by S. E. Hall
"You there?" he asks, full of excitement.
Shame on you, Addison. I shake off my pessimism. "Yeah, ok, lunch is good. When and where?"
We make plans to meet at McAllister's Sports Bar at noon. I love their wings and it means I won't be eating in the break room. Ricky joined me there on Friday to "end things" because he and Pat "mesh." Longest conversation without rolling my eyes and gut laughing ever. Today's venue is all the motivation I need to drag myself to the coffee pot.
As I get ready for work, random scenarios run through my mind of what Dylan's news could be. I adore my big brother, but he tends to be...flighty. An announcement from him could literally be anything from "I joined the circus" to "I'm getting a sex change."
So yeah, to say I'm a bit on edge would be an understatement.
Nevertheless, when I walk in the pub at noon on the dot, I sport a big, optimistic smile of support.
He waves from his perch at a high-top, beckoning me over, dressed in slacks and a tie. The fabric strips men wear around their neck, knot at the top—yeah, that kind of tie.
So maybe not the circus then. So far so good.
"Hey." He stands and hugs me. "Thanks for coming. I ordered those cheese bits you like to start. Here." He pulls out my chair. "Take a load off."
"T-thank you." I glance around, trying to spot the Punk'd crew, wherever they're hiding. Never once has Dylan been a gentleman! I'm antsy and my patience is waning, but I try to hold firm waiting for the big news. No way would he dress up to declare he's about to become a father, so I'm at a panicky loss. "Out with it, you're scaring me."
"Ah, ye of little faith." He shakes his head and clicks his tongue. "Ok, are you sitting down?"
"Um, you pulled out my chair," I deadpan. "Guess."
"Right, ok sorry, lil' nervous." His face lights up, eyes brightening as he rubs his hands together furiously. "Here goes. Moe, I'm opening my own company. Game software."
I try for a speedy recovery, schooling my bulging, shocked eyes, snapping my agape mouth closed. "How? I mean, I know you're very passionate about those games," I lay my hand over his, hopefully it softens my words of skepticism, "and you're good at them. But Dylan, it takes a lot more than Pac-Man prowess and obsession to own a company."
He pulls his hand away from mine, defensive and hurt, scowling. I hate making him feel that way and I'd love nothing more than to see him succeed at something he enjoys, but I've lent him money and helped him move too many times to not say something.
"Dyl, you need a business plan, collateral, a building, equipment, employees to whom you can offer benefit packages." I sigh, my chest tight, taking in the disappointment in his features. "Not to mention customers."
There's fifty more things I could rattle off but it's then that our waitress arrives with drinks and appetizer in tow. I'm grateful for the moment of reprieve.
"Thank you." I look at her, snagging an extra dressing off her tray. "I'm ready to order if…" I turn to Dylan. "You know what you want?"
"Let's wait," he says directly to our waitress. "We're expecting one more."
She nods and retreats as I ask, "Who's joining us?"
"The investor who took care of the building and equipment when I showed him my business plan." He fires back smugly.
"Who would—"
"Hey, sorry I'm late. You guys been here long?"
My head's down, sipping my drink, when the familiar voice hits us. Of course...savior Brady.
"Nah, thanks for coming," Dylan answers him as I look up, staring forward.
"I take it he told you." Brady grabs the chair beside me then leans in to my ear and whispers, "Tell me, do you stay mad just so I'll tell you how fucking cute you look when you pout?" He laughs, only momentarily, as I kick him under the table. His hand disappears to rub his shin, still lightly sniggering. "So, catch me up. What'd I miss?"
"Shit, I should've got a refill while she was here. I can't eat without a drink, hang on," Dylan gets up with his glass and wanders off in search of the waitress. "Don't eat them all, Moe!"
The second he's out of earshot, I turn narrowed eyes on Brady. "So when you let him move in and I said quit enabling him, you took that to mean buy him a company? What the hell, Brady? Things handed to you aren't worth working for! Dylan needs to learn that work is hard and bosses suck, but you do it anyway, until you earn more, because that's what adults do!"
His easy demeanor is gone, replaced with a tight jaw. "And I told you, all he needs is a shot, someone to believe in him, which I do, and it pisses me off that you don't! He has a good business plan, Moe, have you seen it? Have you asked to see it? I don't have money because I go around throwing it away." He pops a cheese bite in his mouth and I'm tempted to reach down his throat and take it back.
"No, you have money from a pathetic trust fund your dead beat father left you! And once again, I'm the bad guy all because I want stability for my brother?" My anger slowly dissolves into hurt, softening the harshness in my tone. "I'm tired of lying to our parents and saying 'he's doing great!' I'm tired of moving him around and checking to see if he's got groceries. And I'm tired of you swooping in to be his hero. What happens when you have a family? You still gonna raise him too?" I prop my elbow on the table and grip my hair, letting out an exasperated sigh.
He smoothly runs his finger over my cheek. "Maybe you're mad because you didn't dream bigger, because you stopped at vet tech, eager to turn a paycheck, scared to go all the way and open your own clinic."
"I like my—" My defensive statement is cut short, silenced when he takes my chin in his hand.
Our eyes meet in a fiery battle. "You think he's helpless, dependent on me? Well you're
dependent too, Moe. That clinic could close tomorrow, do cutbacks, fire you. And guess what? That security you think you have that allows you be so high and mighty?" He shakes his head, eyes never straying from mine, fingers loosening on my chin. "It'd be gone. You'd be crying for help from your loser enabler boy then too."
My gasp comes out louder than I'd hoped, anger, shock, and hurt coursing through me. I rear back out of his grip and stand, overturning my stool. My chin is quivering, pulse racing as I snatch my purse. "Tell Dylan good luck and tell yourself," I take a deep breath, "to fuck off."
With that said, I storm from the restaurant, another lunch break ruined. Make that a whole day ruined.
Hours later and I'm still seething; not so much mad at Dylan as worried about him. But Brady? Steaming mad at that asshole. How dare he talk to me like that? I love my job and I'm damn good at it. And excuse me if yes, an income, my own life, sounded better than years of Ramen and student loans.
I'm still doing what I love, helping animals.
Except today; today I'm scaring them off with the piss poor mood and angry vibes oozing from me. Even Roscoe, a bloodhound too old to lift his own head, has growled at me twice.
I get pulled away from Tabby's hissing to answer an important phone call. Oh no, it's not a bad joke, too coincidental to happen anywhere but in a badly written sitcom with canned "oohs" and "ahhs." It's actually happening.
"Hello?"
"Miss Porter, hi, this is Samantha from Dr. Reynolds' office. Sorry to bother you, but we need you to come in for some retesting. Your last results were reported back as inconclusive."
"What does that mean, inconclusive?" I look around, making sure none of my coworkers are eavesdropping.
"Miss Porter, I'm not licensed or qualified to discuss that with you. Only Dr. Reynolds can do that, so I need to make you an appointment. Is next Wednesday at one okay for you?"
"Next Wednesday? Like not the one in two days, the one in nine?" Is she kidding me? You don't drop a bomb on my already war-ravaged battlefield and then tell me I need to wait eons for an explanation. "Uh, no, actually, it's not. I'm not waiting that long to find out what's wrong with me. I want in as soon as possible, please."
"That is as soon as—"
"Listen, Samantha," I cut her off snidely, which I'll feel guilty for late
r, "you can't call a woman with evasive, worrisome news like that and then expect her to get any sleep. I need you to go ask Dr. Reynolds when he can fit me in, please."
"Yes, ma'am, please hold."
My boot's tapping and I chew my nails, a habit I quit years ago, as I wait. If this hasn't been an awesome day I don't what has.
My entire body trembles when she returns to the line, snapping me from my spiraling thoughts. "Miss Porter?"
"Yes."
"Dr. Reynolds said to come in at 10 am tomorrow. He'll move things around for you."
I exhale and let my shoulders relax a bit. "Perfect, tell him thank you. I'll be there."
After hanging up with her, of course my first instinct is to call Brady and see what he thinks, so he can tell me the possible meaning, options, etc., but I can't do that, seeing as how only hours ago I told him to fuck off.
Not to mention, that'd be asking for help and he made it perfectly clear he's just waiting for the chance to throw that in my face.
No, I'll go home, have some brown-bag wine and a hot bath and face this tomorrow like the independent adult that I am.
"Jennifer," I call to the other tech as I gather my things, "I have to leave for the day and I'll be late tomorrow. I've got an emergency appointment that can't be helped."
She comes in the room, concern lining her eyes and brow. "Is everything okay? Can I do anything?"
"Thanks, Jen, that's sweet of you. Can you hold down the fort here and let the others know?" I smile hopefully. "I'm sure everything will be fine."
Once out of the building, I inhale a lungful of fresh air and trudge straight to my car. I can't drive home fast enough, deadbolting the door, turning on some Miles Davis and opening the wine as I head to the bathtub.
So done with this day.
Maybe I'm delirious with fear about my results or maybe I'm actually deranged and badly in need of an alignment to my priorities, because in spite of it all, one lingering thought induces a shiver…
I'm headed back to see Dr. Reynolds.
Chapter 8
Again with the paper robe? Why even pretend? We all know I'm as good as naked minus my favorite pair of smooching frog socks snuggling my toes.
There's no fancy schmancy prep this time; I'm in far too foul a mood. Only a rushed hot shower, one squirt of lavender and a quick leg and pit shave. I did, however, brush my teeth twice, now keenly aware he prefers to be up close and personal with more than just my cha-cha.
Other than that, this is as good as it gets.
I spent all night tossing and turning, anxious about my results, mad I'd missed more work, and positively distraught at the current state of affairs with Brady and Dylan.
So when Dr. Reynolds knocks and steps in bearing that charming smile, and dear God wearing the sexiest pair of blue scrubs I've ever seen in my life, I almost feel bad for the scowl I'm throwing back.
"Addison," he regards me, airing on the sign of caution, "how're you?"
"Not great, Doc, not even close. Kinda wanting to speed things along and go straight for a drink. It's gotta be five o'clock somewhere, right?"
He glances around, noticeably uncomfortable, before blowing out a long winded breath. Obviously he was expecting the universally acceptable response of, "fine, how are you?"
Not today, sorry, Doc.
"I, um," he stammers, concentrating on the damn all-knowing chart. "Anything I can do?"
"Ha," I scoff. Doesn't matter—doctors, lawyers, trash men, janitors—they're all still men, so they have no clue what to say.
"You could explain my test results. My first ever exam was nerve-wracking enough. Getting a call that my results are," I air quote, "'inconclusive,' well, it scares the shit out of me, quite frankly."
With that admission, my catty, sniping anger is gone, replaced with a trembling lower lip and watering eyes. "And I couldn't even call my best friend to get a medical opinion on it, because again, quite frankly, he's an asshole."
Another thing all men, any walk of life, have in common—they can't stand it when a woman starts to cry.
Dr. Reynolds rises from the stool and moves to stand directly in front of me. "Hey, shhh." He rubs my knee. "Addison, everything will be fine, I promise."
I wipe my palms down my face, a mess inside and out. "Th-thank you for fitting me in, by the way. I appreciate it." I sniffle, long past simply feeling vulnerable. "I'm sorry, I'm just overwhelmed, worried, exhausted." I wave my hand as though "shooing" away the unbearable list. "Anyways, please, can we just get this over with? I need to know what's going on."
Head ducked to meet my eyes, his empathic smile soothes me. "Inconclusive means just that. Not good, not bad, not anything. Something made it impossible to get any results at all."
That's my vagina alright—never getting any results.
"Addison," he taps the hand still on my knee, bringing me back from thought, "did you by any chance douche before you came in that day?"
Oh dear God, he'd smelt the vinegar! My entire body flushes with morbid embarrassment as I fidget away from him.
"Maybe," I mutter, unable to look anywhere besides my lap.
With a gentle hand, he lifts my head, forcing our eyes to meet. "It's a common thing, don't feel like you're the only one. So that's a yes?"
I nod, and very slowly he steps back, releasing his hold on my chin as well as my gaze.
"That's it then," he says, his voice reassuring. "The chemicals in the douche render the swab unreadable. We'll simply take another sample, alright?" He rolls the cart holding the tray of torture over and my spine stiffens, arms and legs nervously crossing together.
"T-take another?" I stutter.
Abruptly he turns back. "You didn't do it again today, did you?"
"No," I reply with a bit of haste and indignation. How rank does he think it is down there? Sheesh.
"Good. It's not recommended, ever. The vagina actually does more good for itself, naturally, if you let it. Douches strip away those good things."
"Okay." Yeah, that's all I got on the subject, not one I'm looking to discuss.
"So, alright, we'll take another pass at it. You know I have to ask, would you like—"
"Is one of your nurses begging to see my goods or what? My God, how many times must I say I'm fine without spectators?"
Scrubbing a hand over his mouth to hide the smirk, those eyes of his twinkle with amusement. "As far as I'm aware, none of my staff is vying for a peek. It's a requirement that I ask, each and every time."
I offer a grateful smile for his professionalism. "This is a small town. The less people I run into who've seen my bits, the better. No worries here. Proceed." I flop back against the table with ceremonious flair, not caring which part of my robe flies open. Own it, right?
Obviously taking his sweet time, I sit back up and decide to help, attempting to go ahead and raise the stirrups for him while he does the glove/tray thing, attempt being the key word. I fail miserably, nearly upside down trying to pull out the difficult metal contraptions.
At the echoing clatter, his head cocks back a smidge, one brow raised. "Anxious, are we?"
I roll my eyes and sit back, realizing the stirrups are not going to cooperate. Dr. Reynolds strides over and of course makes easy work of them. Show off.
"Nice socks," he says with a teasing smile, guiding my feet one at time up and into place.
I shoot him a proud grin, then in one big scoot, move myself forward all the way to the end. The looming possibility of a nervous freak out is absent this time, perhaps because he's already seen all I'd kept hidden for so long.
"You remember how this works, right?" He reaches for the lamp. "Legs wide apart."
With one big breath in, I relax and allow my legs to fall open as he pulls up the bottom of my robe.
"Speculum in." He eases the cold metal inside me, then stills, waiting to hear my exhale of acceptance. "And a pinch. Good, Addison, stay relaxed for me."
It's easier this time, since I know
what to expect. There's only my clammy hands and an obvious case of goosebumps, which I blame on the chill in the air, despite the heat raging under my surface. I still wonder if I feel wet, if he's using some sort of lubricant, or if the lamp is in fact the source of great heat.
"Speculum closing, and," I feel it slide from me, "out. You did great this time." He stands over me, sitting the tool on the tray. There is no quick turning around on his part, no attempt to hide the easy smile he's wearing, gentle and kind.
My breath hitches when he pulls off his gloves and tosses them in the trash beside him, never breaking the connection between us. As if I'd silently asked for more, he delicately places his hand on my calf, I assume to help lower my legs, but no. Rather, his eyes bore into my own, never wavering, as his thumb rubs slow circles over my sensitive flesh.
This I'm not imagining, or wishing—this is actually, tangibly happening.
I do nothing to stop him, remaining absolutely still, focused on his powerful stare and the feel of his thumb massaging against my skin. Legs open, robe brazenly agape, I lie there unashamed, completely mesmerized.
"Addison," he murmurs in a deep timbre, "I—" His head shoots to the door.
Why sure, why wouldn't someone knock right at that exact moment? I mean, this is my luck we're talking about here. More disappointed than startled, I lazily sit up, drawing my legs together and straightening the robe as he moves away.
With a peek back at me, confirming that I'm composed enough to welcome a possible third party, he cracks open the door the slightest bit.
By the time he's done speaking with whomever was out in the hall and turns back, I've gotten down off the table and pulled my yoga pants up on under the robe.
"I have to go. I'll, uh, someone will call as soon as your results are in," he explains, his words unsteady.
A line has been crossed, the air surrounding us no longer heavy with intrigue and lust but awkward restlessness.
"Thank you, Doctor," I say to the floor, confusion clouding my soft voice and dictating the downward direction of my head.
I only look up when I hear the door click. He's gone and I'm a mess of hands and feet shoving on my shirt and wrestling with my shoes. As soon as I'm fully dressed, I pull out my phone to make the call my complete bewilderment won't allow me to delay another minute.