by Wade, Ellie
“I’m serious, Kate. Nothing is going on between Brad and me. We have a boss-employee relationship and nothing more. I promise.”
“So, you don’t have any interest in him?” She doesn’t sound convinced.
“No, not at all.”
“Well, I don’t think it’s the same for him. You do realize that you’re the only writer he has daily meetings with?”
“That can’t be true.” I stop rolling to think about whether or not I’ve noticed him meeting with others. But, honestly, I don’t really keep tabs on his daily activities.
“It is true. He meets with everyone at our morning meetings, which is where everything is discussed and finalized. If the other writers have a question, they’ll go to him, of course, but he definitely doesn’t meet with them separately and every day, like he does with you.”
“Really? Wow, I had no idea that he meets with me more. I mean, I know he’s attracted to me—I’m not naive—but I didn’t realize that he treated me differently than the other writers.” I bring the back of my hand to my forehead. “Ugh, I feel stupid. Everyone at work probably thinks I’m a tramp.”
Kate laughs. “No, they don’t.”
“Yeah, right. I guarantee they think Brad and I are humping like bunnies during our ‘daily meetings.’” I use my fingers to make quotations in the air.
“Who cares what others think?”
“I do, Kate. I don’t want everyone thinking that I slept my way into this job. I work really hard and write damn good articles. I want to be taken seriously. Maybe you should tell them that I’m not sleeping with Brad,” I suggest, trying to figure out how to do serious damage control.
“I can when it comes up. But people are going to believe what they want. I wouldn’t worry too much about it, London. Actions speak louder than words. Just keep doing your best work and show everyone what you’re made of. Even if they think you and Brad are together, they’re not going to be able to deny your talent.” Kate takes a second to admire the wall she just painted before coming over to help me finish mine.
“I’m going to tell Brad to stop treating me differently than other employees. That guy…” I shake my head with a scowl.
“That’d probably be a good idea. I mean, if you wanted to be with him, that’s totally your call. But, if you don’t, you should set some parameters.”
“I thought I had.” I roll my eyes. “I told him from the start that I wouldn’t sleep with him.”
I’ll definitely have a few choice words for Brad when I see him tomorrow. Ugh, making all my coworkers think we’re sleeping together. What an ass.
I drop the paint roller in the pail with a thud. I hope I never have to touch one of those again in my lifetime. My back aches, and my shoulders are screaming in pain. To think of it, my entire body is sore and fatigued. I’m not a manual-labor kind of girl, and I’m okay with that.
I plop down onto our new cream-colored sectional although it’s currently covered in drop cloths to protect it from paint splatter. Leaning my head back, I admire our walls. “We did a really good job,” I say.
“We sure did,” Kate agrees from beside me. “You want to clean up really quick and set everything up?”
“Sure.”
Kate is the first to venture off the couch. She extends her hand, and I take it. “Then, we’ll order takeout and veg for the rest of the day.” She helps me up.
“Do you want to start How I Met Your Mother today?” I ask her.
We finished our Friends marathon a couple of weeks ago. I told her we should start How I Met Your Mother next. Although it’s not Friends, it’s a really close second.
“Yeah, that sounds good,” Kate agrees.
I enter Brad’s office for our daily meeting.
“Please shut the door.” He motions toward the open doorway.
I comply with his request before sitting down in one of the chairs in front of his desk. “Good morning,” I say to him, my tone overly sweet.
He closes the laptop in front of himself and gives me his full attention. “Did you have a good weekend?” he asks with his dreamy smile.
“Very good. Thank you,” I say shortly.
Our conversations are usually much more friendly, but this morning, I’m pissed.
“Is everything all right, London?”
“Not really, Brad. You see, apparently, the entire staff here thinks that our daily private meetings are booty calls.” I hold back a smile when his eyes widen. I continue in my business tone, “It has come to my attention that I’m the only one on your staff who you meet with daily, and I’d like to inquire as to why that is.”
Brad presses a finger to his lips where a small smile is present. He assesses me before answering, “Well, you’re one of the newer writers, and I wanted to make sure you were getting all your questions answered to ensure your success with the paper. We don’t have an official mentoring program, so I’ve seen our meetings as such.”
“As mentoring opportunities?” I question with a quirk of my eyebrow.
He nods. “Yes.”
“Interesting. Well, I spoke with Scott, the writer in Sports who started two weeks ago, and he tells me that you haven’t requested one meeting with him. Does he not deserve these mentor meetings?”
“London, what is this really about?” Brad asks with a sigh.
“I want to know why you have been treating me differently? Apparently, the office thinks I’m easy, and you’re to blame.” I glare toward him.
“No one thinks that,” he says with a shake of his head and a slight smile.
“They might as well. They think we’re doing it.” I cross my arms in front of my chest.
Brad leans forward, resting his arms on his desk. “So what if they do? Who cares?”
“Oh my goodness…I care, Brad.” I try to contain the high-pitched squeal of my voice.
“All right, fine.” He pauses. “I hold meetings with you every day because I like seeing you.”
“Okay?” I question, the word coming out slowly.
Brad stands and walks around his desk. He reaches out his hand toward me, palm up, in an open invitation. I hesitantly take it and allow him to pull me up from the chair. He stands mere inches in front of me, still holding my hand.
Having him so close in proximity, I can’t help but take in his scent. I can’t put my finger on the type of cologne he’s wearing, but I can guarantee that it doesn’t smell half as intoxicating on anyone else as it does on him.
I can feel my heart beating rapidly within my chest. My stomach flips, like butterflies are competing in their own version of gymnastics. I loathe the way my body reacts to him. It’s strictly visceral, not something I plan or even want. Yet the attraction’s there, and he knows it.
“London…” he whispers in my ear, leaning down and still holding my hand.
My eyes clamp shut with his closeness, and goose bumps explode over my skin, causing a quick shiver to shoot through my body.
“I like you. And I know you like me. Let’s stop playing games.”
“I’m not playing games.” My voice comes out soft and shaky.
“London, open your eyes, and look at me,” his deep timbre instructs.
I shake my head.
That’s when I feel his soft, full lips cover mine.
All summer, I’ve been trying to remember what it was like to kiss Loïc, to feel his lips on mine. I’ve all but forgotten the way his lips felt. The last time they touched mine was nine long months ago when they kissed me good-bye right before he left on the trip that would change everything.
The last time Loïc’s lips touched mine was so much more than a kiss. It was a promise of love and commitment. It was a promise to return to me. But, though he came back, he never came back to me.
And, now, my lips that have longed to be kissed every minute of every day for the last nine months are being kissed, and it hurts.
It feels wrong and painful.
It’s not the kiss I crave but the so
ul connected to it. I miss the love and connection I feel for one man only, and it’s not this one.
“Stop.” I pull away, a guilty tear rolling down my cheek. “I love someone else, Brad. You can’t do that again.”
“I thought you were single.” He lets go of my hand.
“I am, but…” I stop, not wanting to say any more.
“You’re in love with a man who doesn’t want you?”
I don’t respond.
“I’m being rejected because you have feelings for someone who doesn’t love you back? Seriously, London?” His voice carries an edge of anger.
“I came here for a job, Brad, not a relationship or a fuck buddy or wherever else you see this going. I just want to write. I don’t want you treating me differently than everyone else. And I don’t want your lips or any other part of your body to touch me again. Are we clear?”
I turn and all but stomp toward the door.
Before I open it, I address Brad one more time, “You might have offered me this job because you wanted to get in my pants. But I hope you’ve been reading my articles because they’re good. And, unless you need to talk to me about something legitimate, I expect all future work-related topics to be covered in our morning staff meetings.”
I give him a big smile—albeit a forced one—and I exit his office.
Loïc
“The people we love most in this world are the ones who have the capacity to cause us the most pain.”
—Loïc Berkeley
“He hates me! He hasn’t even met me, and he hates me already!” a very pregnant Sarah cries as she lies, sprawled out, on the couch, fanning herself with the gossip magazine that came in the mail today.
“Do you want me to turn down the air some more?” I ask her even though it already feels like the Arctic tundra in here.
“Why does he hate me, Loïc?” she continues her rant.
“How about a fan?” I suggest.
I leave Sarah to wallow in her uncomfortable pregnancy alone for a moment and make my way toward the stairs to the basement.
Closing my eyes, I pull in a few deep breaths before turning the handle. I haven’t stepped a foot in the basement since I’ve been home.
We never used the basement for hanging out. Instead, it has always been one giant storage area for anything and everything. I don’t know how much of Cooper’s random stuff Maggie took, but I’m guessing, not all of it. The fear of not knowing what I could find down these steps has stopped me from going down them before. But it’s time.
We had several fans, none of which I’ve seen since I returned, so I’m thinking that Maggie put them down here to store over the winter when Cooper and I were deployed.
It’s just stuff, I tell myself as I descend the stairs.
Two months ago, I wouldn’t have attempted this, knowing that being confronted with something of Cooper’s could have sent me into a full-blown panic attack. But, ever since that night a month and a half ago, where I dreamed of my dad and Nan and then went to the VA with Sarah, life has been more manageable.
I’m currently going to therapy three times a week. I’m also on different medication that’s been helping with my depression and PTSD. Yet I think what is helping the most are the weekly support groups that I’ve been going to with other wounded soldiers from Afghanistan and Iraq. They seem to understand what I’m going through more than the doctors ever could.
The past month has been, for all intents and purposes, pretty okay.
I hear a scream coming from Sarah. I immediately spot a fan and quickly grab it before heading back up the stairs.
Although my quality of life has been improving, Sarah’s has been getting worse with each passing day of her pregnancy. She’s currently ten days late and not very happy about it. She’s definitely no longer in the glowing and happy stage of pregnancy. It’s more like, If this baby doesn’t come out soon, I’m going to murder someone.
“Are you okay?” I ask when I’m back upstairs.
I plug the fan in and set it on the end table, so it’s blowing toward Sarah.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just a stupid cramp. The fan feels good. Thanks,” she says weakly.
“You’re welcome.”
“I’m so uncomfortable, Loïc. I can’t find a position to lie in that will allow me to sleep. My whole body hurts, and I just want him out. Why isn’t he coming out? I’ve tried to make him comfortable and happy in there. I love him. Why is he torturing me?” Sarah’s voice is full of despair.
“You just have to make it to tomorrow. You’ll see your doctor in the morning, and I’m sure she’ll induce you,” I offer.
“You think so?” Her voice is laced with hope.
“Yeah. Remember, at your appointment last week, she said she doesn’t like to let babies go too much over ten days late? Well, tomorrow will be day eleven, so I bet she’ll induce.”
“She’d better. I’ll have some choice words for her if she doesn’t,” Sarah says with a huff.
“I’m sure you will.” I grin. “Can I get you anything? Are you thirsty?”
“I could go for some lemonade.”
“On it.”
“Thanks, Loïc.”
“You’re welcome,” I say as I make my way to the kitchen.
I almost drop the pitcher of lemonade when Sarah screams again. Setting it down on the counter, I walk hastily toward the living room.
“What’s wrong?”
“Oh, just another stupid cramp. I think, if I lie a certain way, I get them. They kill, but they don’t last too long.” She holds her belly.
“Sarah, I’m pretty sure those are contractions.”
Her face shoots up to look at mine. “You think?”
“You’re getting these cramps every few minutes, right?” I ask.
She nods. “Yeah.”
“They’re contractions. Let’s grab your bag and get going. You’re having this baby.” I smile down to Sarah whose face shows utter shock and panic. “You’re going to do great,” I add.
“He hates me!” Sarah screams at the top of her lungs after a hard-fought push. She’s drenched in sweat. Her body shakes with agony.
Using a cool cloth, I wipe her face that’s dripping with a mixture of sweat and tears. “You’re doing great, Sarah,” I try to reassure her.
“I hate this,” she cries. “It hurts so much. How can women do this every day?”
By the time we got to the hospital, Sarah was almost completely dilated. We weren’t in the hospital room for more than thirty minutes before she started pushing. So, apparently, she had been having cramps for a while. The downside was that she was past the point to get an epidural, so she is having her first baby completely naturally, and she is quite upset about it.
“It will be over soon,” I say soothingly.
“This baby hates me, Loïc. Why is he doing this to me?” Tears course down her face.
“Stop saying that. He does not.” I hold back a grin. “This is just part of the process. I know he can’t wait to get out of there to meet his mommy.”
“Oh no.” Sarah’s face goes white in fear as another contraction starts.
“Time to push for a count of ten. Push,” the doctor tells Sarah.
Sarah bears down, whimpering in pain, as the doctor counts back from ten to one. When the doctor reaches one, Sarah relaxes. Her now red face starts to lighten, and she cries. I hate seeing her in so much pain. I’m pretty sure that I’m praying for this to be over almost as hard as she is. Watching someone you love suffer is the definition of torture.
Sarah ends up pushing for an agonizing two hours before the baby finally slides out.
For as long as I live, I will never forget the sight of the doctor putting the wet little guy on Sarah’s chest. The look on her face resonates with unconditional love. She sobs uncontrollably as she holds him to herself. And, this time, she is crying because the overwhelming love she feels needs to get out. She cries tears of love, relief, and joy.
She ke
eps repeating the words, “I love you. I love you. I love you,” in between gently kissing him on his head.
She looks up at me. “He’s perfect,” she chokes out.
“He is,” I agree. My eyes fill with unshed tears from the sight below me. “Just perfect, Sarah.”
The nurse takes the baby to clean him up while the doctor tends to Sarah. I hold her hand, rubbing my thumb across her warm skin.
“You were amazing,” I tell her, still in awe of what a woman goes through to bring a baby into the world.
“It hurt so bad. I think he’s going to be an only child,” she says, exhausted.
I laugh. “You say that now. You might change your mind.”
There are a few moments where no words are spoken between us.
I think about love and loss. I think about Sarah as a mom. She will never be the same person she was yesterday. The type of love one feels for their child changes them. She’ll spend the rest of her life walking around as if her heart were on the outside of her chest—fragile and exposed—always worrying for her child. I think that’s how all parents feel—at least the good ones. And Sarah’s going to be a great one.
I lightly squeeze Sarah’s hand, and she opens her exhausted eyes.
“I think the people we love most in this world are the ones who have the capacity to cause us the most pain. This little boy is going to be the best thing to ever happen to you. I think you’ll find you’d go through it all again, multiple times, to have him because on the other side of anguish is a powerful love.”
“I think you’re right.” She smiles.
The nurse brings the baby over and places him in Sarah’s arms. “He’s just perfect,” she says. “Eight pounds, two ounces and twenty inches long. He passed his exam with flying colors.”
Tears fill Sarah’s eyes once more, and I know how relieved she must feel.
“Do you want to hold him?” she asks me.
“Sure.” I carefully take the baby from Sarah’s arms and hold him in mine.
His eyes are open, but I can’t make out the color. Right now, they’re dark—a combination of blue, gray, and black. He’s completely bald with faint wisps of white hair covering his scalp. I get the feeling he’s going to be blond, like his mother.
