by Tara West
It’s only then, when I release a breath, I realize I’d stopped breathing. Treatable. His condition is treatable! I’m so happy I want to scream with joy, but I know Jackson’s dad will make disapproving comments.
Karri’s lips pull back in a smile that looks almost painful. “What kind of changes?”
“Tyler has Celiac Disease,” the doctor says, “and he requires a gluten free diet for the rest of his life.”
Mr. James steps forward. “What caused him to get this disease?” He says in a booming voice before shooting Karri an evil look.
The doctor rises and addresses Mr. James. “Celiac is a genetic disease.” He nods to the rest of us, his gaze stopping on Karri’s mom who’s slouching at the back of the group, coughing into her palm. “I suggest the other members of your family be screened for it as well. If left untreated, it can lead to stomach cancer and a host of other ailments.”
Mr. James folds his arms across his chest, his eyes turning thunderous. “We are all healthy in my family.”
As if Mr. James needs any more encouragement to be a condescending ass, Karri’s mom’s coughing grows louder. She doesn’t sound well at all. I lead her to the cushioned chair beside Karri.
“Maybe you should get checked for this disease,” I tell Mrs. Peterson. “Maybe that’s why you’re always sick.”
“I don’t have time for the doctor,” she tells me as she grabs a tissue out of her purse. Her long peppered hair is pulled back in a messy bun, and for the first time I notice bald patches on her scalp. Her eyes are sunk in their sockets, and her skin is practically hanging off her bones. It seems every time I see this woman, she looks worse.
After her wheelchair-bound husband died of a chest infection four months ago and Karri moved back in with her, she hasn’t had much to do, other than fuss over Karri. I know she has more time to take care of her health. I wish Mrs. Peterson would go to a doctor. She’s the only mother I’ve ever known. I’d hate it if something happened to her.
Karri looks at her mom and then rolls her eyes as Mrs. Peterson coughs into her tissue.
“How am I expected to know what to feed him?” Karri says as she looks up at the doctor with an accusatory glare, like he’s the one who gave Ty this disease.
The doctor smiles at Karri, but I can see the condescension in his gaze. He and Mr. James share a glance, as if they realize they’re the only two intelligent people in the room.
“Our nutritionist will be here momentarily. She’ll go over Tyler’s dietary needs with you,” the doctor says.
Mr. James fixes the doctor with a smug expression. “I will hire my own nutritionist and a chef if need be.”
The doctor’s eyes widen. “Well then, little Tyler is very lucky. None of my other patients with Celiac can afford personal chefs.”
“Tyler will always receive the best care, so long as he is in our custody.” Mr. James looks at Karri as if she’s no more significant than the mold growing beneath his expensive leather shoes.
Karri groans and slumps. She’s been trying to regain custody of Ty ever since she got out of rehab a few months ago. This disease will be one more obstacle. I’ve got a few sorority sisters who have Celiac disease, and I know their food is more expensive. Karri and her mother can barely afford to feed themselves. Besides, I don’t entirely trust Karri with Ty. Though she successfully completed rehab, this isn’t the first time she’s kicked the habit, and it may not be the last. With Karri’s mom sick all the time, as loathe as I am to admit it, Tyler is probably better off with the James family.
This saddens me, because I fear if I want to spend more time with Ty, I might have to deal with Jackson. I glance at the man I almost married, horrified to see he’s staring back at me. He’s got a wistful look in his eyes, and when he flashes me his signature boyish smile, I shiver, feeling like a thousand tiny spiders are burrowing beneath my skin.
Just when I thought I’d gotten rid of him for good.
* * *
“How are we supposed to compete with personal chefs?”
Karri is pacing the waiting room floor while waiting for the nurses to call us back into Tyler’s room. Jackson and his family are speaking privately with the doctor.
“I’ve got sorority sisters who can’t eat gluten,” I tell her, trying to stay upbeat. “I’ll talk to them. I’ll Google it. We can figure this out.”
“Now I’ve got to learn how to cook a whole new way.” Mrs. Peterson sinks into the chair, her chest rattling with each intake of breath. “I hardly have the energy to cook for myself anymore.”
“Mr. James is right. It’s my fault Tyler has this.” Scowling, she waves a hand at her mother, as if the woman is to blame for being sick. “It’s my family’s bad genetics.”
I stand and walk over to Karri, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder. “It’s nobody’s fault.”
Karri shrugs off my grip and turns from me. “Maybe if I’d had better prenatal care.”
Maybe, I think to myself. I can’t help it. I remember all those times I would nag Karri about taking prenatal vitamins. How I’d have to practically drag her to her OB checkups, hide her sugary sodas, and force-feed her healthy foods. But it doesn’t matter now, does it? What matters is making sure Tyler gets the care he needs so he can get healthy.
“Karri, don’t do this to yourself.” I stand behind her and barely breathe the words.
Though I can’t see her facial expression, her shoulders are shaking. She sniffles loudly before turning to me with red-rimmed eyes.
“Don’t do what? It’s my fault.” She pounds her chest with a fist. “It’s my goddam fault! Do you think I quit drugs when I was pregnant? Do you?” She’s got this wild look in her eyes, like she’s a trapped, wounded animal.
No, I didn’t know she’d used drugs when she was pregnant, and now I feel like a total idiot for having been so trusting. I remember Karri looking me in the eye, reassuring me her baby wasn’t going to come out hooked on drugs, promising me she’d quit using for good. I wonder, not for the first time, if I can ever believe anything she says.
She’s sobbing into her hands now, chest heaving as her cries grow louder. Some part of me wants to comfort her, but another part realizes she deserves to hurt, just like she’s hurt Ty. Just like she’s hurt me.
I hold up both hands. “Karri, calm down.” It’s the best I’ve got. It’s the only comfort I can give to someone who doesn’t deserve it.
“I did this to him,” she screams and throws up both hands. “I made my baby sick!”
She turns and runs out the door. Mrs. Peterson rises from her chair and limps over to me, wincing from the pain in her bad knee, which is obviously worsening.
“Let her go. She’s been acting like this all week. She’ll calm down,” she says. Then she falls into the nearest seat and rubs her temples. “This darned headache of mine.”
A headache caused by all the stress Karri has piled on her, no doubt.
I don’t know why I’d hoped Karri would come back from rehab a rational, calm person. I’d had this naïve belief that once she quit drugs, things would be better. But things aren’t better. She’s acting like the same irrational, meth head. Then it hits me.
Oh, God, what if Karri’s back on drugs?
Chapter Two
Christina
Andrés sends me a text while Mrs. Peterson and I wait to see Tyler.
How’s the baby?
I love how Andrés is concerned over my ex-fiancé’s baby. Any other man wouldn’t care, but Andrés isn’t any man. I feel terrible for making him wait at a bar across the street from the hospital, but I feared Jackson and his family would have caused a scene if I’d brought him.
He’s going to be okay, I answer. He’s got Celiac Disease.
My aunt has that.
Though Andrés has a huge family, I remember at the last family barbeque one of his many aunts had special food prepared just for her. If fact, most of the dinner was gluten free; although, I didn’t notice a dif
ference. The women in Andrés’s family sure can cook. Their food is so delicious, it’s like an art form, and since I have such a high appreciation of the arts, I remember having a second helping of tamales and those little powdery cookies.
My mouth waters, and my stomach growls, protesting the fact I hadn’t had a chance to eat lunch or dinner today.
How are you doing? Andrés asks me.
It’s stressful, I answer, but I don’t elaborate. It’s hard enough worrying over Tyler, then add in all the drama from Karri and my ex’s family, it’s a wonder I’m still sane.
Need me to come up?
Yes and no, I think. God, I need him so badly. He’s been my rock these past six months, helping me work through some tough times. When he’s holding me in his strong embrace, all of my troubles seem so insignificant. I wish he could hold me now. No, please go home, I reluctantly write back. Mrs. Peterson will give me a ride.
I feel terrible for putting Mrs. Peterson out, but Andrés has been training to take over his uncle’s businesses, and I know he needs his sleep. Tomorrow, they are meeting with the accountants. He’s been so stressed lately, worrying he won’t live up to his uncle’s expectations.
I’ll wait, he responds. I’m still watching the game.
I wonder if he’s waiting because he’s really concerned about my wellbeing, or if he’s being overprotective because he knows Jackson is nearby. Either way, I’m grateful knowing Andrés is here for me.
I stifle a groan when Jackson’s family walks back into the room, Mr. James in front like a general leading his army. He scans the room with sharp eyes, his chin turned up in a condescending manner. He smirks when he looks at the empty chair besides Mrs. Peterson, and then he looks at me with a triumphant gleam.
I shrug and look down at my phone. What is he expecting me to do? Make excuses for Karri? I know she’s a lousy mother. I’m not about to defend her. Besides, I’m not here for Karri. I’m here for Tyler.
I’ll text you later, K? I write to Andrés.
K, he answers. Love you.
I smile down at my phone as I text him back. Love you, too.
I bite my lower lip as the memory of the first time he told me that flashes through my mind. It was past midnight. We’d just come from a swim to cool off, as the electricity had gone out in his apartment complex. We made love by candlelight. Even though the August heat was stifling, a light breeze blew through the open window. By the time I was nearing my third climax, sweat dripped off Andrés’s brow and shoulders, onto my electrified flesh. I relished the feel of his warm body and the taste of his salty skin as I nipped his arms and neck. I remember calling out his name as my release was building. Then I was overcome by waves of euphoric pleasure. My tight core pulsated around his thick erection while he continued to tunnel into me.
Andrés said I’d said it first, I’d told him I loved him during that powerful climax. Honestly, I don’t remember. My lust-induced stupor probably had me saying all sorts of crazy things. After, I could feel the throbbing of his head inside me, and he groaned into my mouth and rolled over, pulling me with him, whispering, “I love you, mija,” into my ear.
I remember answering back I loved him, too, and from that night on, we told each other often. Still, every time he tells me he loves me, I get this warm fuzzy feeling in my chest, as if it is Christmas morning and his affection is a shiny new toy.
Andrés makes me so very happy, and I love him for it.
A nurse walks into the waiting room, an older woman with white hair, thick spectacles, and a matronly smile. She looks at me and then at Jackson. “Tyler is awake and ready to see his parents,” she says.
I feel my skin flush ten shades of red. Jackson has the nerve to smirk at me. As if I’d ever want kids with him. Actually, I don’t want to bring kids into this twisted world at all, especially not with Jackson.
Mr. James storms toward the nurse. “Come on!” he says as he pulls Jackson by the arm. Jackson’s stepmom, a petite bleached blonde twenty years Mr. James’s junior, follows quickly behind them.
Jackson shoots me this expectant look, as if he’s telling me to follow, and then he disappears through the heavy door. I want so badly to see the baby, but I’m not following Jackson. I’m not Ty’s parent. Besides, Mr. James has already made it clear I’m no relation, and I’m sure he’d be pissed if I tagged along.
Mrs. Peterson tries to follow after them, but she hobbles too slowly and the door slams shut on her. I’m pissed because I know someone had to have heard her calling to hold the door.
The poor woman turns to me with a shrug. “I guess I’ll go look for Karri.”
I know Mrs. Peterson shouldn’t be walking in her condition. “No, you stay here in case she returns. I’ll go look.” I lead her to a chair and hurry out of the waiting room.
I scan nearby hallways and check a few restrooms. I even send Karri a text and try calling, but it goes straight to voicemail. Then I remember the bar across the street. I could call Andrés and ask him if Karri’s there, but it’s only a short distance, and after my stressful evening, I could really use a cold beer and Andrés’s strong arms wrapped around me.
* * *
The night air is mild considering it’s only a few weeks till Thanksgiving. I button up my light jacket and trudge across the street. Once inside, I’m accosted by the heavenly smell of barbeque and greasy food.
Mmmm.
My stomach grumbles, reminding me I’m famished. Now I know Ty will be okay, I’m ready to chow down on some good food. Actually, I’m so hungry, any food will do.
Andrés has his back to me as he yells at a player on the television fumbling the ball. The place is full of Monday night football fans, most of them wearing hospital scrubs. I scan the room for Karri’s wild pink hair. It doesn’t take me long to see she’s not there. I notice a few of the guys nearby are checking me out.
Ugh. I know I look like shit. I threw my hair in a messy ponytail before we left the house. I didn’t even bother reapplying my makeup after a long day at school and then air brushing cars. I’m wearing an old T-shirt, Andrés’s windbreaker jacket, and workout pants. What is wrong with men?
I make my way through the crowd toward Andrés, ignoring the “Hey, baby” from some drunk behind me. Andrés is at a table with a bunch of guys I’ve never met before. He’s probably never met them before, either, but Andrés has this magnetic personality, and he can make friends with just about anyone.
He’s sitting on the edge of his seat, waiting for the quarterback to throw the ball. He still hasn’t spotted me, so I hang back for a second. He’s got this look on his face as if all of life’s happiness hinges on this one moment.
I don’t bother looking at the television. Watching Andrés is far more enjoyable. He jumps out of his seat, pumping his fist in the air and hollering. He’s taller than most of the other men, and far more attractive. Even in late fall, he’s got beautifully tanned skin. He let his military cut grow out a little, and he’s got just the right amount of wave to his thick hair.
He’s kept his physique in prime shape, too. He’s been out of the army for almost eight months, but Andrés takes his PT seriously, jogging every morning before work and lifting weights three times a week. Sometimes, he even talks me into going jogging with him, which is totally insane because the sun isn’t even up yet, and I’m already exhausted from school, work and sex, lots and lots of sex.
I smile as he high-fives the other guys before falling back into his chair. He finally sees me as he leans over and grabs a nacho off the tray. He pops the chip in his mouth and waves me over. There are no empty chairs, which suits me just fine. I take a seat on Andrés’s thigh and plant a big kiss on his lips. He tastes like salsa and corn chips. I reach across his broad chest and steal his beer.
“Hey,” he says to me as he steals it back before I can take a sip. “Not until you eat something, mija.” He sets down the glass and pushes a styrofoam box toward me. “I ordered it to go. I didn’t think you’d come
inside.” He’s got this apologetic look in his big, brown eyes, as if he’s sorry my dinner is in a box.
Jackson wouldn’t have thought to order me a meal at all. I frown as I pull away and open my box. Why would I even be thinking about Jackson? We’ve been broken up for six months.
I lick my lips when I see I’ve got a big Cobb salad with chopped egg, chunks of bleu cheese, bacon pieces, grilled chicken, and two sides of balsamic vinaigrette. Oh, yum! Damn, the boy is thoughtful. Not only does he remember my favorite salad, he also remembers I love extra dressing. Jackson wouldn’t have— Shit! Enough about Jackson.
I shake the image of my former fiancé’s pouty face out of my mind as I dig into my food.
Andrés kneads the tension from my shoulders as I eat. I shift in his lap a few times and smile to myself as I feel his growing bulge pressing against my ass.
Andrés grabs hold of my hips and growls a warning in my ear. “Stop, before I take you in the bathroom.”
I angle my head toward him and wink. “You don’t have the balls.”
He lifts a challenging eyebrow and licks his full, sensual lips. “Don’t dare me, mija. I’ll bend you over the sink.”
My jaw drops, and as I look into his smoky gaze, I realize he’s not joking. Oh-mi-god! Sex in a crowded bar bathroom. That one isn’t on my bucket list, but it sure as hell is on my bucket list now. I reach between our bodies and stroke down the length of his erection, causing him to growl and grab my wrist.
I giggle and lick my lips as he pulls my hand to his mouth and plants a tender kiss on my palm. For a moment, I forget we’re in a crowded bar. The sound of cheering and swearing is drowned out by my buzzing hormones. After the shit I went through today, I could so go for an orgasm right now. Or two. Or three. I’m so damn tempted to pull him from this chair and drag him to the bathroom myself.
But then a familiar sound pulls me from my lust-induced haze—the rumble of a loud muffler. I turn my head and see the large, rusty truck out on the street in front of the bar, faintly illuminated by the street lights.