by Donya Lynne
Chapter Seven
Back in Dr. O’s Office…
Journey smiles at her round belly. “I was wrong.” Her hand caresses her baby bump in a large circle before she looks back up at me. “Like I said earlier, I was never infertile. Craig was. I still can’t believe my doctor got that so wrong.”
“I’ve heard of that happening before,” I say, still a little swept away by her story. I knew it would be a good one, and I wasn’t wrong.
“Me, too, but I took my doctor at face value.” She gives me a smile. “But he’s not my doctor anymore. Not after this.” She points to her swollen tummy.
I smile and take a long sip of water. I need it to cool off and catch my bearings.
“So, how long did you stay with Paul,” I ask, setting my glass back down.
“Two days.” She sighs. “Two days of making love every chance we got. I made up for eight lost years, and then some, in those two days. We made love in the shower, in his room, my room, in the oversize chair in front of the fireplace, on the rug in front of the fireplace, against the washing machine in the laundry room, against the wall, on the kitchen counter—we were like newlyweds who had waited until we got married to have sex, and this was our honeymoon or something. If we’d been in a hotel, the Do Not Disturb sign would have been hung on the door the whole time.” She laughs. “We even had sex in his massive closet”—her eyes light up—“which reminds me . . .”
She sits forward. “The morning after that first night, while he was out checking on my car, I took a shower in his master bath, then poked around inside his closet. He had told me to help myself to any of his wife’s clothes, which took up one half of the closet. I thought he’d at least stored them in boxes, but they were hanging like she was still alive and wore them every day.”
The psychoanalytical side of my brain lights up. Paul definitely hadn’t dealt with his grief in the most constructive way and needed help if he wasn’t already receiving it.
Journey shrugs and continues. “It was kind of creepy seeing all her clothes in there, but that wasn’t what blew my mind. After picking a simple sweatshirt that I didn’t feel too intrusive wearing, I peeked at his side of the closet. In the back, away from all his Paul Bunyan clothes—you know, jeans, flannel shirts, cable-knit sweaters, Carhartt overalls, and about a dozen pairs of work boots and hiking shoes—there was a whole rack filled with tailored suits. We’re talking couture.” She starts ticking the designer labels off on her fingers. “Brooks Brothers, Tom Ford, Brioni, Dolce & Gabbana, Valentino, Ermenegildo Zegna, Bottega Veneta, Ralph Lauren, and that’s just for starters. And polished Italian loafers tucked neatly in a shoe rack, gathering dust. The clothes in the back half of his closet looked like they belonged to an entirely different man than the clothes in the front.”
This certainly adds some intrigue to Paul’s mysterious identity. “Did you ask him about it?”
She nods. “All he said was that those clothes were from his old life and left it at that. I got the impression he didn’t want to talk about it, so I didn’t push.”
Maybe she should have. If she had, she might have learned something more about his identity that could have helped her find him now.
“Did telling me your story dislodge any memories or clues that might help you locate him?” I ask.
She sighs, shaking her head. “No, not really.” She shrugs. “But he did give me his first name as I was leaving.”
“He did?” She didn’t mention this before.
“It was hard saying goodbye. We’d just spent two incredible days together, and I don’t think either of us was ready for them to end. But I had to get back to the city and my life, and once the snow melted enough, he was able to hitch my little car up to his truck and pull it out of the ditch. There were a few scratches, a couple of dents, but—miraculously—there wasn’t any serious damage. After taking it for a quick test drive, he deemed it road ready.” She lowers her gaze as if remembering their melancholy goodbye. “I wasn’t ready to go, but I couldn’t stay.” She shrugs as if to say the idea of staying with him would have been pointless. “So I packed my things into a duffel bag he gave me, and he walked me out to my car.” Her gaze takes on a faraway quality as her mind drifts back to that moment. “He held my face as he kissed me one last time, letting his lips linger on mine for what felt like forever before pulling away. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘For what?’ I asked. He merely looked at me and said nothing. He didn’t need to. I knew what he was thanking me for. I nodded and thanked him back, opened my car door, and was just about to climb inside when he said, ‘Aaron.’ I turned around and looked at him, not really sure what he was saying. I’d gotten so used to calling him Paul that it didn’t even occur to me that he was giving me his name. Then he said, ‘My real name. It’s Aaron. I just wanted you to know.’” Journey smiles to herself. “He wanted me to know who he really was. I guess in that moment, he didn’t want me to leave remembering him by an alias. It was more important that I go back to the city knowing his real name.” She gives me a sheepish look. “I only wish I’d asked for a last name and hadn’t thrown away the directions he gave me.”
“Directions?”
She rolls her eyes and huffs like she can’t believe she hadn’t possessed the foresight to hang on to them. “He wrote out directions for me to get from his place to the highway. He wrote his phone number at the bottom, saying if I got lost again to call him. I threw them away. Can you believe that?” She rolls her eyes at herself and releases a frustrated growl. “I would give anything to go back to the moment I threw that slip of paper in the trash so I could tuck it into my pantie drawer instead.”
“You didn’t know you would end up pregnant,” I say.
“I know, but I almost kept it. You know, just in case I wanted to go back.” She picks at her blouse. “I think that’s what he wanted.”
“You think he wanted you to return to his home.”
She nods. “There was just something in the way he looked at me when he handed me that slip of paper. An unspoken request. Like he hadn’t included his phone number so I could call him if I got lost. He just wanted me to call him, period.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“For the same reason I threw the directions away. He’s still in love with Sarah. His dead wife. One weekend with the guy was fun, and I got what I wanted out of it, but I deserve to be the only woman in a man’s heart. I didn’t want to play second fiddle to a ghost. So I said thanks, but no thanks, and threw his directions away, phone number and all. Now, though . . .?” She sighs and drums her fingers on her baby bump. “Now I’m kicking myself.”
“Well, hopefully he’ll turn up one way or another.”
We close the interview, then she collects her handbag and pushes herself out of the chair, dropping her hand over her swollen stomach as she walks to the door of my office.
“I’ll find him someday,” she says as I open the door. “I know I will.”
“How?” But I suspect her confidence has something to do with a little thing called women’s intuition.
She gives me that secret smile of hers again. “I can feel it.”
Yep. Women’s intuition.
“When you do, call me,” I say. “I need to know how this story ends.”
“I will. And thanks for letting me tell you my story, Dr. O. Who knows, maybe he’ll read your book and contact you to find me.”
“You never know. All you can do is just keep putting your story out there, and eventually it’s bound to get back to him.”
She hugs me and hands me a business card. “If you’re ever in need of a massage, a Reiki treatment, or a chakra alignment, give me a call. I’ll give you a full healing package on the house.”
I’ve never been into the woo-woo stuff, but she’s made me look at it with new eyes. “You know what?” I say, flicking the edge of her card with my fingers before tucking it into my pocket. “I think I might just take you up on that.”
Her bright smile li
ghts up the room. “Then I look forward to your call.”
“Count on it.”
As I watch her walk down the hall in the direction of the elevators, I marvel at how with a stroke of bad luck, Journey found just the good luck she needed.
I hope she finds Paul—or rather, Aaron—soon. I have a feeling their story isn’t over yet.
Not by a longshot.
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Next up in Forbidden Flowers: Noise
All Taylor wants when she comes home from running her multimillion-dollar company is peace and quiet. Unfortunately, her new neighbor, professional football player Ryker Ruta, likes his music loud. Too loud for Taylor to tolerate. When she welcomes Ryker to the neighborhood by demanding he keep his music down, it’s only a matter of time before these two overcome their differences and realize they’re more alike than they first thought. Don’t miss this fast-paced enemies to lovers romance. One-click Noise now.
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