Pulse

by Hayes, Liv

  “Yeah,” I just said. It was all I could say. “I guess we’ll see. Either way, it’s coming whether I’m ready or not.”

  Tossing my undrinkable coffee into the garbage bin, I took a look at my phone: one missed call. Cait. As expected.

  I dove into the bathroom. Not even because I had to take a piss, or because I needed a cold splash of water, but because I needed a moment alone. As I stood over the sink, I took a good look at the reflection I saw in the mirror: a man, nearing his mid-thirties, who had successfully managed to destroy a young girl’s trust in medical authority – and rightfully so – because I had literally fucked that up for her. A grown man who was having a baby with his ex-fiancée, because he stupidly chose to fuck her without protection.

  Well, not exactly. The condom broke, and she swore her shot was still good, and I kept going, because I just needed a fucking release from the same person who drove me to needing one to begin with. What a circular mind fuck.

  And what I couldn’t say, above all, was how impossibly hard it was to have walked away from Mia. The look on her face, as she gazed up at me, wondering how I could be treating her so coldly. It made me think of my own choice of words, when I was sitting across from Cait back at the coffee shop:

  How do you do something like this to someone?

  I deserved to lose my license. I deserved to be ostracized, to be viewed as a predatory monster, to be forced to have everything ripped away at the root. But she had spared me. In what I could see were the obvious brink of tears, she walked away without taking a dagger to my back.

  And God, I missed her so much. When she had left that day, I had holed myself up in my office, and for a solid hour – I didn’t cry, or feel any anger, or even feel a sense of regret – I just sat there, staring at the wall, feeling numb.

  I needed her. I needed her in my arms again. But that was over; the spark of a match, doused in gasoline, and burnt to such a point that there was no identifying the remains.

  Rubbing my eyes, I tore myself away from the man in the mirror and went back to work. I checked on Mr. Moulton, who was back and suffering from congenial heart failure because he had never heeded my advice to watch his diet. I signed off on some lab-work, a few prescriptions, and I bought the ladies in Triage a box of Krispy Kreme donuts.

  “You’re amazing, Dr. Greene,” they cooed. And yeah, to the hospital, I was. I was the kind doctor, the nice doctor, the well-meaning doctor who wore his heart on his sleeve. If they could give accolades for Doctor Boss of the Year, I’d have plaques lining the walls of my office.

  But it was all a farce – because none of them really knew what I was capable of.

  “I’m not sure whether we really need a bassinet or not,” Cait said.

  Standing outside the window of a local baby boutique, I clutched my phone in my hands, listening as Cait droned on about all of the other things she wasn’t certain were absolutely pertinent, like self-rocking rocking chairs, or bassinets, or artisanal cloth diapers with fancy prints on the fabric.

  “But I thought it was really cute,” she added. “Could you take a look for me, anyway, and let me know if the numbers work?”

  “Yep,” I told her. “Anyway, aren’t laundry baskets and bassinets kind of the same thing?”

  “Alex,” she said sternly, and I cracked a grin.

  “Sorry, sorry,” I insisted. “Anyway, yes, I’ll look. Don’t worry. It would be helpful if you’d decide to know whether it was a boy or a girl.”

  “I told you, I want it to be a surprise.”

  Because this wasn’t enough of one. While Cait was off attempting to find a job, and still technically leeching off the dole that was my salary, I took a small part in navigating around the overwhelming world that was baby furniture shopping.

  So I shrugged off my lab-coat, tossed it in the Porsche, and spent my small break in-between the hospital and the office skimming over cribs and bassinets and rocking chairs.

  At one point, an overly done-up woman that couldn’t have been much younger than me, and was way too perky, hopped over.

  “Are you looking for something specific?”

  “Bassinets,” I told her. “At least, that was my instruction. She wanted me to make some pricing notes.”

  “Do you have a price range you’d like to stay between?”

  “Not particularly,” I confessed. “But I’ll be honest, I have no idea what I’m doing.”

  “A first-time father, I gather?” When I nodded, she smiled. “Well, that’s wonderful. You and your wife must be thrilled.”

  I glanced around at an array of baby mobiles. One of them featured all of the planets, which appealed to the teenage science-nerd that still dwelled somewhere inside of me.

  “I’m not married,” I told her. “I’m just the father.”

  Cue awkward stance: crossed arms, the shift from one foot to the other. The quick glance downwards.

  “Well,” she said, still holding to the starched smile. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

  Thank God. I spent a short while longer taking a look at everything, occasionally snapping a photo when I saw something that Cait might like, and all said, I chalked it up to a successful excursion.

  Before leaving, I decided to take a look at the selection of stuffed animals. While I still wasn’t completely on board with the situation at hand, I figured something small might be a nice gesture of goodwill towards Cait, even if I wasn’t her biggest fan at the present moment. I didn’t want to be a blatant dick, what with her carrying my child.

  I picked up a small teddy bear, which I thought was cute enough. It couldn’t be anything specifically pink or blue, and was yellow gender neutral? Who decides these things, anyway?

  In the end, I settled on a little yellow duckling, the kind with the feathers that are actually super soft faux fur.

  And as I thought I was finished, and my eyes cut one last look around the array of dolls, I spotted something: a small sock-fox. Like those sock monkey dolls, except in fox form.

  I picked it up, thinking of Mia. My little fox.

  To buy it was the question. To purchase the fox doll that reminded me of a girl I never planned to see again. My mental health was steadily declining, and this was proof.

  Don’t do it, I told myself. Be saner than that.

  Fast forward, thirty seconds: I walk out of the store with a receipt in one hand, a bag in the other, and the taste of bile in my mouth.

  At the apartment, later that night, I stretched out on the couch, with the stupid stuffed fox sitting on the coffee table, mocking me.

  “I hate you,” I told it, because it could obviously hear me, and because I had officially reached the point of talking to inanimate objects. “You’ve ruined my life.”

  I took a sip of my beverage: Sailor Jerry’s and classic Coke, then leaned back into the couch. The fox still gazed back at me, sinking a little.

  I thought about Mia, and I thought about how badly I missed her, and how much I wanted her.

  And even if the thought should have made me sick, I thought about fucking her, hard.

  My throat tightened; my skin became acutely aware of every nerve, and my cock stiffened. I closed my eyes, and remembered how it felt to be inside of her: bliss. Her sweet noises. Her soft moans. The way she dug her hands into my lab-coat.

  I wondered what fucking her would be like if we were somewhere else, and not in my office. And the thought of actually being alone with her, able to strip her down slowly, tossing each article of clothing aside with reckless abandon, made me weak.

  I slid my hand beneath my boxers – which was all I was wearing. Boxers, a plain white undershirt, and nothing else. I skimmed my thumb over the tip, then squeezed myself, groaning lightly.

  Mia, on her back, mine, and only mine. The way she said my name, and how terribly wrong and so terribly right it felt when she called me Dr. Greene.

  I was writhing at this point. I slid my grip up and down, desperate, and came within seconds. The me
ss was everywhere, but I gave no fucks.

  All shallow breath, I cleaned myself up, downed the rest of my drink, and tried to compose myself. The thoughts were still racing. I could have gone again.

  Without notice, my phone buzzed. I set the glass down, slid over to the coffee table, and paid no mind to the fox that was still leering at me.

  Dammit, Cait, I thought. Not now. Not while I was alone with my thoughts, the only place I could be alone with Mia.

  When would this end? How could I forget her? The wound had already become infectious, and soon, I’d be septic.

  I opened the text.

  It was Mia.

  My heart stopped.

  I’m so sorry, it read. Please come get me.

  And then, a moment later:

  I need you.

  Every working gear inside me stopped and whirred, stalling under the impossible thought.

  I could have her. I could have her now.

  I could throw away everything I’d said to her in my office. I could apologize. Beg, if needed.

  I could make something work.

  Maybe. Maybe it was possible.

  The little Devil that was my lack of conscience sat whispering in my ear. My heart sang like the first chords of a rock ballad.

  I need you.

  I picked up my phone, hastily wrote her a response, and after a second’s pause, hit send.

  Chapter 11

  MIA

  “If I say that I have a surprise for you, will you get out of bed?”

  Aimee gently kicked over a stack of books I’d pledged to read in the two-weeks time I had until officially starting my new, full-time summer job at the UCF library. It wasn’t glamorous, and the pay was shit, but it at least enabled me to keep campus housing until the season ended. If nothing else, it gave me time to await a response from Cambridge, and if I was rejected, what my plans would be thereafter. Which was, honestly, probably moving back into my mother’s house. All the way in Arizona.

  Arizona. I didn’t even want to contemplate this possibility. The few miles that I was already feeling between myself and Dr. Greene felt like an ever-stretching gap. An endless void.

  Since when did I become so melodramatic? This wasn’t a good color on me, and I knew it.

  I sat up, rolled out of bed and onto the floor with about as much grace as a dropped brick, and started rearranging the stack of toppled books. So far, I’d read The House of the Seven Gables, The Count of Monte Cristo, and Dracula. Gatsby was next on the list.

  “What kind of surprise?” I asked. “Does it involve Pringles or chocolate?”

  “It involves you needing to put on some clothes that aren’t sweatpants,” she said. “We’re going out.”

  “No,” I said quickly. “No, no. I’m not up for any of your antics. I don’t want to go out. I want to stay inside, and read my books, and mope.”

  “Mia,” Aimee stressed. “I know you’ve been upset. I know breakups are hard. But you need to snap out of it before you become one of those people that literally lays around eating Twinkies and drinking whiskey and plucking every stray cat from off the streets. Can you say hello, Animal Hoarders?”

  “Florida does have an immense stray cat problem,” I noted. “Where would we be going? No dodgy dive-bars.”

  “No dodgy dive-bars,” she swore. “I mean, yeah, it is a bar – but I have a surprise for you. I swear, you’ll like it. You don’t even need to drink if you don’t want to.”

  “After last time? No thanks. I’ll stick with water and coffee.”

  Aimee rolled her eyes and cracked a smile. “You’re impossible, you know. But you’re still my favorite person.”

  “I know.”

  I felt like a fraud, not saying anything to her. Letting her believe that my persistent depression and confusion and wayward behavior was a result of my long-term relationship ending, and Evan finding some nouveau Tinder-girl. It was almost pathetically easy to keep my own secret tucked away in the crevices of my heart; a note only I could read.

  But the ink was slowly bleeding.

  I watched as she picked up a few of my tops, held them to her chest, then tossed them aside.

  “We need to get you something for tonight,” Aimee said, and I said: “I don’t have much cash to spend on clothes. I’m kind of pathetically broke right now.”

  “My treat,” she said. “This guy I’m seeing – the one from Chiller’s, he’s been sort of spoiling me. Guess what he does?”

  “Whoa, wait,” her news actually managed to liven me up a bit. “It’s been what, two weeks, and he’s giving you money?”

  “Not money,” she insisted. “He owns an Anthropologie, and you’re looking at his newest employee. Granted, I work a whole ten hours a week – but he gives me super steep discounts on top of the employee discount, on anything and everything I want. I’m practically paying nickels and dimes.”

  She grinned wildly, yanked me up, and essentially shoved me into the bathroom. So I shaved, showered, and even put on a little makeup before we made a quick trip to Anthropologie. I shook hands with Aimee’s new beau, who would apparently also be making an appearance at wherever Aimee was dragging me to, and outfit-wise, I ended up selecting a creamy-colored cotton sundress that buttoned up in the front. It was airy, simple. I felt pretty, and I needed to feel pretty. Paired with a pair of cork-wedged sandals and a bit of sunflower perfume, I felt warm and sunny and properly boho-chic.

  “You look absolutely darling,” Aimee glowed. “Night and day. Really, Mia.”

  In the dressing room, she braided the two front strands of my hair, then clipped them back with a small silver pin so that it looked as if I were wearing a braided halo. She shimmied herself into a slightly sexier dress – black, strapless, and tight in all the right places.

  We showed up at The Social around nine o’clock, and I ordered a glass of cranberry juice and lime. Poking the straw around the glass, and seated at a small, intimate table near the stage, I asked:

  “Who’s playing tonight, anyway?”

  Aimee smiled.

  “I’m not sure.”

  It was impossible to hear the announcement over the noise; the entire venue was a collaborative echo of drunken yells and affectionate jabs between friends. Lovers were reclined near the railings, kissing discreetly in the shadowy spots. One girl shrieked like Bloody Mary when some strange dude spilled her Cosmo on what I guess was a new dress. The entire place was heavy with cigarette smoke and body heat; cheap liquor and cheaper promises.

  When the lights went off, and the stage lit up, my stomach dropped.

  Evan.

  Evan was on stage. All by himself.

  “You’re kidding me,” I stammered. “How? He’s not even in a band!”

  “He’s a great guitarist,” Aimee noted. “You don’t need a band to indulge in a solo act. Call it a whim. Anyway, surprise.”

  She was grinning wildly beneath the electric lights, and I thanked Odin that the dark room made it impossible for her to see the dread on my face, or how sick I felt, or how upset I was that my own perpetual dishonesty had led me here. Because, let’s face it, this wouldn’t be going down if I’d been upfront with her.

  Jesus. My life.

  “Aren’t you happy?” Aimee nudged. “You guys can reconnect again. He’s here, you’re here. You can thank my penchant for bringing people together.”

  I smiled mutely, pleading with myself, for the love of God, not to vomit.

  “Ecstatic,” I said. “Absolutely ecstatic.”

  On stage, Evan cradled his acoustic guitar with a look of slight nervousness. He thanked everyone that had showed up, and then announced:

  “This is a song I wrote for a girl. Yeah, I know, I know. Anyway, I broke her heart, and she’s here tonight…I think.”

  I swallowed. Fuck.

  “So,” he said. “I guess this is just my way of saying I’m sorry.”

  Then he started to play, and it was the most melancholic thing I’d ever heard. He
had played the guitar many times in the past for me, of course. Around the apartment, mostly casually, and I had always loved it. But there’s something so intrusive about nostalgia, and how easily it can be triggered by the stupidest things; like a TV commercial, or a certain movie, or a certain song. And sitting there, at that little table, choking on the thick air and trying to keep myself together, I could feel my world spinning.

  But I made it through. I sat and listened to the whole set, which was composed of five songs total. The other four weren’t related to me, but everyone seemed to love Evan. And I got it, I really did. As a musician, he was talented. His lyrics packed a poignant punch. For them, with their complete lack of intimate knowledge, he was easy to love.

  After the set, he found Aimee and I at our table. He was glistening with sweat, panting a little, his short hair damp and sticking to his forehead. He raked a hand through it, smiling brightly.

  “I’m so glad you came,” he said.

  Aimee smiled at the two of us, stood, and said; “I’ll leave you two alone.”

  When she left, Evan seated himself. I sucked down the rest of my cranberry juice, stabbed the lime with my straw, and tried to figure out something to say. Thank God he spoke first.

  “I really am,” he said. “I’m glad you came.”

  First rule: even if he had no idea about Dr. Greene, or the past near-month of my chaotic misgivings, this was not going to turn into some twisted, typical love-triangle.

  “I’m wondering what Aimee told you, to be honest.”

  “That you’ve not been feeling well. That you lay around in bed all day. That you’ve missed me.”

  “Do you miss me?” I asked him.

  He tapped his fingers against the tabletop, as if playing the piano. He wore this flimsy T-shirt and pair of torn jeans; his Chuck Taylors so worn down that the fabric was starting to tear. He look the proper part of a wannabe rock star.

  “I’m still with Kristen,” Kristen. The new girl. “But yeah. I do. I still think about us. Do you?”

  I glanced up at him, feeling weak. Across the room, by the bar, I spotted Aimee standing with her man; they were close, near cuddling, and they both looked so happy.