Exes and Ohs

by Beth Kendrick

  “Is Dr. Cortez here today?” I asked his secretary, peering over the stacks of manila folders and pink phone messages piled on her desk.

  “No.” She didn’t take her eyes off the invoice sheet in front of her. “He’s at a conference in San Francisco for the next two days. Why?”

  “I guess I have what you might call an ethical dilemma. I wanted to ask his advice.”

  “Dr. Vaughn is here today. You could talk to her.”

  Heather Vaughn, one of Dr. Cortez’s postdocs, was a fussy, dour-faced woman who wore her glasses on a chain around her neck and loved to start her sentences with phrases like “I’m reminded of what Immanuel Kant said about consciousness…”

  “Thanks anyway.” I headed for the nearest exit. As I burst into the blazing midmorning sun, I checked my watch and realized that I had only five minutes until my next appointment.

  Five minutes to get hold of someone—anyone—who could tell me what the hell I should do about Harmony’s little secret.

  No doubt about it: this was a thorny dilemma. She had disclosed information in the privacy of my office during a therapy session, which meant that I was legally bound to keep it in confidence. Except I was also required by law to disclose information about abuse or neglect of children. Did depriving Leo of his father constitute neglect? And did depriving Alex of the chance to claim his child constitute, I don’t know, cruel and unusual punishment?

  But wait. Maybe Leo wasn’t really his child at all. Maybe Harmony had just gotten all those besotted Alexes confused. It could happen, right? I was due for some good luck in the romance department, dammit!

  I didn’t even try to fool myself into thinking that I could retain a rational and unbiased perspective. Alex and I…I wasn’t sure exactly what we had going on, but it was definitely something sexual. Something promising. Until now.

  Of course, Harmony had no reason to suspect that I had recently spent the night canoodling with her ex in his curtain-less condominium. And Alex would definitely flip his shit if he knew that his ex and I had sat down and dissected his childhood.

  Then there was Leo. Poor little Leo. Regardless of the consequences, my first obligation was to protect him and his best interests. I had made a professional commitment to that end, but more importantly, Alex—his father, dear God—would want it that way. I’d only known him a week, and I was certain of that. So. What to do?

  I had a slow, sinking feeling that I knew the answer to that question.

  I took a seat on a wrought-iron bench under a palm tree and dug my new cell phone out of my bag. This time, the batteries were all charged up and ready to go. Cesca picked up on the third ring, sounding groggy and irritable. Clearly, someone had headed back to bed after breakfast this morning.

  “’Lo?”

  “It’s me,” I said. “I need help.”

  I heard the rustling of bedclothes on the other end of the line. “What now?”

  “I have an ethical question.”

  She groaned. “If this is about another rebound guy, I’m hanging up.”

  “No, it’s…remember when I told you that one of my new clients’ mom was Alex’s ex-girlfriend?”

  A big yawn. “Yeah.”

  “I met with her today, and she told me something that…well, I’m not sure what the rules of confidentiality are in this case.”

  Long pause on her side. Then: “Gwen. You know I love you, but you are seriously going to The Bad Place with this whole Harmony thing. Now that you know for sure that she used to date your new boyfriend or whatever he is, you can’t work with her anyway. Just refer her aerobicized Carmen Electra ass to somebody else. Let Heather deal with her; that’ll serve her right for messing with your man.”

  “Well, obviously now that I’m sure it’s his ex I’m going to refer her,” I said impatiently. “But it’s too late to unask the questions I already asked. And this morning she told me something that I think Alex really needs to know.”

  Another long pause.

  “I’m not overreacting, Cesca. This is a big deal. It is life-altering.”

  She sighed. “Are we talking about child abuse?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “A murder confession?”

  “No.”

  “Then you know what the rules are. I don’t see what’s to discuss.”

  “Believe me, there’s plenty to discuss.”

  “Is Harmony actually a man?”

  “Cesca—”

  “Does she have a horrible STD that she secretly gave to Alex?”

  “No.”

  “Then I can’t imagine what could be so earth-shattering. Besides, you’re screwed either way. If you tell Alex, Harmony can sue the clinic up the ying-yang, and if you don’t, you’re going to feel weird and guilty about it forever.” She yawned. “Good luck with that.”

  “Thanks. You’re a big help.”

  “I live to serve.”

  My call-waiting beeped. “I gotta go. I’ve got another call.”

  “It’s probably the National Enquirer wanting an exclusive. True Confessions of a Serial-Dating She-male, starring Harmony St. James.”

  “You’re going to hell, you know.” I hung up on her and clicked over to the other line. “This is Gwen.”

  “Hey, Gwen. This is Alex.”

  I clamped a hand around the wooden slats of the bench seat. “Oh. Hi?”

  “You sound shocked. Are you really that amazed that I called?”

  “No, no, I…” I took a deep breath. “Listen, Alex, this really isn’t a great time to talk. I’m late for a session.”

  “That’s fine.” His voice sounded crisp and untroubled. “I just called to ask if you’d like to grab dinner tonight. And to tell you to keep Saturday morning free.”

  “Saturday?” I reached for my planner, then threw it back into my bag. Who knew what we’d all be doing on Saturday? He’d probably be embroiled in a custody bloodbath with Harmony by then.

  “Yeah. We’re going surfing.”

  Oh God. Surfing. He was thinking about surfing, and I was thinking about how to tell him that—surprise!—he was the father of an emotionally disturbed preschooler. Why hadn’t I just gone to law school like my parents had wanted me to?

  “Gwen? Hello?”

  “Yeah. I’m here.”

  “So I’ll pick you up tonight around eight?”

  “That might present a problem on several levels,” I finally said. “And you know, you might want to keep your weekend open, just in case something comes up.”

  A brief pause ensued. “Do you not want to see me again?”

  “Of course I do!”

  “Do you have to work?”

  “Well…no.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  I sighed. “There is no problem. Yet.”

  “Your optimism is inspirational. Do you want to hang out tonight, or not?”

  “I do,” I hedged. “But it’s been a crazy morning, and—”

  “Then we’re going. Nothing fancy, very low-key.” He clicked off the line. I stared at the phone, my mind racing. The dull twinges of an emergent headache crept into my temples.

  But something else was seeping into my soul. Something sour and small. Fear? Envy? The sudden certainty that once Alex found out that Harmony was raising his child, he’d want to reconcile with her and live happily ever after? Sure, they’d broken up, and sure, she was pretty scary with all that Synchrona claptrap, but she had a body that put Halle Berry to shame. And she held the ultimate trump card—a tow-headed little boy with a Fider-Man wardrobe and Alex’s thoughtful brown eyes.

  6

  I am still not totally positive how this happened (I suspect my weakness for classically handsome men who plied me with French fries may have been involved), but I ended up going to dinner with Alex on Monday night, despite my trepidation. Then a movie on Thursday. Then a retro snogging session in his car when he dropped me off in Westwood. On at least ten different occasions throughout the week, I wanted
to tell him about Harmony and Leo, but here is what came out instead:

  “I’d love to go out again this weekend.”

  “Get out! Bull Durham is one of my top five favorite movies too!”

  “So what exactly does NASDAQ stand for?”

  Etc. It was bad. I led the double life of a very dysfunctional superhero. By day, I left frantic messages on Harmony’s voice mail, begging her to call me back. By night, I hit the town with Alex, then came home, went to bed, and woke up at 4 A.M. in a cold sweat.

  I worried about what would happen when Alex found out about Leo. I worried about how I was going to explain all this to Dr. Cortez. But mostly, I worried about the way I had started to feel about Alex.

  I liked him. A lot. And not in a I’m-so-desperate-for-validation-won’t-you-pretty-please-be-my-rebound-man kind of way. It was more of a let’s-stay-up-all-night-engaged-in-unspeakable-acts-of-passion kind of way. My hormones, which didn’t know any better, kept insisting that this was The Guy. Mr. White Knight himself.

  “Haven’t I learned anything?” I wailed to Cesca on Friday morning, my lips still swollen from all the kissing the night before.

  “Apparently not.” She grinned. “But it sounds like it’s gonna be hot. Bring him back alive.”

  Harmony’s next scheduled appointment was Monday at noon.

  That turned out to be twelve hours too late.

  I spent the weekend with Alex, promising myself that any minute now, I would tell him the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God.

  Any minute now.

  He took me to the international surf museum in Huntington Beach. He took me to Carmine’s II Café. And on Sunday night, he took me to bed.

  I was asking for it, really, wearing the crisp white Our Town dress to dinner. I might as well have hung a PROPERTY OF ALEX COUGHLIN sign around my neck, and I knew it. But I headed out into the night with only a tiny black purse and an over-abundance of bravado.

  He played to all my weaknesses. With his blue button-down shirt, gray slacks, and a woodsy trace of cologne, he could’ve been the spokesman for Give Men Another Chance International.

  He arrived at my apartment looking even more healthy and tan than usual. “I went surfing this morning up in Malibu,” he explained. “The waves were brutally good.”

  I laughed. “Were they, like, totally tubular?”

  “Get in the car, woman.”

  And we were off.

  We ate ravioli and calamari in the dusky candlelight while our feet and calves tangled together under our tiny table for two. A buzz of lust and tension swelled up between us, but the catalyst fueling the crescendo was hope. I felt lucky. Lucky to be here, drinking and laughing with a man who could discuss the fall of the deutsche mark, brutally good waves, and his best childhood pal (a golden retriever named Beauford) in the same evening.

  The odds of finding a man like this in Los Angeles were roughly the same as that of finding a black cat in the Black Forest during an eclipse of the moon. Statistically speaking, Alex was impossible. And yet, here he was, eyeing the neckline of the Our Town dress and plying me with simple carbohydrates.

  We had it all: throaty laughter, lingering glances, repartee that we considered witty. It was practically an ABBA song brought to life. Well, except for the whole Leo thing. Still had to deal with that.

  I procrastinated through dessert, through Asti Spumante, through fifteen minutes of light traffic on Westwood Boulevard.

  Finally, when we pulled up in front of my building, I cleared my throat. No more idle chatter about NASDAQ. Time to come clean and turn this budding fairy-tale romance into a sick and twisted farce.

  I stared straight ahead into the thin yellow glow cast by streetlights. I licked my lips.

  He watched me licking my lips.

  “Okay.” My hands twisted together in my lap. “I have to tell you something.”

  His voice was thick and low. “Am I going to like it?”

  “Well…you’ll have to be the judge of that.” I finally looked at him and tried to smile. “Things have gotten sort of complicated. Since last week.”

  “Really.” He stroked my bottom lip with his thumb.

  I tilted my face away, determined to deliver the bad news before I lost all control and attacked him like a puma from the trees. “Yeah. I’m having a good time with you—a really good time—but I think we may have something of a situation on our hands. And I don’t know what to do.” I took a deep breath. “Alex, I—”

  “Me too.” He kissed me, soft and slow.

  I pulled back a fraction of an inch. “Hang on. I have to tell you something.”

  He brushed his lips across mine. My palm slid down his chest, coming to rest just above his belt buckle.

  “Tell me later.”

  The man made a compelling argument.

  I swallowed. “You say that now, but—”

  He kissed me again.

  “Wait,” I breathed.

  He eased his fingertips under the hem of my dress. “No?”

  Tell him. Lower your pulse rate, open your yap, and tell him that you met Harmony. It’ll take forty seconds. Twenty if you cut to the chase.

  I opened my mouth. When I met his eyes, they were reflecting emotions I didn’t recognize. Something deeper than what I’d had with Dennis.

  Something I was about to give up by telling secrets in a flagrant breach of ethics. Something I was about to give up in punishment for sins I didn’t commit.

  So I did something I’d never done in my entire dating career. I shut my mouth, I shut my eyes, and I opened my soul to him. Tomorrow would have to take care of itself.

  It was good. Eyes-rolling-back-in-head, involuntary-

  spasming good. My sweet little twin bed was utterly defiled. And afterward, he stood up, put his boxers back on, and ventured out to the kitchen to bring me a Diet Coke. Then he settled down on the minuscule mattress, engulfed me in both arms, and went to sleep without a single complaint about the fact that his feet were dangling in midair.

  What a catch.

  My alarm clock woke us on Monday morning. I tensed as soon as I hit the snooze button and tried to sit up, reeling with the horrifying morning-after questions. What if he was repulsed by my stale Diet Coke breath? Worse, what if he realized he was way out of my league?

  He stirred and pulled me closer to him, squinting at the luminous digital dial. “What time…oh God, I’ve got an early meeting today.”

  I gave him a light jab with my elbow. “Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve set the alarm.”

  He rubbed his stubbly cheek against my neck. “The sunlight usually wakes me up.”

  “A plan foiled by the fact that I actually have curtains.”

  We ended up showering together “to save time.” As I brushed my teeth and dried my hair, I realized that the reason I felt so wired this morning was that I was now both hopeful and scared. Hopeful that my night with Alex might turn into something real, scared that we were doomed by circumstances beyond our control.

  But.

  Maybe not telling him was the best thing I could do. Maybe we could make this work. Maybe Harmony had gotten confused, and Leo wasn’t even remotely related to Alex.

  Or maybe I had just hopped on the fast track to doom and damnation by withholding information that would instantly change every aspect of his existence.

  When we emerged, fully dressed, we ran smack into Cesca and Mike at the breakfast table. By all appearances, they were back on again. Clad in guilty grins and strategically arranged bath towels, they had bogarted the last of the orange juice. As the males sized each other up, Cesca raised her eyebrows at Alex and mouthed, “Cute.”

  “I know,” I mouthed back.

  “Top o’ the morning to ya,” Mike drawled, lighting up a Newport as part of this complete breakfast.

  I managed a half-hearted smile. Cesca was decidedly less tolerant. She whirled on her stool and fixed him with an icy glare.

  �
��There is nothing worse than a fake brogue before I’ve had my coffee.”

  “Except nagging,” Mike countered, dragging on his cigarette. He nodded at Alex. “Women, eh?”

  Cesca’s face turned a dull red. “Way to put the ‘duh’ in dumb-ass.”

  “Whatever. Nagger.”

  I grabbed Alex’s hand and tugged him toward the door. “Let’s get out of here before the flatware starts flying.”

  We escaped down the hall as the volume racheted up in the kitchen.

  “So what did you want to tell me last night?” he asked.

  I coughed. “Um, it’s about your ex-girlfriend. Harmony.”

  “Harmony.” He eyes narrowed. “What about her?”

  “Well, I saw her…in a magazine, obviously…” Yeah, obviously. It’s not like she’d shown up in my freaking office or anything. “She’s really beautiful, isn’t she?”

  Understanding dawned in his eyes. “I know where you’re going with this.”

  I shook my head. “I really don’t think you do.”

  “Gwen.” He closed both hands around my shoulders. “I know you’re gun-shy about this type of thing, but I will make you a promise here and now. I’m not like that guy who left you at the altar. I will never go back to Harmony.”

  I winced. “But…”

  “Never. Understand?” He squeezed my shoulders again. “That whole thing was a mistake, it’s in my past, and that’s where it’s going to stay.”

  I tried to smile.

  “You are the one I want. I will never go back to her. She’s my worst nightmare.” He smiled back and traced my cheekbone with his index finger. “Now. I have to get home to change for work, but I will call you later.”

  Before leaving, he gave me a chaste little kiss on the cheek. The morning after, in Mayberry.

  I kept smiling until he disappeared around the corner. Then I slammed the door, snatched my cell phone, and dialed up Alex’s worst nightmare.

  7

  I spent the next hour and a half forcing myself to concentrate on seven-year-old Lucy Spitz, a sweet little girl with thick red braids and a serious attention deficit problem, and prided myself on keeping my personal and professional problems separate, if only for a clinical hour.