Cheat Codes

by Emily Goodwin

  I have a few days. No need to panic now.

  I trade the Sour Patch Kids for water, wondering if this sore throat is from throwing up or is indicative of getting sick. Stressing out for several days usually leads me to getting a cold, and I’ve definitely been stressed.

  “Hey, lady,” Marissa says as she steps into my office. “Do you want to go to lunch early today? I’m starving.”

  Knowing I should eat something more than crackers and Sour Patch Kids at some point today, I close the baby website I was looking at before Marissa has a chance to see. “Sure. Where do you want to go?”

  “Wherever has the shortest wait,” she says with a smile. “We can try that new Mexican place that opened a few weeks ago. It’s supposed to be really good.”

  “Yeah, sounds good. We can head out now.”

  “Perfect!”

  I push my rolling chair back and stand, getting hit with dizziness. I grab my desk to steady myself, hoping Marissa doesn’t notice. She’s looking at something on her phone, thankfully. I grab my candy and follow her into the lobby. Rene comes out from behind her desk and almost runs into me.

  “Oh, sorry,” she says, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. She’s mad at me still because she thinks I stole Archer from her and doesn’t think I’m good enough to be a ‘doctor’s wife.’ I know this because she writes and sends emails to her sister on the company server.

  “It’s okay.” I smile politely, wondering what kind of things I’ll read when word gets out Archer’s baby is growing inside of me.

  It’s hot and humid today, typical for summer by the lake. Marissa and I walk to the restaurant and get seated pretty quickly.

  “Want to order a pitcher of margaritas?” Marissa asks, looking over the menu.

  Shit.

  “Nah, go ahead and get one though.”

  Marissa puts down the menu. “They have strawberry. I know how much you love those. Oh, and it’s half price!”

  “I shouldn’t drink at work.”

  Marissa isn’t one to pressure me, but she knows it’s weird. I don’t drink at work when we have functions, but I usually get a drink with lunch. Especially half-priced strawberry margaritas.

  She’s going to find out soon enough. I might as well tell her now.

  “I can’t drink.”

  Marissa gives me a blank stare. “Are you sick?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Quinn,” she begs when I don’t say anything more. “What is going on?”

  I close my eyes, not wanting to see her face when I say it. “I’m pregnant.”

  She bursts out laughing. “No fucking way,” she says when she sees I’m serious. “Are you sure?”

  “I took two tests at home and got a blood test at the OB office yesterday. I’m sure.”

  “Who is the fath—oh my God. It’s Archer, isn’t it? He’s the only person you’ve had sex with recently unless you had another dirty weekend with someone else and didn’t tell me.”

  “It is him.”

  “Oh my God. He’s your brother’s friend! Are they even on speaking terms?”

  “They’re great. Nothing’s changed. Because we haven’t told him yet. We haven’t told anyone yet. You’re the first person to know.”

  “That makes me feel all sorts of special, but what the hell are you going to do?”

  I shake my head. “I know I’m having it, I already decided that.”

  “What about Archer? How’s he handling all this?”

  “Better than me,” I say with a sigh. “He wants to talk about the future and all that responsible stuff.”

  “And you don’t?”

  I shake my head. “I know I have to. It’s just…” I trail off, becoming emotional. “That tends to happen when I think about it. Sorry.”

  Marissa reaches out and takes my hand. “Don’t be sorry, Quinn. I’d be a blubbering mess if I were in your shoes. Not that what you’re going through is bad, because it’s, uh, not.”

  “It’s bad.”

  Marissa squeezes my hand. “Do you think you’ll get together with Archer?”

  I sigh and lean back, grabbing a chip. “I don’t know. I don’t want him to be with me just because I’m pregnant.”

  “Yeah, that doesn’t always work out.”

  I break the chip in half and let out a breath. “It wouldn’t feel right. I want whoever I’m with to love me, you know?”

  “Oh, totally.” Marissa gives me a sympathetic smile. “Whatever you need, Quinn, I’m here. You’re my best friend.”

  “Thanks. Don’t tell anyone yet.”

  “My lips are sealed.”

  “It feels good saying this out loud. I’ve known since Sunday morning and haven’t told anyone. Well, besides Archer. He was with me when I took the tests. We want to put off telling my family for as long as possible.”

  “That’s going to be one interesting conversation.”

  “You’re not mad I didn’t tell you sooner?”

  “Not at all. Archer is your brother’s best friend,” she repeats, not having to explain for me to know what she’s thinking. This is going to cause so many problems, not just between Archer and Dean.

  Archer’s not the only one who crossed a line. I knew exactly what I was doing, and facing my family and telling them the truth is going to be one of the hardest things I’ll ever do.

  I wake up Wednesday morning with a headache. There’s no question about it now: I’m sick. All the cold medications in my cabinet say they’re not safe if you’re pregnant. I take an extra-long shower, trying to clear my head so I can breathe, and feel a little better.

  Until I throw up.

  Slumping to the bathroom floor, I can’t help the tears. I’m alone, scared, and feel like total crap. I want to call my mom and have her comfort me. Neville comes over instead, rubbing his head against me.

  “Hey, buddy,” I say quietly, stroking his sleek fur. He jumps into my lap, purring, and I close my eyes and lean against the wall. My phone rings and Neville jumps away when I start to get up.

  Thinking it might be Mom and she somehow felt through the universe I need her, I apprehensively look at the name on the screen. It was bad enough lying to Marissa for a day. There’s no way I can lie to my own mother. But it’s not her. I slowly get to my feet and answer the phone.

  “Hello,” I say to Archer.

  “Hey. How are you feeling?”

  “I just threw up again.”

  “I’m so sorry, Quinn,” he says, and I can tell he feels it. “There’s medication you can take to help with that. I can write a prescription for you.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my eyes. “I read some mixed things online about it not being good for the baby.”

  “It seems at this point you need it. Being dehydrated isn’t good for the baby either.”

  “I don’t think I’m dehydrated.”

  “You said your blood pressure was low. Are you still dizzy?”

  “It is low, and yes, I am. The nurse said it was all normal.”

  Archer isn’t convinced. “Can you send me your lab results? Did they check you for dehydration?”

  “Archer,” I say, not sure if his concern is endearing or annoying. “The nurse said everything came back normal for pregnancy when I talked to her on the phone. Being dizzy and having morning sickness just comes with it.”

  “But that was a few days ago. Things can change fast. Maybe you should go in again and have more labs drawn.”

  Yep. His concern is annoying.

  “And even if you’re not dehydrated, I don’t want you to feel sick all the time. It makes it hard to enjoy anything if you’re on the verge of throwing up. You’re going through enough and I…I want you to be happy, even though I know it’s hard right now.”

  Well, maybe a little endearing.

  “I know,” I sigh.

  “I miss you,” he says, and I can’t help but wonder if he actually does or if he’s saying that to try and make me feel better. He
didn’t seem to miss me at all until he found out I’m carrying his baby. “I have the weekend off. I can come see you if you want.”

  “I did enjoy the last time we spent the weekend together. And we never did have that thirty minutes like you promised me.”

  “If I come up I’ll give you more than thirty minutes.”

  I smile, body reacting to the mere thought of Archer’s touch. “Well, if you’re promising that, then, by all means, yes, come up here for a booty call.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” he says sharply, not finding the humor like I thought he would.

  “I was just joking. A booty call is probably a bad idea anyway, though it’s not like I can get pregnant again.” I move into my bedroom, coughing. “Have you talked to Dean lately?”

  “We text occasionally. Have you thought more about when you want to tell your family?”

  “No. What about your family?” I ask, realizing I haven’t brought it up yet. “Do you want to tell your mom?”

  “I will after we tell your parents. Mine have enough going on, waiting isn’t a bad thing.”

  I never got the chance to ask Archer what was wrong the other night at dinner either. Finding out I’m pregnant distracted me from pretty much everything, and now I’m feeling selfish for making things all about me.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask.

  “It tends to end up that way,” he replies softly, and the change in the tone of his voice throws me. “It’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Okay,” I say, feeling right back at square one with him. I’m never going to crack Archer Jones, and I don’t think he wants me to.

  22

  Archer

  I missed a call from Quinn today, and I noticed it right before I went into surgery. I’ve never had a hard time clearing my head before, but today, as I wash my hands and have my surgical scrubs put on, it’s all I can think about. She hasn’t called me—ever. What if something is wrong? She didn’t leave a message, and she didn’t text either.

  I’m sure everything is fine with her and the baby. It has to be. As awful as I feel to admit it, there’s a small part of me that’s glad Quinn is pregnant. The timing couldn’t be worse. Dean is going to hate us both. He’ll forgive Quinn eventually, but the light he holds her in will forever be dimmed.

  But now that she’s pregnant, we’re talking, and we have a chance. And if anyone was to be the mother of my child, no one is better than Quinn.

  Sam puts the patient under and we get started. As soon as I make the first cut, I’m back in the game, and the surgical team and I make small talk as we go about treating the patient.

  An hour later, I go into the PACU to check on my patient and get stuck talking to his overly-involved mother, who doesn’t think I know what I’m talking about in terms of recovery. I’ve dealt with my fair share of difficult patients before. I know how to handle them and what to say, but today it’s testing my patience.

  I need to call Quinn back.

  Finally, I get into the break room. I lean against the wall by the window and call Quinn. She answers right away and sounds worse than she did yesterday.

  “Hey,” she says, voice hoarse.

  “How are you feeling?” I ask, though I already know the answer. I’ve called her every day since Sunday when I saw her last, and Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday have all been the same in terms of morning sickness, and it seems to be getting worse and worse as the days go on. And now she has a nasty cold that went from bad to worse overnight.

  “I’m pretty congested. I actually went home from work. I just got in. But I’m fine,” she adds quickly, like she always does. She doesn’t want sympathy and is one of the toughest people I know. She’s going through this all alone, and I hate it.

  I should be there with her. When she’s throwing up, I should be holding her hair, rubbing her back, and bringing her water and a cloth to wipe her face. It kills me to be hours away, unable to go to her, showing up within a moment’s notice to bring her whatever she’s craving.

  “Rest should help. That cough doesn’t sound too good though.”

  “I’ll be fine. I get colds like this every now and then. How are you?”

  “I’m good. Just got out of surgery. I miss you, Quinn,” I tell her, heart aching. I miss her so much it hurts, but I don’t know how to make her believe me. I fucked up, and I know it. I should have called her after I left all those weeks ago. I should have manned up and told her how I really felt.

  It might not have changed this situation, but at least she’d know I saw her—that I still see her—as more than a booty call. She wasn’t a convenient piece of ass for me just because I was in Chicago. Sleeping with Quinn meant more to me than she’ll ever know.

  But I can’t tell her now. She won’t believe me. She already thinks I’m only talking to her because she’s pregnant.

  “If I’m sick, will they still do the ultrasound?” she asks.

  “Yeah, though coughing might make things a little painful.”

  “Really? Don’t they just put that thing on my belly?”

  I push off the wall and go to the coffee pot to pour myself another cup. “They will, but they also do an internal one this early.”

  “Internal?” She pauses for a second. “Oh, right. Some girls at the office talked about it before. They called it a dildo cam. Now I get it.”

  I laugh. “That’s pretty much what it is. I was able to get tomorrow off.”

  “Really? So you can be there with me?” I can tell she’s smiling when she’s talking. She starts to say something else but cuts off, coughing. “Ugh, I feel like shit. Can I call you back later?”

  “Of course. You need rest. Have you taken anything for the cold?”

  “Everything I have in my medicine cabinet says it’s not safe to take during pregnancy. I’ll go out later.”

  My stomach starts to knot. She’s sick. Pregnant. I want to be the one to bring her medication. “Do you have a humidifier? That’ll help with the congestion.”

  “No. I’ll get one too.” She starts coughing again, and it’s the kind of cough I hear when patients have bronchitis or pneumonia. “I’m going to take a nap first. I feel like I was hit by a truck. Sorry for complaining.”

  “You’re not complaining, Quinn.”

  “I am, and it annoys me when people complain, so I’m sorry.”

  I set my jaw, looking at the clock. Technically, I’m done with my scheduled surgeries for the day. It’ll be asking for a miracle, but for Quinn, I’ll make it happen.

  I stand outside Quinn’s door, bag in my hand, and pull out my phone. I’m lucky I didn’t get pulled over for speeding on the way here, and it had to be divine intervention for the lack of traffic.

  Quinn’s phone rings once. Twice. Three times. I don’t think she’s going to answer. That’s okay. I’ll wait. I waited to get into the building, sneaking in behind someone like a creep. But I wanted to surprise Quinn.

  “Hello?” she answers, sounding like she just woke up.

  “Hey, are you home?”

  “Yeah,” she says, and she sounds sicker than before. “I’m trying to muster up the energy to go out and get medicine. I feel worse now.”

  “You don’t have to go out. Just open your door.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  I knock on the door and wait. A few seconds later, Quinn opens the door, phone still pressed to her ear. She looks at me in shock. And then she starts crying.

  “Quinn,” I say, putting the bag and my phone down. I step in, taking her in my arms. “Sorry. I thought surprising you was a good idea.”

  “It is. It’s a really good idea,” she sniffles, then turns her head to cough. “I don’t know why I’m crying.”

  Chuckling, I wrap Quinn in a tighter hug and kiss the top of her head. The moment I felt her against me, everything clicked into place. This is where I’m supposed to be.

  With Quinn.

  Pregnant or not, she’s the only one for me.
I’ve known it for years. Fought it as hard as I could. There was never any point because everything always went back to her.

  We move inside, and I get out the medicine I brought for Quinn. “This is all safe for pregnancy,” I tell her. “I don’t know how much it’ll help, but it’s better than nothing.”

  Quinn sits on the couch, pulling a blanket around her shoulders. She looks sick, with bags under her eyes and pale skin.

  “I can’t believe you came. How did you get off work?”

  “I was able to switch on-call days with another surgical resident. I’m working Sunday instead.”

  “You gave up your weekend for me?”

  “I’d give up a lot more than that for you, Quinn.” I go to her, wrap her in my arms again, and lay down on the couch. Quinn coughs, turning her head away from me, and then lays down. I rub her back and cover her back up with the blanket.

  “This is nice,” she mumbles, eyes closed.

  “It is.” This is how it should be. Every day. “Are you tired?”

  “Yeah. I tried to take a nap but didn’t sleep very long. It’s hard to sleep when I’m all stuffy like this.”

  “Take a hot shower to break up some of the congestion. I’ll set up the humidifier in your room and will rub your back until you fall asleep.”

  Quinn looks at me, eyes full of emotion. She’s glad I’m here, but she’s also confused. I know it’s my fault. I promise myself right then and there that I’m going to fix it. I sit up with her in my arms, and stand, helping her to her feet. Quinn grabs a tissue and blows her nose.

  “Sorry. It’s gross, I know.”

  “I spent an hour in surgery this morning draining abscesses and it was oddly satisfying,” I tell her. “So blowing your nose doesn’t gross me out in the least.”

  “Good.” She gives me a small smile. “Thank you, Archer.” She grabs another tissue and goes into the bathroom.

  The cats follow me around when I go into the kitchen. There are a few dirty dishes in the sink, so I rinse them and put them in the dishwasher. I fill a glass with water and take it along with the medicine into Quinn’s room, setting it on the nightstand. I bring a chair in from the dining table and put the humidifier on it next to Quinn’s bed.