by Amiee Smith
Michael sucks and licks my neck. His tongue is slowly turning my mind soft, but I’m not ready to end the conversation.
“It’s three weeks, Michael. You can consider it as an extended holiday.”
“I’ve been to Boston many times. I worked with a gastroenterologist at Harvard Medical for a few years. I’m ready to start my life with you. I was thinking we could get married in April and spend the summer honeymooning before we start trying to get pregnant. I know I’m focused on the long game, but a year goes by really quickly, Lilly.”
“I understand. Why don’t I attend IAP, and you and your mom can handle wedding planning while I’m away?”
“No. I have three developments set to break ground in the next sixty days and then it will be the holiday season. I don’t have time to pick out place settings. Remember, I have to work to pay for our wedding and life afterwards.”
Michael could stop doing deals right now and never worry about money again. But we’ve had such a lovely day, so I don’t call him on his bullshit.
“Okay. I’ll let your mom make the decisions. I’m not particular. All I need is you, me, and a cake… oh and a bed for after.”
“And a rabbi. Tell your friend you’re getting married.”
“But I’m not getting married yet. I’m dating a man I love, and we’ve agreed to actively move in that direction. Wait, are you expecting me to convert to Judaism?”
“Yes, it’s one of the steps.”
“No… I don’t know. I didn’t plan for conversion classes.”
“You know I’m Jewish.”
“Yes, but you spent Shabbat crashing my sleepover, buying your way into a tournament so you could beat me in dominoes after I won five rounds to get into the finals, talking business with Jordan and Alex most of the night and getting make-amends sex. I’m sorry I misjudged your devoutness to your religious practice.”
He chuckles as he nips at my neck. His teeth send shockwaves to my center and I moan.
“I do not always observe Shabbat. But, yes. Lately, you’ve become my religion.”
Michael slips his fingers inside the edge of my thong. Lifting my hips into his hand, he strokes my pussy wet. Heat radiates throughout my body. Michael introduces a new move to our sex-play. Spreading my lips with his thumb and index finger, he clamps down on my clit. Hard.
I gasp. My phone tumbles out of my hand.
Pleasure overrides pain. His embrace creates pressure across the most delicate parts of my sex. The clit pinch enhances sensitivity, and my impending climax will be glorious. My man knows exactly what he’s doing, my pussy humming and craving more. Michael releases my nub, transitioning into a perfectly rhythmic two-one-two. Exhilaration builds. My core shudders. My mind turns to mush.
Sex-play done in the best-worst way.
“My Goddess Lilly, we’ve had a long day. Let’s talk about this tomorrow,” he coos in his late-night voice.
All I can do is nod my head.
My body ascends to the end of the world; my orgasm so intense I feel it everywhere.
CHAPTER 26:
MICHAEL AHMED
A vice grip to my gut jolts me from sleep.
Pain cries throughout my body and I would double over if I wasn’t spooning Lilly’s naked body.
I must get to the toilet. Now.
With all my might, I climb out of bed. I don’t want to have an accident. Not in bed. Not with Lilly here.
My feet stumble over the pile of satin pillows on the floor as I scurry across the room to my bathroom. Stopping mid-stride, I change course and head to the bathroom in the hall. I don’t want to wake her. I don’t want to disturb her sleep.
This is my burden. This is my disease.
Each step is agony. Anxiety and pain, my companions as I move through my dark house. I’ll make it. It’s 35 steps. I remind myself. 35 steps.
It’s not a flare-up. I know my body. This is just a reality of life with an incurable disease. Even when inflammation is not raging and disrupting my digestive tract, Crohn's never wants me to forget the debilitating power it has over me.
I make it to the bathroom, turn on the light, shut the door, and plop down on the toilet. Watery. Noisy. Malodorous. Continuous. But just in time.
With my disease time is nothing and everything all at the same time. Crohn’s doesn’t care if I have a meeting or a team depending on me. It doesn’t care if I want to spend the night asleep next to my woman. It doesn’t care if I have a two-year plan. Or a five-year plan. It doesn’t care if I want to live. With Crohn’s, time is nothing and everything all at the same time.
I’ll be here for hours. My disease decides when I leave.
Naked. Cold tiles against my feet. Nothing to do— I left my phone on the nightstand.
My en-suite bathroom was custom designed for nights like this. Heated floors. A TV. A robe. Stacks of magazines. A tablet. A landline. I’ve probably planned and strategized more deals in the bathroom than I’ve done in boardrooms.
I shouldn’t complain. It’s not a flare-up and the pain is subsiding. I’m home and in a bathroom Angeline keeps clean and stocked with toilet paper. I’m not on a jobsite. I’m not in a porta-potty or a door-less men’s restroom.
My eyelids feel heavy. I need to keep my mind engaged so I don’t fall asleep. Because sleeping on the toilet freakin’ sucks. Falling off the freakin’ toilet sucks. A tiny scar above my eyebrow line proves it.
I count the gray marble tiles. It’s what I used to do when I was a kid before my disease had a name.
I mentally recite all 50 states and their capitals, all forty-five presidents and their vice presidents, and all the beach towns lining the coast of L.A. County.
I peer in Lilly’s toiletry bag… again. I used her toothbrush this morning, so I know what she has in it: mascara, Maybelline, off-black; a compact, Covergirl, in the shade of Translucent Honey; a black liquid eyeliner with the label worn off; deodorant, Tom’s; toothpaste, Tom’s; Vanilla Eau De Toilette from the Body Shop; 10 bobby pins; a red ribbon headband; a small bottle of Moroccan hair oil; natural dental floss. My woman keeps it minimal.
Through it all, my bowels continue to move. Sometimes a lot. Sometimes not at all. Here in my modern, gray and white guest bath, I will remain until Crohn’s decides I can leave.
◆◆◆
“Hey. How’s it going in there?”
Lilly’s question pulls me out of a thought on an investment opportunity Alex wants me to consider.
“Ah… you can use my bathroom. I didn’t want to disturb you.”
“I figured as much. You don’t have all your toys. I brought your phone and iPad.”
Damn, my woman is amazing. Her offer is so tempting, but I don’t have anything to mask the smell. My special bowl spray is in my bathroom. I’m too vain (and a bit ashamed) to let her open the door.
“Thank you. I’ll be fine. Go back to bed, babe.”
Silence. And then I hear movement on the other side of the door.
“In only a few days, my cells have rewired, and I can’t sleep without you. You’re stuck with me. I’ll sit here and read. Just a heads up, I like to read nonacademic stuff out loud. I found your stack of Playboy and Esquire Magazines when I was going through your drawers on Friday afternoon…”
“You really looked through my drawers?” I ask.
“I told you I would. Background check, Detroit-style. So anyway, there are some interesting articles I want to read. I’ll assume you’ve only looked at the pictures, so they will be as new to you as they are to me.”
I laugh. I never laugh on the toilet.
“I read, babe.”
“I know you do, lover man. Wall Street Journal. Investors Weekly. Real Estate Today. L.A. Business Times. SF Business Times. Entrepreneur Magazine. Fast Company. Inc Magazine. I saw those in the drawer in your office. I brought some of them as well.”
“You looked through the drawers in my office too?”
“Come on, Michael. You know I’m as th
orough as you.”
I laugh again. On the other side of the door, Lilly flips through pages.
“Oh! Here’s an article on Bill Nye the Science Guy in Playboy… I’ll read this one first…”
And for the next however long, I listen to Lilly read to me. Her alto voice keeps me company as she sits on the hardwood floor lining the hallway outside the bathroom wearing my Burberry robe.
For the first time since I was twelve years old, time on the toilet doesn’t seem so bad. Life with Crohn’s disease doesn’t seem so bad.
All because I have a good (actually, great) woman in my life.
CHAPTER 27:
LILLY SHEPARD
Michael and I sleep until a little after noon. Now I understand why all his rooms are designed for total darkness. It makes sleeping after a long night in the bathroom easier.
He’s worked his entire life around his disease. Even though he’s experienced immense professional success and his Crohn’s is in remission, the disease has him— much more so than he has the disease. And if Crohn’s has him, then it has me too.
The 20 dates dash (dude tried to count the sleepover and party last night as dates). The mad rush to the altar. My research travel restrictions. The timer on my womb. My job location limitations. Where we sleep (he never wants to stay the night at my flat… I naively thought it was related to Jack). The push to get me to quit my job at Genentech.
Now I understand all of Lynn’s breadcrumbs of relationship wisdom.
The clock is ticking on my freedom. And in exchange for my freedom, I get lots of gifts. Lavish things. Over-the-top gestures. Surprises. A charmed life with a fine as fuck billionaire boyfriend.
But money cannot replace my freedom. Money cannot fulfill the vision I have for my professional life. Money cannot replace how liberated I felt the day I received my acceptance letters to MIT, UNC, and UCSF.
I understand. I really do. Michael has a chronic, incurable, unpredictable disease. Crohn’s is not a stomach bug. During a flare-up, it causes frequent diarrhea, bleeding, weight loss, fever, fatigue, pain, and cramping. And it doesn’t just affect the GI tract, but the eyes, skin, and joints.
In both my research and as a pharmacist, I have worked with IBD (inflammatory bowel disease) patients and each case is different. Like many diseases, there is no one-size-fits all treatment plan. Many patients suffer, while the health care system uses trial and error to help them get well. The damaging and debilitating inflammation can make life challenging even when the disease is in remission. Eradicating diseases like IBD is one of the reasons I do the work I do.
Michael is one of the healthiest Crohn’s patients I’ve encountered, but my man takes great care of himself. He has spent over two decades proactively learning how to live (and work) with his disease. It’s something I admire the most about him. However, enshrouded in his self-care is an insidious, restrictive fear. If I allow it, his disease will poison my two decades of hard work.
No. He did not win the genetic lottery, but neither did I.
I’m a black woman. I’m from the worst block in the worst neighborhood in Detroit. My parents abandoned me. Yes, I’m very smart and my academic excellence has opened a lot of doors for me. But I’ve worked hard for all my accomplishments. I’ve worked hard for my freedom.
Nothing holds me back. Not money— I know how to earn, invest, and save. Not time— I use my time effectively. Not my family of origins— I did my time in therapy to heal my childhood wounds and my grandma is the best. Not even insecurity— I have a geeky confidence that works for me.
The only thing that stops Goddess Lilly is sweet talking, wealthy men offering lots of plans and promises. And I always come out the loser. Heartbroken. Confused. Bitter. And less available for Mr. Right for Me.
I want to believe Michael is the right man for me, but the only way I will really know is if I get out of this deal. Dump the arrangement and we’ll find freedom. Together.
I know he loves me. A true lovebug, he pours his affection from the core of his heart.
But love is not always enough.
◆◆◆
We are eating a very late breakfast in the main dining room. Michael sits adjacent to me at the expansive dark wood table trimmed in gold— a table for Persian royalty.
Outside, the temperature is warm and humid, but surprisingly overcast. The smoggy haze covering the L.A. landscape, reminds me of a foggy day in SF. My red shorts, white tank top, and bare feet coupled with the hum of the air conditioner makes it clear— I’m in SoCal.
I fried organic free-range eggs and thick bacon for him. I’m having the same, but with a side of grits drizzled with honey. Michael made a pot of mint tea to accompany our meal.
Both of us study our tablets and phones. Both of us hold a fork and knife in each hand. Both of us still recovering from a very long weekend.
“I skipped my dose of Lomotil on Friday. I didn’t plan to be out all night.” he says, looking up from his iPad.
He’s dressed in black warm-up pants with a white stripe down the legs and a gray T-shirt with USC written across the chest in deep red letters. Black velvet slippers cover his feet. His hair is flat, and he appears less photo-ready than usual. But Michael is still fine as fuck.
Glancing up, I meet his tired amber eyes.
“I know. I saw it in the pill box in your bathroom.”
Michael laughs. “You really have gone through every part of the house.”
“You really have gone through my credit report, driving record, academic history, internet presence, and banking and investment accounts,” I say, pushing my glasses to the bridge of my nose.
“Fair enough.”
“Also, I’m a pharmacist, Michael. Naturally, I’m going to be more aware of your medication habits. And if you are ever prescribed any other medication, you can bet I will do my best to know everything about it and monitor the effectiveness of your treatment.”
“I don’t need a keeper, Lilly,” Michael says, his eyes turning dark.
“Not a keeper. A wife. An overeducated, bossy, madly in love wife,” I say with a smile, my attempt to unruffle the situation.
He returns to his food.
“You really are a part of the Mafia, babe.”
“And you will be too.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” Michael says, scrolling his tablet.
“And I’m looking forward to going to Boston in January. I want to start making our arrangements. I’ve been checking Airbnb and there are a lot of places to choose from. Unless you want to stay in faculty housing?”
I click the tab with the Airbnb listings and slide it over to him. Michael’s copper hand covers the screen, and he shoves my tablet back without glancing at it.
“No. I don’t want to stay in faculty housing or an Airbnb, because we are not going to Boston. We talked about this last night. You have a wedding to plan, Lilly.”
“No, we said we would talk about it today. I don’t want to fight, Michael. You don’t have to go, but I’m going to Boston for the IAP days. Wedding planning can wait until I get back.”
“Lilly, please stick to the agreement. It will make me happy.”
Michael taps something on his tablet, dismissing the conversation.
“Doing the IAP days… will make… me…. happy,” I sputter, trailing off.
I’m a woman in the male dominated field of pharmacology. I’m a black woman in the very white world of academia. I’m an overeducated black woman in a culture that values appearance over intelligence. I’ve spent years learning how to navigate and succeed in these environments. When I speak, people listen. When I show up, I’m acknowledged. For the first time, in a very long time, I feel as if I’m pleading to be heard. Seen.
“Lilly, I want you to be happy. But my life works best when I follow a plan. It alleviates stress and keeps me healthy,” he says, still focused on his tablet.
“I want you to be healthy, Michael. However, I fear if we stick with this agreement
, it will diminish my quality of life. I love you. I love all you do for me…”
Michael stares at me, his glare cold and his words curt.
“But it’s not enough.”
“Not if it means I’m limiting myself. I truly understand that by not following the agreement, I’m disrupting your worldview. But I don’t want your… limitations to determine my future,” I say, firmly.
I’m edging Michael past the point of no return. I can feel his resistance and contempt in the marrow of my bones. I can sense our break-up like an approaching thunderstorm. Desperation is trying to bubble up, but I won’t let it. I’ve got this. No matter how this conversation ends, I will be okay.
“Life didn’t give me a lot of choices, Lilly. And I have done well because I’m clear as to what I will and will not do.”
“I will not be limited, Michael. I’ve worked really hard to get to this place in life and I can’t go back.”
Michael drops his silverware in his plate. The clacking causes me to flinch.
“And being with me is going back?” Michael asks in Farsi.
His question is like an ice pick against my skin.
“No. The terms of our agreement would be a step back.”
I’m trying to articulate my point logically, but I can already feel the sting of tears.
“And yet you agreed to it?” he asks in Farsi.
The connection between us grows weaker by the minute. I breathe deeply, my heart a beating drum.
“I didn’t think everything through, Michael.”
“You think everything through. Did last night change things for you?” he speaks in Farsi, disdain dripping off his words.
“Yes, but not in the way you think. It made me realize every moment cannot be planned. There will be the unexpected. Both positive and negative. And being able to lead an IAP program is a positive unexpected and I want to do it. I also don’t want to be tied to an agreement. It doesn’t leave room for the natural mysteries in life.”
Tears dribble down my cheeks, but I remain calm.
