feel the sting from his hell rising up. “Maybe.”

  I could pout and bitch and maybe even bully him into telling me, but what good would that do? Then I’d know, but it wouldn’t be because he trusted me enough to tell me, and he’d probably resent me for it. And I’d ruin our little trip.

  But my patience has limits. Giving his hand a little squeeze, I say, “I’m not sure I thanked you for last night. I had the best time.”

  He flashes me a crooked and thankful smile. Then he pulls his SUV into the parking lot of the tree farm and opens up my door. “So what kind of tree do you want?”

  “I like short, fat trees.”

  “I was talking about Frasier Fir or Douglas or . . .”

  “Short and fat. I don’t care about anything else,” I say.

  His fingers lock with mine, and a woman approaches us. Okay, so maybe it’s just me, but I don’t trust women who paint on their eyebrows. Now, obviously women undergoing chemotherapy or with alopecia have no choice, but this woman has a full head of thick, dark hair, yet she’s chosen to snatch off her eyebrows and paint new ones on instead. You’ll excuse me if I don’t trust people with that kind of judgment. I mean, they look like pencil thin mustaches over her eyes.

  “How may I help you?” she asks, clearly looking straight at Holt’s left hand. Told you, can’t trust bald brows.

  He pulls me into his side. Good move, buddy. “We’re looking for our first tree together.”

  She motions towards the lot, walking off. “Take a look around.”

  “Merry Christmas,” I call out, earning me a smack on the ass from Holt. We begin to walk around the tree farm, but we don’t make it very far because we are doing more making out than looking around. Holt pushes me between a row of trees away from prying eyes. “Think I know what I want for Christmas this year,” he growls.

  Placing my hand on his chest, I step back and tease, “Exchanging Christmas gifts seems like it’s against our rules.”

  He pulls me to his hips, hard. “I’ve never been good at following the rules.”

  Does that mean he wants to throw out our pleasure only rule? Before I can ask, he’s got me pinned against the side of a barn, kissing me so hard my body goes limp. “There could be kids around,” I say, pushing against his chest.

  He kisses me one more time, long and slow. “You completely naked for twenty-four hours. That’s what I want for Christmas.”

  “Christmas is still over a month away. What if we aren’t . . .”

  He steps back. “You want to stop seeing each other?”

  “No!” I cry. “No.”

  His forehead wrinkles up. “You still want to know what my dream was?” I give a little nod, wondering where this is going. “I dreamt that I was searching for you. I went all over the world—Great Wall of China, Grand Canyon, Pyramids. I’d call out your name over and over again, but you were never there. I felt like I was crazy, like maybe I dreamt you up.”

  “I told you that first night you were dreaming.”

  “Yeah, just like that. Only I dreamt that this had all been one big dream, and that you didn’t really exist,” he says.

  “I’m here.”

  “I was frantic when I couldn’t find you anywhere,” he says.

  “Okay, so what does it mean? To you?”

  His head shakes. “Pain.” My heart rate goes up, and my breathing picks up speed. If I’m not pleasure, if he associates me with pain, then what? We may need a shrink to figure this out. His hands go to my face, tears running down my cheeks. “Shh! Don’t cry. You’re misunderstanding. I’m trying to tell you that it would hurt to lose you.”

  “Then hold on.”

  “I’m trying, baby. Please know I’m trying.”

  The Dirty Truth Blog

  November 20

  Broken Together?

  I’ve heard all the sayings. “There are people who break your heart, and there are people who put it back together piece by piece.” Or how about, “One day someone is going to hug you so tight that all your broken pieces will fit back together.” Or perhaps, “Until you’ve been broken, you don’t know what you’re made of.” Social media is full of these little tidbits of bullshit.

  The worst thing about having a broken heart is that it keeps beating, and each beat is an excruciating reminder of what you lost. Yes, sometimes you will be able to hold yourself together, but sometimes you just have to completely come apart, to shatter like glass. And no one is going to put you back together. If they get too close, they will be cut on your broken pieces. Only you can put yourself back together. Because I guarantee you, everyone is broken. They are dealing with their own brokenness, which begs the question:

  Is it possible to be broken together?

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  HOLT

  One of the first things I learned as a OBGYN resident is that a huge side effect of pregnancy is indecision. Pregnant women tend to need a lot of reassurance, and I completely understand. I’ve never met a pregnant woman that didn’t worry that she would somehow mess up or scar her child for life, and Celeste was no different.

  “What do you think?” Celeste asked, looking through the store window. She’d asked me to come with her, needing a second opinion. “Cherry or white for the baby’s nursery furniture?” I looked over her shoulder, her sweet smell drawing me in. My eyes lingered on the curve of her neck. “Holt?”

  “Um,” I cleared my throat. “I like the darker wood one.”

  She exhaled. “I don’t know. I was thinking an all-white nursery would be so pretty.”

  “Okay, the white one.”

  She looked up at me, her blue eyes sparkling. “You don’t care about this at all.”

  “I think you should get what you want,” I said.

  Grabbing my hand, she pulled me through the door, a bell jingling. “I really like this white one they have. It’s round,” she said. “It would be so pretty in the center of the room, and it would save space, too.” I couldn’t help but smile at her. This was the one she loved, it was obvious. “The only thing is, it’s more money and not as practical. The rectangular cribs all turn into toddler beds, so you get more use out of them.”

  “Which one makes you happy?”
I asked. “Because you’ll be spending a lot of time staring at it in the middle of the night.”

  I’d thought she’d laugh, but she teared up. “What if I can’t do this on my own?”

  “Every mother feels scared,” I said. “You’ll be amazing, I know it. Look how much care and thought you’re devoting to cribs.”

  She ran her fingers along the white dream crib, releasing a deep breath. “Then I need to be practical.”

  She started talking to the sales clerk about ordering the crib and matching dresser. I listened to her talk herself out of the changing table, opting for a glider instead, and I could see her mentally calculating what she was spending. I felt myself getting angrier and angrier. I had no idea if Brent had given her any money, or if they were even talking. Placing my hands on the round crib, I looked down inside it, at the pure white bedding Celeste wanted.

  “Delivery is free, but it’s a hundred dollars for setup,” the sales clerk said.

  “We’ll do that ourselves,” I said. “It’ll be fun.”

  Celeste hugged me tightly and whispered, “Thank you.” Then she excused herself to the restroom. I swear she peed every fifteen minutes those days.

  “Can I help you with anything else?” the sales clerk asked me.

  “Yeah, cancel the crib she just ordered. And order this whole thing. Sheets and all.”

  “But your wife . . .”

  “She really loves this one,” I said. “Can we keep it a surprise?” The clerk smiled and quickly took my credit card.

  By the time Celeste came back, it was all done. She had no idea when she scheduled the delivery date what would be coming, and I wanted it to be that way. She deserved something good, and the fact that I just made the biggest purchase of my life other than my car didn’t matter. I didn’t have one bit of buyer’s remorse. The only thing that mattered was her happiness, and that she knew she could count on me.

  And she did, asking me to go with her to all her doctor’s appointments, which were at the hospital, so it was easy enough to tag along. She listened about my mom, and I listened about her heartburn. She laughed at my jokes, and I laughed at her endless need for candy bars with nougat. She watched action movies with me, and I watched the baby moving around in her belly, the belly both of us talked to constantly.

  The whole time, a slow, intense desire was building between us. We both felt it, and we both did everything in our power to ignore it. Unfortunately, people other than Jason were starting to notice.

  It was a day like any other, and I was in a patient’s room checking on her. Mrs. Dodd had been laboring most of the day, and it was the middle of the night. Celeste had the night shift, and we were sharing the same patient. “Mrs. Dodd, I brought you some fresh ice chips,” Celeste said.

  “Please call me Stephanie,” she said. “When are you due?”

  “Middle of September,” Celeste answered.

  “You hardly look pregnant?” Mrs. Dodd said. “Look at her, Adam. Look how tiny she is.”

  Her husband ran his hand over his wife’s belly. “You’re beautiful.”

  I glanced at Celeste, wondering how it felt for her to see husbands being so supportive of their pregnant wives when she was alone. “Sometimes first babies can take their time,” I said. “No reason to worry. How’s your pain level?”

  “Good,” she said. “I want one of these epidural things to take home with me.”

  “I keep trying to tell Nurse Celeste that, but she’s insisting on natural,” I said.

  “And I keep telling Dr. Miller that . . .”

  “Oh, my God!” Mrs. Dodd cried. “You two are a couple, aren’t you? It’s so cute how flirty and smiley you are.”

  Celeste and I glanced at each other, neither one of us knowing what to say, but neither one of us denying it. We’d been denying our feelings for months. I’m not sure why we couldn’t do it out loud to strangers.

  “Honey,” Mr. Dodd said to his wife. “It’s probably against hospital policy or something, and here you are ratting them out.”

  “Oops, sorry,” she said.

  The monitor on the baby started to become erratic, decelerating. “Let’s roll you on your side,” I said, motioning for Celeste to help me.

  “What’s going on?” Mr. Dodd asked.

  “Sometimes the cord gets compressed a little, and a change of position helps,” I said, keeping my eyes on the monitor, hoping for an improvement—but none came. We tried moving her into a few different positions but nothing worked. “Listen to me,” I said keeping my voice calm but firm. “I think the cord is around the baby’s neck. We need to get her out as soon as possible. You need a C-section.”

  The baby’s heart rate took a nosedive. There was no time for discussion or reassurance. We had to go, and we had to go now. Celeste gave me a worried look then turned her attention to the first-time father freaking out before her.

  I scrubbed in and was thankful that Jason was the anesthesiologist on call. I knew he’d take good care of her. Even though she had an epidural already, there wasn’t enough time to dose again, so Jason had to put her completely out. That’s a nightmare for a pregnant woman. They all want to be awake to greet their new baby, but I had no choice.

  And I had no choice about what happened next, either.

  *

  You don’t become an OBGYN to deliver this kind of news. As I walked towards the hospital room, Jason patted my back. “You did everything you could, Holt.”

  Everyone on the floor already knew what happened. Even Brent was there for support. The only clueless one was the husband waiting for his wife and daughter. I could’ve let the attending physician deliver the news, but I was the one that had been with her all day. I was the one with the scalpel in my hand. In my mind, she was my patient, my responsibility. Celeste met me by the door with the bassinet. I placed my hands on top of hers, taking it, rolling a perfectly healthy baby girl inside to meet her daddy.

  And to tell him his wife was dead.

  There’s no way to describe the next few minutes—gut wrenching, heartbreaking—even those aren’t enough. He’d come to the hospital expecting to welcome a new life, but suddenly had lost the love of his life.

  Walking out of that room, my eyes landed on a woman that might be mine.

  Celeste.

  What the hell was I doing? Brent was my friend, but she and that baby could be my whole world.

  She, Jason, and Brent all surrounded me. Brent started the pep talk. “You know there was nothing you could do. Aneurysms are . . .”

  “I know,” I said, sharply. “But you weren’t there.”

  “I was,” Jason said. “You were a rock star. Got that little baby girl out in record time.”

  Running my fingers through my hair, I leaned back on the wall. “You didn’t see her husband’s face. I gave him the best and worst news of his life within seconds of each other.” I looked over at Celeste, who was crying. “We shouldn’t talk about this right now.”

  Brent looked over at her and said, “This kind of thing is so rare.”

  That’s true, but Celeste was only a couple months away from her due date. She didn’t need to have this in her mind. “Come out to the bar with us,” Jason said.

  Tonight wasn’t going to be cured by a drink. “I’m still on call. Besides, I . . .”

  “Nurse Wicks asked that third year douchebag to cover the last few hours for you,” Brent said. “It’s pretty quiet around here tonight, anyway.”

  I shook my head, starting towards the stairs. “I just want to go home. Thank God, tomorrow is my off day.”

  I’d seen people die before, but this was the first patient I ever lost in childbirth. The attending physician, who was in the operating room with me, assured me that everything I did was textbook. It helped to know it wasn’t my mistake that took her life, but that didn’t change the fact that she’d died on my watch. Maybe that’s why I’m so strict with my orders; I want to prevent as many bad things as possible. But some things
just aren’t preventable.

  I kept it together until I closed the door to my shitty studio apartment. “Fuck!” I yelled, slamming my hands against the wall, over and over again. For someone whose hands are their livelihood, that probably wasn’t the best decision.

  I was angry she was dead. I was angry that little girl wouldn’t know her mother. I was angry that Celeste wasn’t mine. I was angry that my own mother was dying. And I was angry that I couldn’t do anything about most of that.

  “Holt,” her voice came through the wood door. “It’s Celeste.” Breathing heavy, I lowered my head, trying to calm down, not wanting her to witness my tantrum. “It was slow at the hospital, so they sent me home. I wanted to check on you.”

  I opened the door, and she opened her arms, and that was the only thing that mattered. Pulling her to me, I kissed her, hard. The time for second-guessing, hesitating, was over. I wanted her. It was that simple.

  My tongue found hers, and our rhythm slowed, both of us realizing that the other wasn’t going to stop this time. “I love you,” she whispered.

  I pulled back, looking into her eyes. “I love you, too.”

  Her eyes welled up as her arms slid around my waist, hugging me. “It’s so messed up. I’m carrying your best friend’s child. What are we going to do?”

  “This,” I said, kissing her neck gently. She released a little purring sound. “And this,” I said, moving to the other side.

  “Oh, God,” she moaned. “Holt, I’m so big and . . .”

  “You’re completely sexy,” I said, continuing to kiss a path along her collarbone.

  She placed a hand on my chest. “I don’t want to disappoint you.”

  “Tell me,” I said. “Tell me all the negative things in your head right now.”

  She looked down. “I haven’t waxed in forever. I can’t see down there, so it’s probably a forest.”

  “I won’t care.”

  “And I’m huge, like an elephant. I can’t get into certain positions. I used to be flexible, but now . . .” She threw her hands up. “This isn’t sexy.”