by Hayes, Liv
Squeezing the bottom of his shaft, he moaned, whispering:
“Please stop,” he begged. “Please.”
I didn’t. I kept going until I could feel that final sudden jolt, the spill of his cum in my mouth.
When I pulled away, I swallowed, wiped my lips, and stood.
When we locked eyes, Dr. Greene looked as if he had just seen a demon, and maybe he had. Maybe, right then, I was.
“Thank you, Dr. Greene,” I said.
I leaned in, kissed him, and he responded delicately, with his hand reaching up to touch my cheek. We struggled to actually meet each other’s gaze.
Just say it, I thought. Tell him. At this point, what is there to lose?
“My sweet little fox,” he said. “My little Mia.”
“My sweet, terrified doctor,” I said. “I’ve never done that before. Only with you.”
He zipped himself up, his face full of shame. And then he left, just like that.
In the cab, I sifted through my thoughts, trying to ignore the still-throbbing pain that seemed to clash against my ribcage.
I knew what would fix this. Saying the words. Telling him that I was in love, that I was drowning in it. That would be the catharsis. Three simple words.
This had all gone so far. I had jumped off the cliff, into his arms, and there was no swimming back.
Back at the apartment, snuggled up on the couch and nursing my bleeding heart with a tall glass of hard cider, Aimee called. I thought about letting it go to voicemail, and maybe spending the night in, watching whatever was popular on Netflix or something. But something provoked me to pick up.
“Hey,” I mumbled. “What’s up?”
“Bored,” she said. “Eric just left. What are you doing?”
“Netflix, alcohol,” I told her. “Classic summer evening. Want to come over?”
“I’ll be there in ten.”
We spent awhile just sipping drinks and flipping through the TV stations before I finally felt the urge to speak up. Aimee was curled up on the far-end of the couch, wrapped in one of my favorite blankets, tilting a bottle of Peach Fizz back.
She took a drink, set it down, then turned to me:
“You look as if you were just slapped in the face with a wet towel,” she remarked. “Please talk to me. I’m starting to worry that your face is going to stick and I’ll be forced to walk around with a perpetually-miserable-looking Mia.”
I chuckled.
“If I tell you, promise not to flip?”
“Obviously.”
I wanted to tell her. I didn’t want this to end up like one of those scenarios where the girl keeps the Big Secret from her best friend just long enough that, when the dice were rolled, everything blew up in her face.
“I’ve been seeing someone,” I told her. “And the Porsche you saw outside a few weeks ago, it wasn’t a cab.”
“I figured,” she said. “But I’ve been waiting for you to tell me what’s up.”
“You’re not mad?” I asked.
She shrugged lightly.
“If you’d waited any longer, then yeah, of course I’d be,” she said. “But I knew you’d tell me. I knew you’d come around. So, who is he?”
I sighed deeply.
“Remember that doctor?” I asked. “From the hospital.”
“Jesus Henry Christ,” Aimee’s eyes grew to the size of tea-plates. “Yeah. Dr. Stark. How could I forget that face?”
“Well,” I stumbled. “We’ve been seeing each other for a little while now. A little over a month, exactly.”
“And you’re fucking, I assume.”
I nodded bleakly. Aimee whistled.
“I knew I made that remark awhile back about you totally nabbing his number,” she said. “But I feel like I need to be sort of candid with you, Mia.”
I looked at her. She sat up, the blanket still draped around her shoulders, like a shawl. Her face was utterly serious.
“You need to end it,” she said. “Like, yesterday. End it now.”
She was right. I needed to end it. But the prospect of never seeing him again was enough to make me wither and curl into nothing. It was worse than Evan; worse than the idea of getting rejected from Cambridge. Which was, on the whole, pathetic of me to say – but it was the plain truth.
Aimee pulled me into a tight hug, and I forced myself not start weeping.
“If someone finds out, Mia, he’s the one that’s going to suffer,” she said. “It’s the harsh reality here. Nobody wins in a game like this. You’ll get your heart broken, and he’ll say goodbye to his license. A lifetime of work. Don’t risk it anymore. You need to end it.”
“I know I do,” I told her. “It just feels so impossibly hard.”
Two days later, the answer came in the form of a thick envelope and a congratulatory letter:
I was officially accepted into Cambridge.
Chapter 18
ALEX
Isabella
Iris
Ivy
Isla
Irene
India
Isolde.
I stared at the list of baby names blurred against the computer screen’s glare. Cait had decided, officially, that she wanted our daughter’s name to begin with an I, for reasons even she couldn’t exactly pinpoint – but here I was, staring at this list, sifting through spelling variations and name meanings and all of that cluttered nonsense. Since when did naming a baby turn into such a complicated ordeal?
I shot her a text, telling that I liked the sound of Ivy. Ivy Greene. That is, if she would be taking my last name, which is something Cait had still remained mum about. Not that, as of recently, she was talking much at all.
In fact, the past week, she’d barely replied to any of my messages. She didn’t pick up the phone. And I was starting to wonder what exactly was going on, because God knows she was still cashing my checks while I was busy reading these books on what it meant to be a father.
And the mother of my child seemed to have disappeared. Blip. Off the radar.
Eventually I took it into my own hands, after the seventh call went unanswered, and drove to her apartment. I knocked on the door, waited for an answer, and was greeted by none other than Mason.
He stood there, dressed in a T-shirt and dark-washed jeans, looking at me as if he had no idea who the flying fuck I was.
“Mason,” I muttered. “Is Cait around?”
“She’s found a job,” Mason answered. “She works at some clothing boutique around the corner. Part time. She should be home in a few hours.”
“Fantastic.”
We didn’t really make eye contact. Neither of us wanted to. And all I could think about were Cait’s words at the clinic: I don’t want to do this alone.
Mason stood awkwardly in the doorway. And it was then, I acknowledged, that I really had no idea who this guy was. All I knew was that he’d been sticking his dick into my ex-fiancée months before she’d actually left, and that this guy – clean-shaven, built, with his deceptively casual-looking clothes broadcasting Ralph Lauren tags – was definitely Cait’s type.
Make no mistake, I knew what I was getting into when I met her, and I’d sure as hell never call myself a victim. But I knew what she was, and I knew what she liked. She did, too. And I’m sure Mason was all too aware.
“What do you do, anyway, Mason?”
“Software engineer. Why do you ask?”
“No real reason,” I told him. “I’m just trying to figure this out.”
Mason nodded for a long time. Long enough that I almost wanted to turn around and leave. The awkward vibe had shifted into something tense, and what with us both being two grown men, it could only result in one thing: someone getting punched, or something breaking.
“We got back together a few weeks ago,” he informed me, crossing his arms. “Anyway, I’ll let her know you showed up. It’s nice seeing you, Alex.”
“Is it?” I asked. “Alright. If you could just let her know one thing for
me, because she hasn’t been answering my calls, or my texts, and this is starting to feel a little grating.”
“What is it?”
“Tell her I like the name Ivy,” I told him. “That is, if she even cares at this point.”
Mason looked visibly perplexed. His eyebrows raised, his jaw tightened.
“Alright,” he said. “I’ll let her know. Thanks for the input, Doctor.”
I should have stayed. I should have let myself in, sat down, had a drink or something. I should have held a real fucking conversation with Mason instead of the two of us standing in the doorway of Cait’s apartment, with me making a total asshole of myself, and then just up and leaving.
At least Cait had a job. But now I was yet again alone, sitting in my fucking Porsche, wondering what the living hell was going on.
Glancing at the digital clock, I took an aggravated breath. I had approximately ten minutes if I wanted to get to the office on time, and traffic was back-to-back. I spent the entire duration en route from Cait’s apartment to the office with my hands gripping the steering wheel, white-knuckled.
Nobody seemed to note that I was late, though. Only Rebecca asked:
“Is everything okay, Dr. Greene?”
“Yes,” I said bluntly. “Everything is stellar.”
Was it, though? Obviously not. Cait had gone MIA, Mason was a giant douche-canoe, and all I could think about was Mia. Mia, on her knees, sucking me off in the exam room. In all of its insane, utterly ludicrous glory. And I had never come so hard or felt so terrified after an orgasm.
I shivered at the memory, picked up my clipboard, and sighed.
My little fox.
Then it was business as usual. Mr. Heisler wasn’t taking his prescribed medication for heart-arrhythmia, and Mrs. Preston sobbed hysterically when informed that she had a clogged artery as a result of her Diabetes gone unmonitored. I offered her a tissue, tried to smile empathetically, and told her it would be alright.
Would it be, though? Probably not.
When it was over, I was happy to take off my lab-coat, toss it on the passenger’s-side seat, and close my eyes for a moment. I needed to decompress.
And of course, when it came to matters of relief, there was only one thought second to sleep that my mind wandered to.
I called Mia, still sitting in the parking lot, counting the windows of the office. There were seven. She picked up on the fourth ring.
“Hi,” she said. She sounded sleepy. “I’m sorry. I was napping. Long day at work.”
“Busy?”
“No,” she said muttered. “Just terribly boring.”
I smiled. Not that she could see it.
“Want to take a spin with me?” I asked. “We can visit the water again, if you like.”
“Yes,” she said. And that was it.
I picked her up, beyond grateful that the sky was clear, and the only few clouds were thin as stretched cotton. She hopped down the steps of her apartment’s staircase with an almost child-like flounce; her hair bobbing when her feet hit the cement.
Inside the car, she gave me a peck on the cheek. I took her face in my hands, kissing her more deeply, lingering against her lips. God, they were so soft. She tasted like that same mint Chapstick. Simple and sweet.
She controlled the playlist. I had downloaded a few Taylor Swift tracks onto the iPhone. She played this song called “Style” about a hundred times, and by the end, the only three words I could remember were take me out. I even found myself half-singing them when the moment came, with Mia completely overshadowing my vocals, belting them out like she’d sang the song a million times over, and she probably had.
The ride to Cocoa Beach took about an hour. The beach itself was blessedly empty, with only a few scant people minding their own business. We found a spot by the water, planting our feet into the cool sand, and Mia stared onward towards the glittering ocean. The water was clear enough that we could see the array of pebbles below, as if looking through glass.
“So you really think it’s stress?” she asked. “And not my heart?”
“It’s not your heart, honey,” I swore. “We’ve exhausted every plausible test. Anything else would be redundant at this point.”
I took her hand, pressing her palm to my mouth, kissing it. She leaned against my shoulder, her hair tickling my chin.
“On a scale of 1-10, how much of a pain in the ass were your other patients today?” she asked.
“A solid seven,” I told her, grinning. “They can’t all be you.”
“Well, that’s not fair,” Mia noted. “We’re pretty much doing it on a regular basis now. I’d say that makes your judgment a little murky. We both know I’ve been sort of a pain.”
“Yeah. You’re right.”
We both laughed, even though it wasn’t funny. It was a mess of a situation, and I could feel it setting into my woven fibers with each passing day. The growing lust, infatuation, fear and paranoia. The pressing, obsessive desire to hold onto something that, as I gazed at her, full of sweet, tender adoration and bubbling desire, I feared – almost as much as I feared Death – that I would lose her. Forever.
When she withdrew her hand, suddenly somber, I asked:
“What’s going on, little fox?”
She picked up a broken piece of shell, then flicked it aside. And I’ll be honest – I was not prepared, although I should have been, for what came next.
“I got into Cambridge,” she said. “So there’s that. I did it. It’s happening.”
Of course it was. And despite the rush of blood, the wave of cold that hit me like one of these waves, and the genuine sensation of devastation that threatened to come dribbling out of me like a pathetic child, I knew that there should have been no surprise. Mia was beautiful, and intelligent, and she deserved this.
I held her against me tightly, kissing her temple.
“That’s wonderful,” I said. “God, that’s fantastic. You did it, honey. You should be so proud.”
“I know,” she said, but she didn’t sound proud. A feeling of vague sadness clouded the words, making them heavier. “I am. I really am.”
She nuzzled against me, her face tilted away, hiding her expression. As if she were feeling the exact same things as I: the fear of loss, the whizzing tenderness that coursed through my blood like flash-flood. Mia clung to me, her hands clutching my shirt, her face buried against my chest.
When she pulled away, I saw that her cheeks were flush. Her eyes were wet. She had started to cry.
I tilted her chin up, her eyes flickering towards mine.
“Honey,” I said, almost a gasp. “Don’t cry.”
She leaned up, kissed me, wrapped her arms around my neck. When she slid onto my lap, and my heart began fluttering, I insisted that we go somewhere private.
“Your car,” she suggested. “I don’t care where.”
I shook my head. I wasn’t going to fuck her in my car again.
I took to her a hotel, and we made love with our bodies twisted beneath the bed sheets. It was slow, and yielding, and when we came together, she kissed me again. My clothes, including my badge, were scattered on the floor.
Afterwards, curled up in the covers and catching our breath, Mia examined the laminated nametag: Dr. Alex Greene, MD. It glinted against the sliver of light that shone through the hotel window.
“There’s something I want to say to you,” she told me afterwards. “It’s just, the thought of it terrifies me.”
“Why?”
She looked at me, her dark eyes like pools in the shadows.
“I don’t know,” she confessed. “It just does.”
Mia dropped the nametag, her glance cutting away.
“Tell me,” I said.
But she refused.
Chapter 19
MIA
Things you shouldn’t do when trying to forget about someone:
Have sex with them.
Let them hold you.
Continue to text and talk as
if you aren’t actually trying to forget about them at all.
My attempts, in shorthand, had been completely futile and entirely foreseen all at once.
But, Aimee was insistent.
“Can you say massive fine and potential lawsuit, Mia?” she asked. “Because that’s what’s going to happen.”
“What do you want me to say?” I said. I was busying myself with work at the library, sorting through the few books that I had to return to their proper designated spots on the shelves. “I feel wracked enough over the whole thing. I can’t stop it.”
“Come with me to a party tonight,” she insisted. “I know they aren’t your style or whatever, but seriously, Mia, you need to do something. You’re just not trying hard enough.”
“I really doubt that a house full of drunken frat kids is going to persuade me away from the educated, articulate, extremely attractive Cardiologist, Aimee.”
She slunk down to the ground, covered her face, and groaned heavily.
“Please come?” she insisted. “Please? Just hang out with me. Eric isn’t going to show up until later, and I told this girl I’d be there, and I know it’s stupid, but I just really, really don’t want to show up by myself. You’re my best friend, Mia.”
“Don’t play the best friend card, Aimee. For the love of God.”
But she did. And it worked.
Fast-forward several hours later: in the smoky murk of some shitty house party, Aimee handed me a red plastic cup full of Coke and some kind of cheap liquor. It was mostly liquor.
I sipped it hesitantly.
“Mingle,” she instructed. “Talk to some other guys tonight.”
“You act like it’s so simple,” I muttered. “How did Shakespeare put it? Teach me how I should forget to think.”
“You’re so melodramatic,” she exclaimed. “Anyway, you know who broke up with his girlfriend?”
Of course I did. Did Aimee really think I was going to play the surprised, emoji-expressioned girl? Evan. It was Evan.
“I really couldn’t care less, you know,” I informed her. “I’m not going back to him. The thought of what we once had, to be honest, actually makes me want to puke.”
Aimee rolled her eyes, instructing me to drink. I took another sip. Then, as she darted off to meet Eric outside, I attempted to mingle. But it was uncomfortable, and strange, and all so foreign. The house, belonging to some girl who apparently I shared a Prob and Stats class with but couldn’t even remember her name, had invited Aimee. And thus, Aimee had me tagging along.