by Logan Chance
“There you are,” Declan calls out, stepping from the patio door. “We should get going.”
Yes, because as much I like these people, my teetering house of cards is about to come tumbling down. I have to tell him. Soon. Maybe.
I rise from my chair, and Chelsea and I exchange phone numbers before we say goodbye to everyone. The ride home is mostly silent, and I sit stoic, watching the palm trees pass by in a blur.
“Everything ok?” he asks with a furrowed brow when he pulls into the parking lot of my building.
I nod. “Yeah.” But it’s not. Not at all.
Everything about today was beautifully perfect. Except the hit to the head. Maybe not that. But, there’s a weight bearing down on me,
“You sure?” he asks again.
I turn to face him. “Declan, your friends were great. The ballpark was great. It was all so…”
“Great?”
“Sorry.” It's times like these, I wish I had my thesaurus. “But, it’s true. You have so many things going for you, and I...”
“Well, there is one thing I’m missing,” he interrupts.
“What’s that?”
“You.”
Before I can respond, his lips are on mine, erasing every reason I have not to do this. Making me think foolish things, like maybe I could more than like him.
25
Declan
Studies show that most doctors who quote studies are just making up their findings.
No-strings, she said. A sex study on no-strings relationships, or friends with benefits, whatever you want to call it, showed that sixty nine percent of women were really hoping it turned into strings and sixty percent of men were fine with no strings. Well, count me in the forty percent who isn’t. Because what the fuck? There’s strings, oh there’s strings. Yesterday with Rose was amazing, better than anything I’d ever had before. And the crazy thing is, I want it more now. I thought having her once would cure me of this need for her, thought it would drive her out of my system, but I’m realizing that’s not the case.
“Four,” I yell into the vast emptiness of the fairway, even though there’s no one around on the golf course except me and Ethan.
I love playing golf. And I love playing with myself. That sounds so dirty, but it’s true. Mainly because it’s a competition with yourself. No people you’re trying to win against. It’s all about beating your last score and doing your best. I’ve been a scratch golfer as long as I can remember, picking up the sport when I was a kid, mainly because it was the best way to spend time with a busy father who never really had time for anything.
It’s a clear day, not a single cloud in the sky, and I’m golfing with Ethan. Life is good.
“I can’t believe I convinced you to come out here again. Remember what happened last time?” Ethan says from the golf cart, legs perched on the dash, aviator shades low over his eyes.
I line up my Titleist Pro V1 golf ball between the two black tees on the teeing ground for a do over.
“That wasn’t my fault.” I raise my driver in the air, pointing it at Ethan. “Maybe if you weren’t some hot shot movie star you wouldn’t be the cause of unwanted attention.” I bring my driver back down, pull my arms back, and right before I swing Ethan lets out a ‘jealous’ which makes me almost miss my shot. Almost.
“Nice try.” I wait for him to meet me out here so he can take his shot. “Your turn.”
He leans forward, and smiles. “Let’s just pretend I drive the ball to somewhere around where your ball landed.”
“Get your ass out of that cart and swing.”
He laughs, grabbing a driver from his golf bag. “Calm down, I don’t want to hear you cry when I beat your ass today.” He puts his white tee in the ground, and places his ball on top.
“What’s with you today? You drag me out here to not play?”
“Late night with Nova. That girl does this one move,” he shakes his head. “I don’t know where she gets the energy.”
“Man, I don’t want to hear about your sex life.” I step back, giving him room to swing.
He gets in position. “Just thought we should have a man to man talk.” Ethan hits the ball, sending it straight down the fairway.
“Oh, when is the other man arriving?”
“I see you get your sense of humor from your sister.” He rests his weight on the club, hand on hip. “You happy about New York?”
“Yeah.” I rub the back of my neck. I should be ecstatic. I should be jumping for joy, this is what I’ve always wanted, but it feels hollow. Like something’s not quite right. Rose has my head so all over the place it isn’t funny.
Ethan makes his way to the golf cart and I follow.
“What does Rose think about you taking the job?”
“She’s all for it. Can’t wait to get rid of me.”
Ethan sits down, resumes his position with his feet propped up along the dashboard of the golf cart. “Now, this I need to hear.”
And I spill it all to him. Every little thing. Except minor details made only for me. I wouldn’t kiss and tell, so I leave it at that.
And when I’m done, he lets out one single, ‘fuck.’
I drive us to the next hole. “Yeah, I know.”
“Well,” Ethan stands from the cart when I come to a stop. “Tell her how you feel.”
“And just how do I feel?”
He raises a brow. “Come on. It’s obvious.”
“Obvious to you. What?” I ask, not sure what he’s getting at. “I can’t just ask her to go with me.”
Ethan leans against the cart, his arms along the top rail, leaning in to glare at me. “That’s the stupidest fucking shit I’ve ever heard. Of course, you can.”
My head is all over the place, not really sure which way is up or down. I don’t know what’s worse—the fact she’s a preacher’s daughter, my assistant, or the fact I’m wrapped so tight in strings, I’m strangling.
Rose and I have been inseparable for the past week, and those strings are now a noose. I don’t know how I can leave her. How am I supposed to pick up and move to New York?
Tracy, one of the nurses on duty at the clinic, stares at me from the opposite end of the long desk. It’s late in the day, and all I can think about is what Rose and I will be doing later this evening after work.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing,” she says, looking back at her computer screen.
A few minutes later, I catch her staring again. I’ve known Tracy a long time, and the fact she isn’t telling me about some detail of her life is unusual.
I stuff a hand inside my slack’s pocket. “Last chance to say whatever’s on your mind.”
She darts around the desk and stops in front of me to whisper, “I’ve been reading a book, and I’d swear it’s about you.”
“What do you mean?” I lean against the desk, curious. “What book?”
Her fingers trace along the wide black band of her ID badge. “Doctor Love.”
“Ok, and?” I laugh a little. “I take it this is one of your romance novels? Am I as handsome as in real life?”
“I’m serious,” she emphasizes, “and Bonnie and Jackie agree with me. Eclan Bigcock.”
“Wait. What?”
“I found this story online,” she explains. “And I swear it’s you.”
She goes on to tell me how Eclan Bigcock is a veterinarian rather than a therapist but fits my description: over six feet, dark blonde, moss-green eyes.
“Let me see this nonsense,” I tell her, completely confused.
She grabs her iPhone and swipes the screen. After a few taps, she hands it over. I read the brief description of Doctor Love:
Eclan Bigcock—a sexy veterinarian saving the world one pussy at a time. With his panty dropping smile and tug-worthy hair, this alpha male makes all the kitties purr.
I take one look at the cover of the book, a man in a white coat with his chest and abs on display.
“Seriously? What doctor practices medicine with
no shirt on?” This is not me. My hair is too short to tug. If anything it should say scratchable muscular back.
“Just read it,” she urges.
I let out a beleaguered sigh and continue reading.
He doesn’t know I exist. To him, I’m only the owner of the pussy he takes care of.
“Hi,” I manage to get out, entering the exam room. Miss Smitten meows in my arms.
Green scrubs emphasize the moss color of his eyes when our gazes meet. “What’s going on today?”
His brusque attitude doesn’t help ease my nervousness being around him. I’ve heard the nurses whispering about ‘Doctor Love’ while I stroke my pussy in the waiting area. I need to get laid.
I stop reading and hand the phone back to Tracy. “What is this garbage?”
“It’s you.”
“No. I’m not a vet.” She opens her mouth to object but reconsiders when she sees how unamused I am. “Who wrote this?”
She shrugs. “It’s a pen name, but it has to be someone you know.”
“I’m nothing like that guy. I‘m not brusque.”
Tracy laughs. “There was that one time...”
I put my hand up, stopping her before she continues. “I was tired, and I didn’t blow up that bad.” She hits me with a stare. “Ok, maybe the one time. But it’s not like an everyday occurrence.”
She raises a brow. “This book is you.”
“Where do I find it?” Because now I’m curious about Eclan Bigcock.
“It’s on all the major retailers.” She jots down the title and author and hands it over.
I stuff it into my pocket and get back to work. For the rest of the day, I forget all about the vet with the abs.
After work, I meet Rose for dinner at an intimate Italian restaurant.
Dinner is spaghetti and horniness. I’ve never been around someone who makes me so damn horny. It’s like I can’t even function when she smiles over her glass of Merlot.
What is she doing to me?
And how am I supposed to leave all this.
I need to talk to her about the job, about moving to New York. It’s still a month away, but we need to discuss it. Like yesterday, when Dr. Nicholson brought in the new therapist who will replace me, Rose pretended it didn’t even happen.
Maybe she’s in denial? Maybe we both are.
“Rose,” I start, during dessert, “we should talk about me moving to New York.”
The carefree smile, that was there moments ago, drops. “What is there to talk about?”
“Well,” I rub my hands on my linen napkin in my lap, “I don’t really know, but I think we should at least acknowledge it.”
She picks at her tiramisu with her fork. “It’s acknowledged.”
“We can’t hide from it.” I blow out a breath. “And what about us?”
She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Let’s just take it day-by-day.”
I hate that idea. But, I hear myself say ‘ok’ instead.
26
Rose
“I think the deeper you go into questions, the deeper or more interesting the questions get. And I think that’s the job of art.”
—Andre Dubus III
It’s alarming how comfortable I’m getting around Declan. How comfortable this is becoming. We’ve been complete professionals the past few weeks as he integrates Doctor Beckman into the office. He’s been busy, getting ready for his impending move, leaving me alone just enough to miss him. Friday afternoon, at six p.m., he was mine again. And all night long last night, he showed me how much he missed me too.
I can’t imagine once he’s really gone and I don’t have immediate access to him. Sure we can fly across the country, if life doesn’t get in the way. But what’s more alarming, is the actual alarm going off—the fire alarm.
I kick back the comforter wrapped around my body and jump out of bed, slipping on my gray shorts and white tee.
When I get to the kitchen, Declan, his pants hanging low off his hips, curses at a frying pan filling the space above the stove with smoke. He rushes to the fire alarm, fanning it with his hands.
Trying not to laugh, I cross the tile to open the window above the sink. “Everything ok?”
“Fuck.” He steps over to the pan. “Why are my pancakes not coming out right?”
“Well, did you wait for the bubbles to appear?”
He turns to face me, his green eyes narrowed with confusion. “Bubbles?”
I glance into the pan, and oh my. Batter clumps in little balls of goo. There are no pancakes here. “What have you done?”
“I figured pancakes have one ingredient. Add water to the mix, and viola: pancakes. Easy.”
I laugh. “It’s not that easy, huh?”
“No.” He leans in to give me a kiss, moving the batter around as if he’s making scrambled eggs.
“How about I make some french toast?” I offer.
He smiles. “Good idea.”
“I can teach you how to make them?” I bump his hip with mine.
He holds up his hands, spatula still gripped tightly between his fingers. “I don’t know. I’m not much of a cook.”
“It’s ok. French toast is easy.” I open the cupboards looking for the vanilla extract. “I just need to find my vanilla.”
“Vanilla? What’s that a flower?”
“Vanilla is the most important part of french toast.”
Declan raises a brow. “I thought bread was.”
“Well, that too.” I wink, bumping his hip again to give me a little room to create my masterpiece. “The trick is what kind of bread to use. I grab the bread from the counter, holding it up. “And I have cinnamon loaf.”
“Oh, you’re serious about your french toast.”
I laugh. “I sure am.”
For the next few minutes, I teach Declan how to mix the eggs, milk, and vanilla into a bowl, then together, we dip the bread slices and place them in a new pan.
“You’re right. Much easier than pancakes.”
“And it’ll taste better too.” I smile as his arms wrap around me from behind.
“I’m sure it will.” He kisses the back of my neck, then moves to the spot just below my ear. It’s weird to have someone to share these trivial things with. It’s very couple-like. And if we’re being honest, I hate the no-strings thing. He’s the only man I can see having a lasting future with, and I have this bone-deep urge to ask him to stay. To not go to New York. Or, to take me with him. But, I’ll never say those words to him. That’s definitely strings, and I know that’s not what he wants.
After breakfast is done, Declan has calls to make, because he’s flying out early in the morning to New York to look at places to live, and I grab my laptop to check my sales. Twenty total. Clearly I can’t fly across the country on the regular from writing. I can’t even drive on that. The book has been published for a little while now, and I received my first review yesterday. It says my sex scenes set their fingers on fire. They even used fire emojis.
I have one fan, and I love this flame fingered goddess. Like want to find her and tell her how happy she just made me.
I’d like to tell Declan about it, but the excuses just keep piling up in my brain. Besides, I don’t want to tell him about how it’s not selling. It’s a lot to put on the line and tell people you wrote a book that is failing. So much pressure. So many excuses. I set my laptop aside and decide, I’m going to tell him.
“Hey,” he says, returning to the living room. “Sorry to rush out, but I have to go to the clinic today. They’re under staffed.”
Well, guess I’ll tell him later. “Ok, no problem.”
He kisses me before leaving, and I stare at the closed door for a few minutes.
Today I stop hiding. I need to put my big girl panties on and be the adult I am. Declan was right about not hiding, and if I can’t start with him, I’m going to start with my parents. Even if they’re not happy about it, at least I can say I’m being honest.
S
o, I call my mother and ask to meet her for lunch. Just her. Not my father. Baby steps.
She agrees, and I stand at the mirror, checking my outfit— lemon yellow sundress, denim jacket, and brown ankle boots— for the last time before I leave. Stalling, basically. I slip my glasses on, just to have something to hide behind.
On the drive to Hidden Gems restaurant, I remind myself it's the fear of the unknown that’s the worst. And if I don’t do this now, I might never do it.
I pull into the lot, park and take a deep breath before heading inside. None of these people eating and chatting at the tables scattered about know my life is about to change. I spot my mother’s cinnamon hair at a table near the back.
“Hey, Mom.” I take a seat across the table from her. “Thank you for meeting me.”
“So formal. Is everything ok?” A worry line forms between her brows.
“Yes, yes. Everything is fine.”
The server arrives, and I really have no appetite, so I order a salad, which means I must be really nervous.
“So...do you want to explain?” she asks when we’re alone.
“Mom, remember when I was young, and I would write stories all the time?”
She smiles. “Yes. I remember that one particular story about the dragon who burned down the bakery because they had no cookies that got you in trouble.”
I remember that too. Dad took away television for two weeks even though I had made sure everyone inside got out safely. I take a deep breath, and let it out ever so slowly. “Well, I still write. I published a book. About sex.”
My mother’s water glass stops on the way to her lips. “Come again?”
I take a sip of my soda. “Sex, Mom.”
“Like Fifty Shades Of Grey?”
“No.” I shake my head. “Well, sort of. Not the BDSM stuff, but there is sex in my books, Mom. Premarital sex.”
She takes a slow sip of water. “Ah, I see.” She doesn’t speak for a few hour-like moments.
Her face looks a little pale next to the navy of her blouse, and I’m about ready to ask if she’s ok when we’re interrupted by the server bringing our salads. I thank him, and once he’s left the table, I peek over at my mother whose eyes haven’t left my face.
