OTHER TITLES BY BETHANY CRANDELL
The Jake Ryan Complex
Summer on the Short Bus
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2021 by Bethany Crandell
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Montlake, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542026888
ISBN-10: 1542026881
Cover design by Caroline Teagle Johnson
To Dad
When I grow up . . .
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER 1
I am a strong, capable woman.
“I am a strong, capable woman.”
I can do anything I set my mind to.
“I can do anything I set my mind to.”
The world is mine for the taking.
“The world is mine for the taking.”
I am no longer bound by the confines of my penis.
“I am no longer bou—ugh.”
I snatch my phone from the center console and tap the screen, pausing the tutorial. I’ve listened to this YouTube video at least a thousand times and yet somehow am always startled by the transition from bra-burning, empowered female back to transgender woman, where we started. I’m sure there are better-suited self-helps out there, but I really like the sound of Dr. Deedee’s voice; she’s authoritative and confident. Probably because she’s no longer bound by the confines of her penis . . .
I scrub the video back a bit with a drag of my finger and start again.
I am a strong, capable woman.
“I am a strong, capable woman . . .”
I repeat this exercise the entire drive and, by the time I reach the restaurant and squeeze my car into a narrow space between two identical Teslas, feel like I can conquer the world.
Yes, I can do this.
I’ve got this.
As we do every month, the Second-Wives Club of Mount Ivy General Hospital is meeting for lunch. It’s not an actual club, of course, just a silly name we came up with over too many proseccos a year or so ago, and technically we’re not all seconds. (Of the four of us, only Tamira and Heather are actual second wives, while Brielle is number four to Dr. Harold Dixon, plastic and reconstructive surgeon, and I’m the lone, nearly-extinct-to-this-world first wife.) But we thought it was cute, so we stuck with it.
We spend most of our time catching up on our families and idle hospital gossip, but because I also serve on the board of Mount Ivy General’s special-events committee (yet another post I’ve been bequeathed), I loop the girls in on the latest activities whenever there’s something to report. On today’s agenda: the big Valentine’s gala—held just three months from now—when we’ll kick off the fundraising campaign for a new, state-of-the-art cardiology wing that will put Mount Ivy on the map, where it belongs. At least, that’s the fluffy spin we’re putting on it. Truth is, the hospital is terribly short on funds, and if they don’t secure some big money very soon, all the specialty departments will be cut, starting with cardiology.
And since my husband, Dan, is the head of cardiology, and also the chief of the entire surgical department, it goes without saying that securing this new wing is very important to him.
Very important.
And not just to him and the countless doctors and nurses who report to him, but to our entire family.
I cut the engine and give myself a quick once-over in the rearview. Aside from the bruise-colored under-eye bags, I look pretty good. Better than I thought I would, considering I’m running on about three hours’ sleep. I touch up my lipstick, blotting it against the mile-long CVS receipt that’s rammed into the cup holder, then smooth wisps of my mousy, boring brown hair from my face.
Despite the empowering words still echoing inside me, my hands are a bit shaky. They’ve been doing that lately. A twinge of concern niggles at my spine, but I quickly dismiss it with the realization that it must be a quirky reaction to that new chamomile oil I’ve been using. (Just a dab on each temple before bed, to soothe out the stressors of the day.) I’ll switch back to the lavender.
It’s no surprise that my party is seated at the table in the far corner of the room that boasts lake views from all seats—the best table in the house, for the most respected wives in town—or that there’s already a drink waiting for me. And it’s got mint in it. A frustrated sigh settles in my chest. I don’t like mint—
“There she is. Hey, girl!”
As always, Brielle’s amplified greeting makes me smile. Even though she’s been around almost a year now, her adorable southern drawl still catches me by surprise, and the fact that she calls me girl, when she could technically be my daughter (if I’d started as young as most of my classmates back in high school), is sort of endearing. Oh, to be twenty-five again . . .
I am strong.
I am capable.
I can conquer the world.
“Hi, everyone.” There’s an unfamiliar waver in my voice that gives me pause. I hope I’m not getting sick . . .
“Hi, hon.” Tamira gives a little wave.
Heather doesn’t offer a hello but instead raises her near-empty glass in greeting, liquor-soaked ice cubes tinkling against the crystal.
“Sorry I’m late. I had two PTA subcommittee meetings at school; both ran long.” I drop down into the empty seat between Brielle and Heather, sighing as I hang my bag on the back of the chair. “It’s been a busy morning.”
“Tell me about it,” Tamira says over one of her signature eye rolls. “I had a seven thirty with Olga.” Olga, her massage therapist. “She claimed that was the only time she could get me in today. I mean, seriously? It threw off my entire morning.”
“Aw, I hate when they only have those early-morning slots,” Brielle adds sympathetically.
“Today we’re enjoying Peachy Keens.” Heather leans in, tapping my glass with the tip of her finger.
Heather Mills-Crosby, former soap opera actress married to Dr. Mitchell Crosby, general surgeon. (She was mostly an extra, but she did have a three-episode arc on Days of Our Lives a few years ago.) Along with her designer wardrobe and perpetual scowl, she has one of those affected accents—like Gwyneth or Madonna—that’s especially noticeable after she’s had a few drinks. Based on the way she’s dragging out her vowels, I’m guessing the glass in her hand isn’t her first. “It’s peach whiskey, ginger beer, lime, and . . .” She glances down at the menu beside her. “Oh yeah, peach bitters, whatever the hell those are, and mint. It’s delicious. You’ll love it.”
“Yeah, it looks great.” I pick the glass up and take a drink. The horrible mint taste assaults my taste buds, b
ringing a grimace to my lips that I quickly force away. “Mmm. Yeah. That is tasty.”
“Right?” She winks at me, then signals for our waitress with a crook of her finger.
“So, Tamira was just telling us about their next conference season,” Brielle says, her doe-like eyes wide with excitement. Conference season: when our spouses are invited to speak at medical conferences, and we get to travel along with them, generally without kids, which is the big draw. “She said they might be going to Paris. Isn’t that so exciting?”
“Wow. That—yeah.” I nod encouragingly. “That would be amazing.”
“Ugh, Paris is so cliché,” Heather grumbles, and Tamira says, “I’m not even sure we can do it. Marcus has already committed to giving a talk at that orthopedics consortium down in Atlanta around the same time, so it may be a nonstarter.”
“Atlanta? Yay!” Brielle gasps, then gives a happy little clap, offering a glimpse of her recent-past life as a Georgia Tech cheerleader. “I’ll tell you everywhere you have to go. I swear, some of the best restaurants in the world are in Atlanta. Oh! And the live music is amazing—you have to go dancing!”
“We’ll see,” Tamira replies before taking a sip of her drink. “I’m too busy to give it a whole lot of attention right now.”
“Here she comes,” Heather mutters, turning her attention to the rosy-cheeked waitress who’s just arrived. I glance at her name tag: MELODY. That’s pretty.
“Yeah, I’ll have another one of these,” Heather says, rattling her empty in the air.
“Sure. Does anyone else want another round?”
“No,” Tamira answers, “but we are ready to order.”
My eyes snap wide. Oh . . . kay.
I quickly scour the menu while my friends rattle off their orders: a baby-kale salad with shrimp, pomegranate dressing on the side; a seared ahi salad, sesame-ginger dressing on the side; a nicoise salad with steak—cooked rare—and red wine vinaigrette on the side—
My gaze zeroes in on the pork belly burger, slathered in gouda with onion jam and roasted garlic aioli, with sweet potato fries—
“Jane,” Tamira prompts. “What kind of salad do you want?”
I swallow through the pool of saliva welling in my mouth and raise my head.
“I’ll have the, um . . . the pecan-crusted chicken with balsamic, on the side.”
I hand off my menu to Melody, then, despite the awful taste, take another drink of my Peachy Keen. Ugh.
“So, do you know where y’all are headed next season?” Brielle asks Heather.
“Who the hell knows,” she answers with a dramatic flip of her hand. “First, he said something about Annapolis; then it was Tampa; now it’s some neuropathy conference in Denver. I mean, Denver.” Her scowl deepens over her lined lips. “Like my sinuses aren’t jacked up enough as it is, he wants to drag me up into the mountains.”
Denver.
Denver.
Without any effort on my part, my jaw muscles grow taut, my molars slamming together like opposing magnets.
How has it been two months already . . .
I quickly reach for my glass, breath catching when I see that my hand is shaking again.
Damn chamomile.
The cubes clink as I raise the glass to my lips and take another drink, longer this time. I wince as the minty-sweet burn trails down my throat.
“Oh my god, I know,” Brielle goes on. “Denver’s the worst. I always feel so light-headed when I’m there. How ’bout you, Jane?” She turns to me. “You’re always so organized—you must have all your trips figured out already, huh?”
“Oh, um . . .” I clear my still-burning throat, jaw slowly easing back to a lax state. “You know, we’re not really sure what we’re doing yet. It’s getting a lot harder to do these trips now that Avery’s got so much going on.”
“I swear, I don’t know how you girls do it,” Brielle says, shaking her head. “I feel like a headless hen whenever the boys are at our house—and they practically take care of themselves.”
Brielle, fourth wife of fifty-three-year-old Harold, plastic and reconstructive surgeon, has inherited three teenage stepsons from her husband’s first wife, Michelle. Tanner is nineteen, Quinn is seventeen, and Brandon just turned sixteen. The oldest is in college on the West Coast now, so his visits are few and far between, but the other two spend every other mediation-appointed weekend with their dad and Brielle. Poor kids. I can’t imagine how difficult it would be to grow up with a rotating door of stepmothers. Not that growing up with a single mother was an envious road . . .
I take another drink.
I will never do that to Avery.
“Well, you know, I’d be totally lost without Carmen,” Tamira admits over a flippant shrug. “There’s no way I could get everything done if I had to deal with the boys all day.”
Before Tamira married Marcus Bryant, orthopedic surgeon, she was Tamira Moores, second runner-up Miss Black America 2013, a title she earned while simultaneously working toward her master’s in mathematics. Her plan had always been to teach, but once the infertility treatments kicked in, all her attention was, understandably, focused on getting pregnant. And by the time the twins finally arrived (Jaden and Isaiah, now four years old), she’d moved on to other ventures: she sits on the board of a nonprofit organization, Next Day Queens, that helps inner-city girls get into the pageant circuit. She claims it’s not as fulfilling as teaching would have been, but to be honest, I think it’s probably a better fit. I can’t imagine someone with her intense disposition teaching students. Of course, I’ve never set foot in a college classroom, so what do I know?
“I don’t know how any of you do any of it,” Heather grouses, the word any stretching out over a mile. “Mitch’s girls drive me fucking insane, and I only see them twice a year.” She slurps back what’s left of her drink, gaze darting between us and the kitchen door. She’s ready for her refill. “They’re little demon spawns, just like their mother,” she continues, grating her fingers in the air like claws. “The oldest one actually got caught vaping in class the other day—”
Brielle gasps and Tamira says, “What?”
I shift in my chair.
“I know, right?” Heather goes on. “What the fuck is going on with this sixteen-year-old kid that she’s vaping in the middle of English class?” I take another drink. “I swear, there’s no way I could get through this whole stepmother nightmare without Dr. Jill and her magic pills.” She raises her Kate Spade bag up at her side and gives it a shake, suggesting her magic pills are with her now.
Despite the subject matter, Brielle snorts and says, “Oh girl, you and me both. I’d be lost without Dr. Jill and the happy Zs.”
“Happy Zs?” I ask.
“Zoloft,” Brielle clarifies. “They’re my saving grace.”
“I hear that.” Tamira raises her glass in solidarity. “The last time my prescription ran out, I about had a nervous breakdown. Of course, Marcus wouldn’t call it in for me,” she adds, which isn’t surprising. Our husbands are very reluctant to abuse their scrip-writing privileges. “So, I had to send Dr. Jill a 9-1-1 text at two in the morning.”
Now it’s Heather’s turn to snort. “God, I’ve sent her more than a few of those over the years. I swear, that woman is my fucking savior.”
Dr. Jill is the most sought-after psychiatrist in town. Every woman I know sees her—every woman but me, that is. Dan knows her through the hospital and says that while she’s nice and a good listener, she can’t be trusted with confidential information. I’m not sure if that’s actually the case or if it’s just that the patients share the same information with each other that they share with her. Either way, I get enough emotional, motivational support from outside sources, like Dr. Deedee, to keep me going.
Not that I don’t enjoy picking up a few tips along the way when I can . . .
“So, did you tell Dr. Jill about the whole vaping thing with your stepdaughter?” I ask Heather.
“Absolutely. She
knows all our family’s dirty little secrets.”
“Mm-hmm,” Tamira mutters.
“And . . . what’d she say?” I ask.
“Well—”
“Ooh! I bet I know exactly what she said.” Brielle cuts Heather off over a giggle.
“Go for it.” Heather smirks.
“Okay, she said that Mariah—it’s Mariah, right?” Her eyes suddenly narrow. “She’s the sixteen-year-old?”
“Yup,” Heather groans.
Brielle smiles. “Okay, so Mariah isn’t deliberately trying to be disruptive; she’s just trying to figure out where she fits in the world—and who her people are. She’s living her own truth, and that should be valued rather than criticized—”
Living her own truth?
“Am I close?” Brielle finishes.
Heather offers a rarely seen grin. “Ver-fucking-batim.”
Brielle breaks out into laughter while patting her palms excitedly on the table. “I knew it! Oh my god, she’d be so proud of me—”
“Oh, finally,” Heather mutters as Melody returns to the table with her new drink. Heather leans in closer to me, allowing the waitress room to swap them out.
“Your salads will be up in just a minute,” Melody says.
“You know, I’ll go ahead and take another one of these too.” Tamira taps her still-half-full glass with her finger.
“Of course.” Melody’s smile looks very agreeable, but as a former waitress, I recognize it for what it really is. It’s a smile that says, I just asked you four minutes ago if you wanted another drink, and you said no. A smile that says, I know you think you’re better than me because I’m the one doing the serving. A smile that says, Don’t you dare feel sorry for me; I won’t be stuck in this life forever—
My phone suddenly chimes, indicating I have a new text message. Because this group is very casual—always sharing pictures and posts—I don’t hesitate to pull it out while they continue with the conversation about Dr. Jill and her child-rearing wisdom.
I tap the screen and—UGH.
Frustration rattles through my bones as I stare down at my sister’s typo-ridden message:
Moms parchment didn’t go thru.
See Jane Snap Page 1