Dr. O’s Baby

by Valentine, Layla

  “Nick Steel, Nick Steel,” I muttered to myself as I stumbled down the hallway. Drunk and tripping over my own feet, I was hating the wavy colors of the patterned carpet in my building’s hallway. I kept trying to dodge dips that weren’t there, and nearly face-planted more than once. It didn’t help that I was more focused on remembering the O Doctor’s name than on walking.

  After several failed attempts to get the key in the door, I finally made it into my apartment. No dirty diapers greeted me, no stray man-hairs… Nothing but my own meticulously organized emptiness all over the place. My friends had no idea how their complaints about their own lives hurt my heart, and I was never going to tell them. I would give everything to have a family to come home to, dirt and all.

  The warm glow of my laptop screen beckoned me, and I sat down so clumsily that I slid right off of the chair. Admitting defeat, I pulled the computer onto my lap on the floor, and carefully typed the O Doctor’s name and vocation into the search bar.

  The first result gave me exactly what I was looking for. It was a sleek, professional page in midnight blue and lavender, artistically cluttered with photos of the man himself. Or at least his abs and shadowy profile.

  “Lover’s undercover,” I murmured absently as my eyes traced the glistening contours of his ripped abs. His profile was strong and handsome, even without details. The longer I looked at the pictures, the more he turned me on, filling me with that rush of heat which built deep in my belly between my hips, a pressure I could never seem to release.

  Not this time. I refused to be left eternally dissatisfied.

  Impulsively, I clicked the link to his email form, and begin to type:

  Dear Mr. Steel,

  Your reputation caught my attention. You see, I’ve never had an orgasm. Not ever. Every man I’ve ever dated has been terrible. They’re all the same. No ambition, no drive, no idea how to please a woman. Not that I have much room to talk, since I can’t really seem to please myself either. Toys make me feel foolish. My hands are dumb. They don’t know what they’re doing either.

  I hear your hands are very much not dumb. My friend told me that tonight when we were drinking. She hired you to help her get over her ex and his crazy ideas about female anatomy. Maybe you can help me get over my stuff? I’m rambling, I’m sorry. I am very much drunk. I don’t get drunk much. Maybe I should do this more? Obviously it makes me braver. I’m not very brave. I work in data entry, which is like the least brave job ever in the history of jobs. Tyra keeps telling me I’ll be happier if I take more risks, so I guess I’m trying to be happy?

  I think you can make me happy. At least for a minute, anyway. If you can, please meet me Saturday at 7th Heaven on 7th Street. At 7, because why not. Best start with drinks, I think. Drinks are good. Especially strawberry margaritas. With sugar. And lime so you can feel halfway healthy.

  I might be giving up on marriage and babies and all that picket-fence stuff, but I don’t want to give up on orgasms just yet. Help me, O Doctor. You’re my only hope.

  P.S. I’ve attached a picture so you can find me.

  Eternally grateful for autocorrect, I attached the photo, sent the message—and immediately passed out on the floor.

  * * *

  At some point during the night—what was left of the night—I managed to drag myself to bed. I don’t remember doing it, but that was where I awoke the next morning, still in my party dress with my hair wildly tangled and makeup smears all over my pillowcase.

  “Coffee,” I groaned, zombie-like in my hungover cloud of self-inflicted misery. Clearly, I couldn’t leave the house looking this way, but I didn’t have the capacity to get myself fully human until I had acquired the necessary caffeine. Instead, I shoved my hair into a sloppy bun, scrubbed my face, and threw on something comfortable. My feet were killing me, and I chose a pair of oversized tennis shoes that one particularly useless boyfriend had abandoned at my apartment years ago.

  “Looks like you were good for something after all, Chad,” I mumbled as I shoved my feet into the soft, worn sneakers, wincing as the light from outside hit my eyes. “Oh, God, why is it so bright out?”

  Sunglasses, purse, and I was out the door.

  One of the very few good things about living in the dead center of Boston was the absolute glut of coffee houses within walking distance. One, in particular, had these massive coffees, as big as your head, which tasted like heaven and poison all at once. The choice was clear.

  Aptly named Mornings Suck, the coffee shop was packed full of a moaning crowd of equally hungover zombies. I shuffled into the line and was soon inhaling the life-giving aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

  My phone dinged loudly, and the people directly in front of and behind me groaned in unison. Whispering an apology, I quickly pulled the phone from my purse. It was an email from a place called EscortGo. I would normally ignore something like that, but I hated waiting in line more than I hated reading spam, so I opened it.

  Then my heart dropped like a stone.

  Ms. Jones,

  We are pleased to confirm your appointment with Nick Steel on Saturday, June 10th. Should you need to…

  I felt like I had been dumped unceremoniously in an ice bath. Embarrassment prickled over my skin, crept across my scalp, heated my cheeks. The memory of the previous night’s desperate email slammed back all at once, rooting me in place as the zombie line shuffled forward.

  I didn’t even finish reading the message. As quickly as I could, I opened a reply email and typed “Booking made in error. Please cancel.” The message was short, to the point, and most likely rude, but I was too embarrassed to care. As quickly as I could, I shoved the phone back into my purse before any errant eyes witnessed my shame—I had just reached the front of the line.

  “Welcome to Mornings Suck, how can I make your morning suck less?”

  I’d take a time machine and a modicum of self-control, but I don’t think you sell those…

  “One extra-large caramel heart-stopper, extra caramel, extra whip,” I said. To hell with health today, I needed comfort food. Or drinks, as the case may be.

  I made myself as small as possible as I waited for my drink, wishing I could sink into the floor. I felt as if my foolish decision had been written all over my face, and anyone who looked at me would be able to tell that I had nearly hired an escort.

  Sunday was a hungover blur, and it only gave way to a different kind of blur on Monday. I showed up to work determined to clean up my inbox, arrange my desk, and clear my mind for the week ahead. My manager, John, had other ideas.

  “Carmen! Glad you’re here. Look, we just did inventory, and it looks like we missed 2010.”

  “What do you mean we missed 2010?” I really hoped he didn’t mean…

  “These,” he said, gesturing to a stack of file boxes next to my desk. “They were never put into the system after we upgraded. I’m going to need you to get on that, okay? Home office is going to be auditing us next month, so that gives you three weeks. You can manage that, right? Right.”

  “Wait! You want me to get a year’s worth of records filed in three weeks?”

  “That’s correct. You can have all the overtime you need, and I’ve pulled you off of the daily stuff.”

  “Who’s taking over my work?”

  “Oh, everybody’s got a little of it. It’ll be fine. You can do this. Power through, okay? Okay.” With that, he skulked away into his office and shut the door.

  Rubbing my poor temples, I counted the boxes. Twenty-five. That was, what, a box and a half per day? Yeah. That shouldn’t be too much, right? Right.

  I pulled off the lid of the first January box and nearly swore out loud. It was stacked, top to bottom, in loose papers.

  “This isn’t how you use file boxes,” I said out loud in exasperation. “Paul? Can you spare anyone to help me sort this stuff?”

  “Sorry, Carmen.” My supervisor shrugged and turned over his hands helplessly. “Everybody’s already overextended with tak
ing on your regular work.”

  “Okay, that’s fine, that’s fine.” I definitely wasn’t having a panic attack. Definitely, definitely no panic here, nope, totally fine. Resigned to my fate, I started organizing the disheveled stack into slightly more manageable piles.

  The rest of the week passed in a hectic blur. I stayed late every night to hit my quota, and even exceeded it a couple of times. By Friday, I was ready to find the data clerk who had left the boxes in that condition and force them to slog through the remainder. To that end, I found myself at the water cooler Friday afternoon, talking to Ruth; the clerk who had been there the longest.

  “Oh, those crazy boxes. Yeah, I was part of the group who got started on that. 2000 through 2012, all a cluster of nonsense. Sorry you’ve been saddled with it, dear. I could have sworn we got them all. But you know what, it’s like laundry…every time you think you’re done, the kids bring you more!”

  “Oh, my God,” April chimed in. “I swear, I do three loads a day, and every time I clean Jimmy’s room, there’s like a billion more loads just lying there. You’re so lucky, Carmen.”

  “Lucky? Oh, that’s right, I forgot. Sorry, Carmen, guess the laundry analogy doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to you,” Ruth said, her voice dripping with enough sympathy to completely rankle me.

  “Guess that’s what I’ll be doing this weekend,” Jasmine sighed. “My mother-in-law just bought the twins a whole closetful of new clothes, and nobody told me until after they had already spread them all over the house and let the dogs roll on them. It rained that day. There’s mud. Everywhere.”

  “I’d prefer that, to be honest,” Ruth confessed. “I’ve got the soccer run, and I’m ‘snack mom’ this weekend. Oh, but tonight my oldest has an awards ceremony, and then Sunday, of course, is church and dinner with the in-laws, which means begging and bribing the kids to be on their best behavior because you know darn well my mother-in-law is going to have her eyes peeled for any sign of bad mothering.”

  “Ugh, that sounds awful,” Jasmine said sympathetically. “I’m so glad my mother-in-law likes me. Well, she likes wine. It makes her friendly.”

  I laughed along with them at that, remembering my close encounter with a boyfriend’s insane mother. That relationship ended the day he started waxing poetic about forever…and shopping for houses with in-law quarters. Nope, nope, nope.

  “What are you doing this weekend, Carmen? It’s got to be more exciting than laundry,” April asked. She was always making sure to include people, but I sort of wished she was more willing to let my life be ignored. I never felt like I had a whole lot to contribute in the face of their vibrant, if sticky, lives.

  “Oh, I’ll just be relaxing at home,” I told them with a forced little chuckle. “After a week like this, nothing sounds better than a good book and a series of bubble baths.”

  “That sounds heavenly,” Jasmine swooned. “Do you know the last time I had time to take a bubble bath? I sure don’t.”

  “Or read!” April sighed. “I swear, I spend more time reading baby food labels than anything else lately.”

  “Or old magazines in waiting rooms,” Ruth chimed in.

  “Always sticky with something,” April added. “You just hope it’s jelly.”

  The women all laughed, enjoying a camaraderie I would probably never know.

  Smiling weakly, I excused myself back to my desk. Sticky magazines, laundry, dirty diapers; all I ever heard were lighthearted complaints, but they couldn’t hide the light in their eyes when they talked about their kids, or their secret smiles when their husbands texted them.

  The worst part was, I couldn’t seem to find space to complain. Not that I really wanted to, but sometimes it would be nice to be able to vent about my dissatisfaction; everything I could possibly mention to my coworkers would be met with envy or a one-upping story about how difficult parenthood was. I didn’t feel like it was too much to ask to have my loneliness validated, but I should certainly choose my audience better.

  As I finished up the day, a solo weekend started to sound better and better. I could drink wine in the tub and lose myself in an intricate sci-fi novel; maybe take myself out to dinner and buy myself some flowers. Why wallow? I would just date myself.

  Chapter 3

  Carmen

  I didn’t get home until eight, and by then Tyra had already called me twice. As I pulled into my parking space, she called a third time, and I answered.

  “Sorry, hun, I was driving. What’s going on?”

  “I have got to get out of this house,” she burst in frustration. “Donovan is driving me absolutely crazy. Will you come out with me? Not tonight, I’ve got a million things to do because somebody absolutely refuses to do stuff around here, but tomorrow? 7th Heaven again?”

  “I would love to, and you sound like you need it, but—”

  “Oh please, Carmen, please? I really need to vent. It’s like, we’re engaged and he wants to have a baby but not until after we get married, and he’s usually so good about equality and stuff, but there are some things he just absolutely will not wrap his head around. I need to think and talk and drink and…please?”

  I sighed as I watched the idealized solo weekend disappear before my eyes. “Girl, I am too old to get that messed up two weekends in a row.”

  “We’ll take it easy,” she assured me. “One pitcher, that’s all. I really need you right now, Carmen. It’s important to my future. I need to talk this out until it doesn’t feel like the end of the world. I’m overreacting, I know I am, but I can’t talk myself down. I need you.”

  It felt good to be needed, but the memory of what I had done last weekend sat heavy in my chest. Still, if I controlled my drinking, I could certainly avoid a repeat, right? After all, I was a grown woman and fully capable of making my own decisions.

  “All right,” I agreed. “Around seven?”

  “Perfect! Thank you so much. I love you, and I owe you one.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I was probably just going to spend the weekend wallowing in my loneliness anyway.”

  “Cherish that loneliness,” she told me somberly. “Once you get attached, you’ll miss it. Like. For real.”

  “Good to know,” I said drily, rolling my eyes. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Will you be okay tonight?”

  “Yeah,” she sighed. “He went for a walk. I’m going to go take a bath as soon as I scrub out the stupid tub. See you.”

  We hung up, and I made my way inside. It’s better this way, I told myself. I shouldn’t sit around moping all weekend, anyway.

  Pausing in front of my bathroom door, I gazed in at the clean tub. Clean because there was nobody around to argue with about whose turn it was to clean it. Maybe Tyra was onto something, after all.

  Deciding that there was no way I was going to give up my bubble bath and book, I moved my Saturday plans to Friday night and sacrificed my Saturday to the altar of friendship. Which, in the grand scheme of things, wasn’t really much of a sacrifice. Tyra had more than earned best-friend status over the years; if anything, I owed it to her.

  I turned on the water and the vanity lights, leaving the overhead lights off. The lighting was almost romantic…a little too romantic. No, I had decided not to give in to loneliness this weekend, hadn’t I? Turning the overhead light on, I left the water running while I went to find a book. Royals and socialites battling it out in deep space…mutants and clones stalking one another across futuristic cityscapes…yes, I knew exactly what to read to get my mind off of my troubles.

  I fell asleep and dreamed of space travel; the endless, glittering dark, the cold emptiness of space. So cold. And wet?

  I woke with a start, shivering from head to toe. The water had gone cold as ice. Fortunately, I had dropped the book outside of the tub. The alternative would have ruined my whole night.

  “See, even independent women need someone sometimes,” I told myself through chattering teeth. “If only to make sure that you don’t die in the bathtub.”<
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  On the plus side, my bed felt ten times warmer after my icy nap. I fell asleep almost instantly, but my sleep was full of empty dreams and ticking clocks.

  The following evening, I arrived at the bar feeling recharged after a long, luxurious lazy day. Tyra, however, was nowhere to be seen, even though the crowd was still thin; the party didn’t really start around here until ten. Classic rock played at a reasonable level over the speakers, and I seemed to be the youngest person in the bar. Which, frankly, was a welcome shift from the status quo; I loved my friends, but being the oldest of the group wore on my nerves if I allowed it to.

  “Back again! You haven’t been here this much since college, zaika. All is well, I hope?” Orin leaned on the counter, smiling at me with concern in his big blue eyes.

  “Oh, yeah. Well, it is with me. Tyra’s having some issues. I’m here as her shoulder to cry on.”

  “Ah, yes. Very important for girls to have girlfriends. Something light, then? Beer?”

  “Just water for now. I think I’ll wait for Tyra.”

  “Coming right up,” he said gallantly as he whisked a cup up from under the bar. Sliding the water to me with a wink, he left to answer the ringing phone.

  Someone sat down on the seat beside me. Expecting to see Tyra, I turned, and nearly fell off my barstool. Sitting before me was the most gorgeous man I had ever seen in such close proximity; his steely blue eyes sparkled with mischief, and his black, wavy hair glistened in the bar lights. A single perfect curl sat in the center of his forehead.

  “Hi.” His voice was warm and friendly, as if we’d known one another for years. As he turned to read the labels of the bottles in front of him, I got the sneaking feeling that I knew him from somewhere…but where? I don’t think I would forget those eyes.

  “Hi,” I replied uncertainly.

  “Nick,” he said, turning back to me and holding out his hand.