by S. A. Wolfe
I head down to the master bedroom to take a shower. Even watching her sleep gave me a raging hard-on, so I spend the first five minutes under a cold waterfall of pain. When I step out of the shower, I wrap a towel around my waist and walk down the hall to listen in at the guest bathroom. I hear Talia shut off the shower. She’s singing.
The bathroom door swings open, and she stands there frozen, in my bathrobe. Her hair is dry, piled on top of her head in a messy bun, but the rest of her is swimming in the giant robe. Even in the thick terry cloth, she looks sexy as hell. A man’s robe or sexy lingerie, it doesn’t matter, my brain is getting all fired up and signaling the rest of my body to follow suit.
She stares at me long enough that my cock comes to life again. I know when I’m getting the once-over from a woman, and this is more than a once-over.
“Why can’t you put on a robe like a normal person?” she asks with a hitch in her breath.
“You’re wearing my robe. Your sister accidentally hung it in here, I guess.”
“Oh, I assumed it was for guests.”
“Hmm” is all I can get out, imagining her naked body underneath my robe.
My towel slips lower on my hips, and Talia tries to avert her eyes from my obvious erection tenting the towel. I grip the towel before it slips off completely and release a tight, slow breath, weighted with arousal.
“You look really hot in my robe. You have no idea what you’re doing to me, sunflower.”
“I think we’re both suffering from dehydration. We need water.” She edges around me, and I follow her to the kitchen. She opens the fridge and grimaces. “Gatorade, Tabasco, and water. Why don’t guys ever buy groceries?”
“I work in a restaurant. But I’d sure love to eat at home, if only there was a local chef who delivered home-cooked meals.”
“Nice try.” She hands me a bottle, and we both guzzle our waters in tandem. She wipes her mouth on the sleeve of the robe. “That tastes so good. But seriously, too bad you don’t have eggs and bread here. I would have cooked you breakfast. I used to do it for Carson if he was still asleep when I showed up to clean.”
“Lucky guy.” I adjust my towel. “He must have loved that.”
“Don’t look at me like that. I never slept with Carson. And he didn’t love it when I surprised him with a breakfast tray in bed. He practically jumped out of bed. I think he felt guilty about not being at work when I showed up, but I usually got to his place before seven in the morning because I knew he was an early riser. It made him feel weird to have me serve him, so after that I would leave the breakfast in the kitchen and go about my cleaning. He lightened up after he started seeing Jess.”
“That’s sweet. Really,” I say, sarcastically. “You still owe me an explanation.”
Talia narrows her eyes and walks past me. Again, I follow her around my own home.
She walks right down to the master bedroom and stands in the middle of it, surveying the walls. “There’s nothing here.”
“There’s a bed and a dresser and a nightstand.”
“That’s all Carson’s old stuff. The room is spotless, and the bed is made. I recognize Aleska’s signature fold-over style. There’s nothing personal of yours in here. It’s like a hotel room, and I can tell by the bed that you didn’t sleep here.”
“I slept in the chair, in the living room.”
“Peyton,” she says softly. “What are we doing?”
“You’re the one who asked me for a place to sleep, and I gave you one. I fell asleep in the chair. It’s no big deal. But if you’re interested in something more, I’m half-naked and horny as hell, and you’re making it worse by parading around in my robe.”
She waves me away and walks to the dresser, searching through my paltry wardrobe. “Here, put on these sweatpants. The label says Big Cocky Dude. They must be yours.” She tosses them to me.
The towel around my waist drops to the floor as I shake out the sweatpants. Talia’s eyes widen before she turns her head as I dress in front of her. Then I push my damp hair back and hop on the bed, settling myself against the pillows and the headboard.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“I’m waiting for my story. I gave you shelter, water, and my best robe, so you owe me the story about that scar.” I pat the bed next to me. “Sit down. I won’t bite. Unless that’s your thing.”
She huffs and hoists the thick robe up so she can climb on the bed. “Don’t you need to go to work?”
“Not for a few hours. And I know Sundays are your day off, so we have plenty of time to talk.”
She settles herself onto the bed and, for a moment, we are both quiet. I’ve just invited a woman to my bed to talk, something I never do. All I can think about is kissing her again.
“And then you can have your way with me,” I say, thinking my smart-ass remark will break the tension. It fails miserably.
Talia forces a weak smile and looks down at her hands. At least I know it’s not my imagination; the arousal is mutual. And I know this is where everything can go wrong.
Four months earlier…
Talia
MARKO LIVES BY A strict routine, and I like the structure he creates for me, something I never had with my own family. I spend four nights a week at his apartment in New Rochelle, and three nights a week he has dinner at our house in Hera. He’s polite, and my mother dotes on him with big dinners, feeding him like a son who has just come back from a long journey.
Marko has always worked for his father’s plumbing and heating company, and he always will. He will eventually buy a home in New Rochelle, within walking distance to his parents, and he will continue to work out at the same gym with the same schedule, even when he gets married and has children. We don’t discuss dreams. He has none.
This effortless life plan has been explained to me countless times. The self-serving rigidity with which he keeps everything simple and tailored to his needs might annoy other women, but Marko’s bluntness is easy to live with. There’s safety in knowing exactly what he wants and when he wants it. I lived with so much uncertainty when I depended on my parents; Marko has removed that fear. He is uncomplicated in every way, and he suits me.
A couple of weeks before Christmas, I have to cancel every evening with him because I have a cold that turns into an aggressive cough. Marko begins to find the whole thing inconvenient. A simple cold shouldn’t prevent me from going to his friends’ holiday parties.
I’m more upset that I can’t see Jess, but I can’t risk getting her sick. I don’t care about the Christmas parties, but I worry I’ll miss her delivery date if the baby comes early.
When Marko does finally see me, he keeps his distance. He wears his disdain like polished armor … on an arrogant warrior who never sees battle. My mother and sister witness this, and after he leaves, I fall into the old ninny trap of apologizing for his selfish behavior. Finally, Aleska convinces me to see a doctor, and it all ends there. Or you could say that’s the beginning. In either case, it’s the defining moment that changes the course of my life.
“I’m hearing something unusual,” the doctor says. He’s one of the generic doctors supplied by the walk-in clinic where I go only out of necessity, one of the few places that takes my insurance.
“What are you hearing?” I ask as he probes under my blouse, placing the stethoscope on various parts of my chest. He tilts his head each time and listens with deep concentration.
“I think there’s backwash. Regurgitation,” he says, matter-of-factly.
“I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
He removes his stethoscope, and I pull my blouse down. “It’s possible your blood is being regurgitated. Your heart is pumping very hard, and it sounds like a murmur.”
My eyes must be popping wider with alarm, because his generic, non-emotional, physician expression softens into something more human. “I’m not an expert on hearts. I can only tell you what I think is there. It sounds like a heart murmur, and in simple terms,
the backwash sound I’m hearing could be caused by a valve that isn’t functioning properly. Does anyone in your family have a history of heart problems? It wasn’t listed on your chart.”
“I don’t think so. Did I do something to cause this? How do I fix it?”
“This could be something you were born with, and unfortunately, sometimes these things go undetected until there are symptoms like shortness of breath or even a heart attack.”
“But other than a cold, I feel fine. I exercise, I run, and I’m never out of breath. I’m here because I can’t get rid of this cough.”
“I know. I think it’s the cold and your persistent cough that may have shown us the underlying problem. But I need to send you to a cardiologist to check on your heart function. I think your cold symptoms have been getting worse because your heart is struggling. The murmur is very loud now. Otherwise, I may have missed it.”
I no longer like this generic doctor. No diplomas are displayed on the wall, so I have no idea if this man actually went to medical school.
Panic is consuming my brain, and this pale, skinny man with his unremarkable face and blasé manner is making it worse. It amazes me how he can be so unconcerned after giving me news that feels like a death sentence.
After I hand the receptionist my copayment, I walk to my car, dreading telling my mother and Marko the news.
“Talia!”
I turn around to see Dr. Pasty Face walking briskly toward me. He holds out his hand with a business card. Seriously? He thinks I need his business card? Am I supposed to recommend him to my friends?
“This is who you need to see.” He hands me the card, and I study the name of the doctor and the prestigious New York City hospital. “I just spoke to him. He’s expecting a call from you. He’s the best.”
As Dr. Pasty Face pushes a swath of hair off his worried face, I suddenly want to apologize for thinking nasty thoughts about him, and I want to tell him I’ll be fine.
“He’s the best doctor?”
“He’s the best cardiothoracic surgeon when it comes to mitral valve repair. I’m pretty sure that’s what you need, but he has to see you and run his own tests.”
“Oh.” I don’t know what else to say. There’s a bit of shock that accompanies the word surgeon.
“Call today,” Dr. Kind Pasty Face pleads. “His assistant will get you in since I referred you.”
“Thank you.”
He smiles at me for the first time.
• • •
The famous Dr. Allen will see me.
Marko thinks this will be no big deal. Nothing ever really bad happens in Marko’s world. He comes from a big, healthy family. No one gets divorced; no one moves away. They live a very simplistic life. When they aren’t working hard at their day jobs, they spend all their time with the family. Or, I should say, families. Everyone from his parents to his siblings, grandparents, uncles, aunts, and cousins all live within two miles of each other. They have their own Polish community, and when I’m among them, it feels like Lublin, where the Polish language flows freely.
I’m convinced Marko knows best. Big and strong men provide us with a sense of protection, but it’s Marko’s idealism about us and his army—that big, nosy family—that instill a sense of comfort. I am one of them; therefore, I will be fine.
This is real. I’m seeing a heart surgeon, one of the top five in his specialty in the world, and I hope he tells me it was all a mistake, that Dr. Kind Pasty Face did not hear a murmur.
Dr. Allen’s office arranges for a meeting with me, but first, they send me to a cardiologist on their team, Dr. Cho. I thought I was going for a simple checkup, another groping session with the stethoscope, but no. Dr. Cho, who looks like a teenager, arranges for me to have an echocardiogram, which is easy; and a catheterization, which is not. It puts Marko and me through our first uncomfortable medical procedure together.
I lie on a cold, metal table, and a young male nurse gives me a Brazilian. He shaves my pubic area completely, and then a team of doctors and nurses insert a long, thin tube through my groin and guide it up to my heart.
Dr. Cho’s head pops in front of my face with his big, friendly grin and says everything looks great. My arteries are spectacular. Dr. Allen will receive the results of my spectacular arteries and an enthusiastic thumbs-up from Dr. Cho. He tells me I’m a perfect candidate for Dr. Allen’s surgery. Instead of being happy or even relieved, I’m simply terrified.
Hours later, after I spend time in the patient recovery area with Marko at my side, I am released.
On the drive home, Marko says, “That was easy. There’s nothing to worry about.”
It was easy for him. For me, it was like an alien abduction, getting probed by a bunch of strangers who are fascinated with the inner workings of my body. I give Marko a pass, though. This is new to us, just the beginning. He’s treating this upcoming surgery like a trip to the dentist. No one likes it—the flossing is painful, as if the dental hygienist is using razor wire on your gums, and the toothpaste is gritty and gross—but you do it. For Marko, my surgery is nothing more than bad toothpaste. For me, this surgery puts my whole life in a different perspective.
The meeting with Dr. Allen is more emotionally harrowing than I expected. He’s in his fifties, very fit, with a shaved head, and is meticulous in his speech and mannerisms. His personal office overlooks Central Park, and it’s bigger than my home. With this kind of real estate, Dr. Allen is obviously a king in his field. There’s a combination of old-world wealth and advanced technology in the expensive credenza and the elegant bookcases that have been paired with high-tech equipment. Large flat-screens line his walls, with statistical spreadsheets and images of a beating heart, presumably mine. It’s nothing like I expected.
I feel so small and helpless, and the sanctity of the doctor’s office reminds me how fragile the human body is.
Dr. Allen proudly explains the images of my heart that are on the various large monitors. The term mitral valve prolapse is explained to me again, and he assures me it’s genetic, and it indeed often goes undetected. Because of that, people refer to it as “the silent killer.”
Silent killer.
Defective heart.
Silent killer.
My body is rigid, gripped by fear. Put heart and killer in the same sentence and I assume my life is over.
Marko seems mystified that he cannot prevent this. His questions focus on the genetic aspect, asking why my parents and my sister don’t have it. Dr. Allen says everyone needs to be tested.
Tested. Like I’m Patient Zero. Everyone related to me will need to be tested to see if they have a heart valve silently leaking blood.
Marko has been holding my hand the whole time, but now he doesn’t look at me. It’s as if he’s questioning the doctor relentlessly when the answer is obvious. I need surgery. Now.
Dr. Allen comes across as delighted and confident—traits you want in a surgeon—and he has no doubt that, because of my young age and good health, the surgery will be uneventful. We caught it in time, unlike those poor young athletes who drop dead on the football field to the shock of everyone. I’m lucky, and my arteries are beautiful, according to Dr. Cho, so Dr. Allen is pretty certain when he opens me up, he’ll find a good valve that can be repaired rather than replaced. Apparently, that’s a big deal.
Most heart patients with valve issues end up with pig valves, which have a limited life span, or the patient receives a mechanical valve, which requires the patient to be on blood thinners for life. So I’m supposed to be happy about saving my own valve.
Marko once again moves the conversation toward my future. I won’t need to be on any medications long-term. Marko nods at this but doesn’t seem to care. He pushes to know more about the genetics. Not my current family’s health, but my future family’s health.
And then the realization hits me. Marko is worried I will give him defective babies. He doesn’t say that out loud, but it’s clear that’s what he’s concerned about.
His family is full of healthy people. Even his grandparents are robust, energetic, and mobile. How can he tell his parents, his whole family, that I could give them children with a life-threatening defect?
Marko’s line of questioning is making me just as paranoid as he is about our future children.
But this is also the moment, the pivotal point in our relationship, when I feel sad that I’m with him. Marriage is about supporting each other in sickness and in health, and it’s already apparent I’m getting the Marko who thinks marriage is about bouncy houses and backyard cookouts.
As Dr. Allen talks about the actual surgery, cutting me open, putting ice on my heart to stop it, I think of how easy it would be to throw the stapler at his head and run out of there. But the urge to throw a hard object at Marko’s head is stronger.
I get Dr. Allen. He’s a surgeon, and like he said jokingly, he likes to get in there and cut (doctor humor). I respect his passion, just as much as I’m beginning to hate Marko’s doubts about me. Because that’s what is coming across loud and clear in the room.
When we leave the hospital, he decides it would be best if he drops me off at home rather than bringing me to his apartment. This is supposed to be one of my “Marko nights” and why I keep clothing and toiletries at his place.
A forced cheeriness creeps into his voice as he says without looking at me, “I want to get in a good workout and go to bed early.”
This from the man who has put pressure on me over the last year to move in with him, or at least spend every night with him. This from the man who has had me on a short leash because of his jealous streak. This from the man who wants sex every night, every day!
As we drive out of the city, I’m quiet as he rambles on. At first, he sounds encouraging and says I’m lucky the doctors found my heart condition early, and I’m fortunate to have doctors of this caliber, and that my insurance covers these huge medical expenses. Soon, everything goes from “we” to “you.”
“You’ll be fine.”