by Aly Martinez
“You’re not pregnant,” she blurted.
“What!” I yelled, shooting to my feet as the most amazing—and telling—blast of relief filled my veins.
“You’re not pregnant,” she repeated.
“Then why the hell did you act like I was!”
She rose from her chair and walked around her desk. “Because I was scared that, when shit got hard and the darkness closed in on you, you’d run back to Greg. I had a speech planned and everything. I went so far as to price out a plane ticket and private cabana in Barbados to get you away from him until you got your head straight.”
I blinked at her, my emotions even more scattered than they had been when I’d walked into her office.
I had no STDs.
And I wasn’t pregnant.
There was absolutely nothing tying me to the man I had committed my life to seven years earlier.
I should have been relieved. It was exactly what I’d wanted when I’d asked her to read me the results.
Yet it was the emptiest feeling in my life.
I swallowed hard. “First of all, you are fired as my best friend for making me believe I was pregnant.”
Her lips curled up into a small smile.
My heels clipped on the floor as I closed the distance between us. Pulling her into a hug, I whispered, “But I officially rehire you, seeing as how you were contemplating sending me to Barbados in order to keep me away from my no-good piece-of-shit soon-to-be ex-husband.”
She returned the embrace for only a second before setting me away. Touching wasn’t her thing. But it was my thing, so she put up with it in small doses.
“Are you sure you don’t need a place to stay?” she asked, moving back behind her desk.
“Nah. He hasn’t tried to come home. I may or may not have programmed our address into his GPS as a location called I Will Neuter You.”
She chuckled. “Okay. Well, if you need anything, you know where I am.”
“At the hospital with a patient?” I teased.
“More than likely.”
I turned my attention to her office door. I’d walked in and out of that door countless times, but right then, it felt like a portal to a different universe. One that divided the past from the future.
Greg was out there, moving on with his life.
Now, it was my turn.
It was time.
Time to move on.
Time to let go.
Time to start over.
But, as I stared at that door, it seemed impossible.
Charlotte followed my gaze. “One step at a time, Rita.”
I nodded absently, wondering how many of those steps it would take until I stopped hurting.
How many until he was a distant memory?
How many until I felt like myself again? And not Rita, Greg Laughlin’s perfect little wife. But rather Rita Hartley, the girl with more dreams than stars in the sky.
It might have taken me a lifetime, but that woman was somewhere on the other side of that door, and I’d be damned if I wasn’t going to find her.
Rolling my shoulders back and standing tall, I took the very first step toward the rest of my life.
* * *
The hammock swayed as I stared out at the pond rippling in my backyard. Two years earlier, I’d bought that house specifically for that view. Well, the view and the five-thousand-square-foot plantation house on two acres. The kitchen had needed a serious overhaul, but finding a place that big so close to the city was a rarity. And the price tag proved that the sellers knew it.
But I had the money.
I traveled a good bit back and forth between LA and New York for work. And while I loved the hustle and bustle of city life, Atlanta had always been my home. It was a different kind of big city. We had multiple professional sports teams, and traffic was a nightmare, but we also had a quaint farmers market where I randomly ran into people I went to high school with. Plus, Porter and the kids lived about fifteen minutes away and my parents were only twenty minutes in the other direction.
So I’d bought the overpriced house.
After lifting the cigarette to my lips, I inhaled deeply, filling my lungs with the sweet burn of tobacco. I’d been trying to quit smoking for three months, and for the most part, I’d been successful. But I couldn’t seem to give up that first-thing-in-the-morning smoke. It was like the strongest cup of coffee for my lungs. It woke me from the inside out, invigorating me in ways nothing other a woman moaning my name ever had.
But with women came responsibility. My cigarette never stalked me, sliced the tires on my car, or sold a selfie of us lying in bed together to the tabloids. And considering all of that had happened to me in the last two months, I was swearing off women and sticking with my early morning smoke.
My phone started ringing on the small table beside my hammock. I swayed, reaching for it, then grinned huge when I lifted it to my ear. “Well, hello there, pretty lady.”
“Don’t give me that ‘pretty lady’ crap. I’m sixty, and when I’m not wearing a bra, my nipples make a break to find my belly button.”
I gagged. “Jesus, Mom.”
“Good morning, sweetie.”
“I’m not sure if I’d call it good. That horrific mental image is going to stick with me the rest of the day.”
“Your father doesn’t think it’s all that horrific. Actually, just last night—”
“Ahhhh!” I yelled to drown out the rest of her sentence. “What the hell is wrong with you this morning?”
“I don’t have any daughters,” she stated matter-of-factly. “So, it’s your job as my favorite child to listen to me talk about my marriage and all that comes with it.”
My mom always told me I was her favorite even in front of Porter. We all knew it was bullshit. She loved my asshole big brother something fierce. As teens, Porter had been far more compliant. He followed the rules, made good grades, and always came home by curfew. I, on the other hand… Well, I did none of those things. But favorites and love aside, there was no denying that my mom was my best friend.
Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Muck it up. I was a big ole mama’s boy. I could give a negative amount of fucks about what anyone thought about our relationship.
My mom was an incredible woman. She volunteered with elderly patients at various nursing homes across the city, and she acted as the neighborhood grandma, babysitting, tutoring, and dishing out secret sweets to all the kids who stopped by to say hello.
But above and beyond all of that, she was just fucking cool. When I was growing up, my dad and Porter were tight. They’d sneak away almost every weekend to go fishing or whatever manly activity my father was trying to force on my brother that week. Meanwhile, Mom carted me to cooking classes and the occasional competition.
I’ll never forget the way she used to sit in the kitchen for hours on end, talking and tasting, as I prepped dinner. She could have gone on about her day. Used that time to do something for herself. But no, she sat with me. And it wasn’t just about teaching me the fine art of using a ricer to smooth out a sweet potato casserole. We talked about school, my friends, and eventually girls.
She bought me my first box of condoms when I started dating Shelly Lewis.
She read me the Riot Act when I told her I was going to break up with Shelly because there was a hot new girl in school.
And then she drove the getaway car after I’d egged Shelly’s house when she cheated on me with that same hot girl’s older brother.
That was my mom.
And I loved her dearly, but…
“There is no way I’m listening to you talk about having sex with Dad.”
“So, if it wasn’t your father, you’d listen?” she asked. “Well, in that case, I saw that fine new waiter at The Porterhouse. Maybe…”
“Annnnd now I’m hanging up.”
“I’m kidding!” she called before I had the chance to hit the end button.
Shaking my head, I snubbed my cigarette out in an empty beer bottle and climbed to
my feet. “Are you sniffing the cleaning supplies again?”
“Nah, I was trying to make sure you were actually up and getting dressed rather than smoking a cigarette and lounging in the hammock.”
I froze and swung my eyes around the balcony, searching for whatever hidden camera she had planted at my house. “Are you watching me?”
“Oh, God, no. I’m not that bored. Besides, I know all about your aversion to clothing. Just because I wiped your butt as a baby doesn’t mean I want to see it now.”
“Could you possibly make this conversation any more awkward?” I asked.
“Absolutely. You want me to give it another shot?”
“No.” I walked inside, the mid-March heat giving way to my air conditioner.
“Okay, all joking aside. I just wanted to make sure you were up and getting dressed. Porter’s expecting you in a half hour.”
Smirking, I padded across the wood floor to the hall closet and feigned ignorance. “What? Expecting me where?”
“Tanner Reese, I will hurt you if you pull this crap right now,” she snapped in the mom tone that could still cast terror over me despite the fact that I was now thirty-two and not ten.
“Okay, okay. Relax. I’m heading out now.” Opting for a waist apron rather than my chef jacket, I tugged it off the hanger and threw it over my shoulder.
“Thank you. And listen, I need you to be on your best behavior. This is really important to Porter. It’s important to all of us. Especially Travis.”
My smile fell at the mention of his name.
Porter’s eleven-year-old son, Travis, was sick. He had been for several years, but it was getting worse. I couldn’t count how many times he’d been in and out of the hospital over the past few months. And each and every time, we were all terrified something would go wrong and he wouldn’t come home. Porter was desperately trying to secure an appointment with some fancy-schmancy pulmonologist across town—only problem was she didn’t treat children.
But there was no way—not when it came to his kids—Porter was taking no for an answer. He’d been calling and begging for weeks, hitting nothing but brick walls, until a few days earlier, he’d made some headway. Somehow, he’d managed to score some face time with the doctor by volunteering The Porterhouse to cater a gig at North Point Pulmonology’s Spring Fling.
This would have been amazing except for the tiny little detail that The Porterhouse didn’t do catering. Especially not at a children’s carnival where they had requested we serve hot dogs and freaking burgers. I mean, for fuck’s sake, we’d been voted one of the top restaurants in the country and received four stars from The New York Times. I was waiting on our Michelin stars while Porter was out shopping at Costco for the lowest price on economy buns.
But it was for Travis, so I was on board one hundred percent. Though putting my name on a grocery store hot dog was pushing it.
In the most unlikely Reese brother fashion, Porter and I made a compromise—without running the Ninja Warrior course.
Waygu burgers, grilled chicken breasts, and lamb kabobs. I’d agreed to man the grill, and Porter was to handle the prep work. He’d gathered every sous chef we had to prep and package my mom’s famous bacon ranch pasta salad and a French potato salad I’d whipped up on the fly.
It was going to cost us a small fortune, but if it helped Travis—okay, fine. And Porter—I’d have signed over the entire contents of my bank account.
But that didn’t mean I wasn’t going to give my brother immortal hell first.
“I’m dressed, Mama. I’m actually headed out now,” I said, wedging the phone between my shoulder and my ear before nabbing my keys from the bowl my interior decorator had insisted I needed next to the door. She wasn’t wrong.
“Thank God,” she breathed across the line.
Her relief was a tad insulting, albeit deserved.
“I’m not a total jackass, you know?”
“I never said you were. Though your punctuality is definitely in question.”
“Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. So you’ve said a time or four thousand.” I jogged down the stairs, walked to the front door, and slipped on a pair of brown dress boots, not bothering to lace them or adjust my jeans. Then I raked my hand through my blond hair, tousling it into disarray. Such was fashion. Women were required to look like they’d walked off the catwalk at three a.m., but a man could pull off sleep-mussed, just-rolled-out-of-bed in the middle of the day.
Or…at least I could.
“Listen, I gotta go. Do me a favor and call Jackie and tell her all about your night with Dad and get it out of your system. Otherwise, I’m stepping down as your favorite son and will be looking for a new date to the opening of Ramsay’s new restaurant in a few weeks.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” she hissed. “You know that man is going to be your stepfather one day.”
Yeah, my mom was a nut.
“I’ll be sure to let Dad know that next time I see him.”
She laughed. Chances were my dad already knew about her crush. He knew she was a nut too. It wasn’t exactly a trait she could hide for thirty-six years.
“Okay, baby. Get going. Porter is really depending on you. Love you, Tootsy.”
Yes. My mom called me Tootsy. It was short for Tootsy Pooter Southern Gentleman. So fucking what? She’d been calling me that since birth. Why? See the aforementioned nut part. And again: I could have given a negative amount of fucks…
Oh, who was I kidding? I hated that nickname. Despite trying since I was old enough to realize I’d like to one day get laid, I’d never been able to make her stop using it. I’d given up after the first tabloid got ahold of it. Much to the Enquirer’s chagrin, women thought it was adorable. I’d had to hire an extra bodyguard for events after that story broke.
“Love you too,” I replied while arming my security alarm and heading out into the four-car garage.
“Call me and let me know how it goes.”
“Will do. Bye, Mama.”
“Bye, Toots.”
I hung up and then momentarily waffled between the S-Class and Range Rover before opting for speed over power. I folded my six-foot-three frame into the sports car then dialed his number as the garage opened with a quiet purr.
“Where the hell are you?” Porter snapped in greeting. “I asked you to be here early.”
Yep. He was in full-fledged panic mode. As soon as I got there, I’d take over and send him out to grab a snow cone or cotton candy or whatever the hell they served at a spring fling. But for now…I was going to fuck with him.
“Ah, yeah. Listen about that. Sorry, I can’t make it today. Angie needs me.”
“What!” he boomed. “Who the hell is Angie?”
I bit the inside of my cheek to stifle a laugh as I backed out of the garage, navigating the brick horseshoe driveway. “You know…Angie.”
He didn’t know because I’d just made her up.
“No. I don’t. You promised me you’d be here.”
“Yeah, but her dog died. And she’s a total wreck. You know how to cook, right?”
It was safe to say he didn’t. Like, at all. If it didn’t go in a microwave, Porter couldn’t make it. And even if it did go in a microwave, more often than not, he still found a way to ruin it.
“Are you kidding—”
“Hey, I gotta go. Good luck today.”
“Tanner!”
He was still yelling when I severed the connection. For good measure, I turned my phone off and flipped it onto the seat beside me.
Was it the nicest thing to do? Probably not. But trust me, Porter wasn’t the nicest to me, either. Giving each other shit and arguing were the only things we had in common.
Honestly, this was a good bonding exercise for us.
At least that’s what I told myself as I sped down the highway, laughing as I drove.
* * *
“Where’s Greg?” Charlotte asked as she arrived at the folding table I’d decorated with dozens of construction paper flowers
and glitter garlands.
It was finally the big day: The North Point Pulmonology Spring Fling. I’d started the tradition a few years back, thinking it would be nice to see our patients and their families out of the office when they weren’t sick—and for them to see us when we weren’t poking and prodding at them or, in my case, arguing about billing. We donated all proceeds to charity, so honestly, it was a win-win.
But, alas, this would be my final year.
It had been over two weeks since I’d found out about Greg’s affair. Two long, agonizing, and confusing weeks. I wasn’t eating or sleeping well. And while lying in bed, questioning every decision I’d ever made, was one hell of a diet plan, it sucked in all other areas. The initial shock of his infidelity was starting to fade, but resentment that I’d wasted so much of my life with a man like that was running thicker than ever. The worst of it being that some of my anger had turned inward.
I wasn’t to blame for Greg’s inability to keep his dick in his pants. Like any sane and rational person, I knew that on a very basic level. But that didn’t stop my brain from firing off dozens of “If only I’d…” thoughts over the last few weeks.
To keep those niggling feelings quiet, I’d tried to keep my distance from him. But this was a virtually impossible task. We worked in the same office and he had a key to my house no matter how many times I’d threatened to castrate him if he used it.
He had fresh flowers on my doorstep every morning.
He delivered me lunch from one of my favorite restaurants every day.
And the new hot-pink Jimmy Choos I’d been subtly dropping hints about for months had miraculously appeared on my desk—complete with the matching handbag.
All of this meant my trash can got flowers every morning, one of the nurses got lunch every day, and my shoe and purse collection got a new addition.
What? They were Jimmy Choos! I wasn’t a monster.
As shameful as it was, those sweet little gestures were starting to wear on me. They reminded me of the kind and charming guy who’d spent weeks trying to get my number when I was in college. With those memories muddling my resolve, it would have been all too easy to let him back in.