Heart Conditions (The Breakup Doctor Series Book 3) (10 page)

twelve

“I’m not lying on that sofa.”

Sasha eyeballed the chaise lounge where my clients usually sat as we stood in the doorway of my home office.

“No way,” she stated vehemently. “I’m not a patient.”

She’d come by after work late the next afternoon, desperate to get started on whatever plan I’d culled together to help her.

I hadn’t yet culled together
any
sort of plan, although I did know where we needed to start: with her fears that were crowding out everything else.

But I had to admit it felt awkward. We always talked about our issues together, but this time it felt less bosom buddies and more patient-therapist, and neither of us seemed at ease with the new vibe.

“Fair enough.” I one-eightied us out of the office and back into my living area. “Couch? Chair? Breakfast bar in the kitchen?” I asked, indicating various corners of my house. “We can go sit on my bed if you’re more comfortable—seriously, Sash, I want you to feel relaxed.”

“Well, since a glass of wine is off the table, how about we go sit on your lanai and you can give me a foot rub while we talk.”

“Ha, ha.”

She just looked at me, and I realized she wasn’t kidding. “Of course, sure, sounds good,” I blathered. “Go on out and get comfy and I’ll bring us some refreshments.”

When I came through my sliding doors carrying a pitcher of lemonade and a plate of cheese and crackers and carrot sticks (the latter in deference to Sasha), she was sitting on my wicker sofa, feet up. “Why is he still here?” she asked when she saw me, looking to where Jake sat whining outside the screen door.

“Oh, Ben needed to get him to the vet, but he can’t take any time off work at the moment. I offered to take him today. I’m taking him back home in a little while.”

Sasha raised an eyebrow as I set the tray on the glass-topped table in the center of my little sitting area and poured for us. I handed her a glass and then walked over to push the screen door open for the still-whining Jake. He bolted inside and straight over to Sasha.

“I was going to let him in,” she said, petting his head, “but I wasn’t sure of the in-house dog policy.”

“There doesn’t seem to be one.”

Sasha sighed. “Brook, you have to have some rules. You can’t just let the dog make his own decisions. Dogs need structure, and a strong leader.”

“See what good mothering instincts you have?”

Sasha rolled her eyes. “Come on, headshrink—you can do better than that.” She’d stopped petting momentarily to reach for her lemonade, and Jake pawed at her arm, nearly upsetting her glass.

“Hey! Sit,” she said firmly, and damned if he didn’t. I bit my lips to keep from pointing out her skill at instilling discipline and boundaries.

“You really have to teach me that,” I said instead.

Sasha lifted her legs so I could scootch under them on the sofa, then lowered them back to my lap. “It’s all in your mind-set. Dogs will push things as far as you’ll let them. They don’t mean to be bad—it’s just their nature to get away with whatever they think they can.”

“Like furry, four-legged men,” I said, and we snickered.

“So,” Sasha said, leaning forward for a carrot. “Was taking Jake to the vet
your
idea, or Ben’s?”

“A little bit of both, actually. Why, you think it means something?” I asked hopefully.

Her eyebrows bunched together in thought. “Depends. Why didn’t he ask his girlfriend to do it?”

“She’s not his girlfriend—they’ve only been dating a couple of months,” I protested, then frowned. “Well…I don’t think she is, anyway. What do you make of this?” I summarized our exchange at the Dog Beach.

She fixed an intent stare on me, tapping her lips with a finger as she thought. “That’s ambiguous. Tell it to me again, step by step.” I obliged—Sasha was the best listener, and never leaped to conclusions without at least a few retellings of the story, like an interrogating cop trying to tease out more information from a witness.

But, “Hmmm,” was all she said when I finished the second recitation.

“What’s ‘hmm’? What do you think?”

“Well…there’s a reason he told you he didn’t love her—that wasn’t an accident.”

“That’s what I thought!”

“But then to say he didn’t mean he
couldn’t
…I don’t know, Brookie. It’s almost like he’s…baiting you or something.”

I shook my head. “No. He wouldn’t do that. He doesn’t play games.”

She lifted one shoulder. “Everyone plays games sometimes—even if we don’t mean to. Especially when deep feelings are involved.”

I couldn’t really argue with that. I’d have sworn I would never have resorted to that kind of artifice, but I knew I’d played a few little games of my own with Kendall—and wasn’t I playing one with Michael by keeping him on the hook while I tried to figure out whether there was any possibility with Ben?

“So do you mean he has deep feelings for me…or for
her
?” I didn’t want to invoke Pamela’s name, as though, like Beetlejuice, it would summon her.

Apparently Sasha had no such compunctions. “That depends on how serious things are with Perfect Pamela.”

Warmth flared in me at my best friend’s loyalty in using the nickname I’d coined. “That’s what I was trying to find out,” I said, flopping back against the sofa in frustration.

“Well, does she keep stuff at his house?”

I thought back to Thursday night, when I’d dropped Jake off after Ben’s trip. “I can’t remember. Nothing jumped out at me…and you’d think I’d have noticed.”

“Oh, honey, no offense, but you’re an amateur at snooping.”

“No offense taken,” I said sincerely. That was one of Sasha’s talents I didn’t envy.

“It’s not just obvious stuff, like an extra toothbrush in the bathroom,” she went on as if I hadn’t spoken. “That could be casual—they hook up now and then. You have to look for the definitive signs of something more serious. First off, does the house smell female.”

“Ew.”

“Not like that, fool,” she said at my crinkled nose. “Floral, Vanilla, Lavender, et cetera—any of the most commonly used feminine topnote scents in perfumerie.”

I just stared at her. The range of Sasha’s knowledge—and the extent to which she used it for nefarious purposes—often staggered me.

She continued. “Then check for things like girly food in the fridge—fruit yogurt, diet drinks, like that. Tampons under the bathroom cabinet. Conditioner in the shower, or a moisturizing soap—most guys never bother with that stuff.”

“Sash, I dropped his dog off and he invited me in for a beer. It’s not like I was casing the joint.”

She shrugged. “You can’t succeed if you don’t try, Brook. You need to figure out how to catch a glimpse of those areas. Grab your own beer from the fridge next time. Ask to use his bathroom.”

“He has a guest bath.”

Sasha shot me the hairy eyeball.

“You don’t have a killer instinct.”

“And you’re avoiding the reason we’re here.”

She gave a long, whooshing sigh, and then wiggled her legs in my lap. “Fine. Rub, and then I’ll talk.”

“Okay.” I set down my lemonade and wrapped my hands around her perfectly manicured feet, digging my fingers into her soles.

She moaned. “Oh, yeah. Sometimes I’d rather have your brother do
that
than go down on me.”

“Ewww!” I dropped her feet like they’d burned me. “Ground rules! I won’t try to convince you what a great mom you’ll be, but you have to never, ever tell me anything like that ever again.”

She was grinning at me around a mouthful of carrot. “Had to break the ice.”

I shuddered and reached for her feet again. “Now this just feels dirty,” I muttered. But she was right—things were back to normal between us. “Okay, so, top of your head—what’s the scariest thing right now about having a child?”

“Babies,” she answered unhesitatingly.

I nodded. “Fair point. Terrifying little creatures. What else?”

She glanced down, then hesitantly met my eye. “You won’t judge me?”

“Never.”

She nodded, pursing her lips, and then muttered something I couldn’t make out.

“What’s that?”

“My figure, okay? Like every cliché on earth, I’m worried that from here on out I’ll go from this”—she ran a hand in the air over her perfect, taut body—“to stretch marks, a permanent pooch, and saggy boobs. I’m sorry,” she said defensively. “Call me shallow. And God knows what’s going to happen to my vagina.”

“Mila Kunis. Julia Roberts. Fergie,” I retorted, ignoring her last comment. “You’re worried about getting out of shape—there’s proof you don’t have to.”

“They have trainers. Personal chefs. And we have no idea of the state of their va-jay-jays. Plus, look at their careers. Downhill after kids. There’s another one of my big fears—career death.”

“Okay, then how about Reese Witherspoon? Kelly Ripa? And of course Angelina Jolie—she has, like, a litter of children, and she’s still working, and even growing her career now as a producer/director.”

“Nannies,” Sasha said, sounding bored.

“At least I didn’t say Gwyneth Paltrow.”

“I would have gotten up and left.”

I stopped rubbing long enough to reach for my glass and take a long sip of lemonade, regrouping.

“Okay, you’re right,” I admitted. “Hollywood celebs maybe aren’t the best examples. But what about my folks? You’ve always thought my parents had a great marriage,” I said. Sasha didn’t know about the affair my dad had when Stu and I were little because Mom was so absorbed by us he felt left out—no one did except him, my mother, and me. And it certainly wasn’t a story that would help my case, even if I were willing to betray my dad’s confidence—which I wasn’t. “And Mom’s pursuing her dreams, even though she’s married and has kids.”

Sasha raised one eyebrow. “Are you forgetting your mom
left
your dad to do that?”

“Temporarily.”

“And that she had to put those dreams on hold ’til you guys were grown and on your own? Rub,” she commanded, flippering her feet at me.

“Let’s go back to babies,” I said as I obeyed. “What scares you about them, specifically?”

Sasha didn’t even hesitate: “Poop. I’m not going to lie.”

“Yeah. That’s pretty nasty. But I heard it’s not so bad when it’s your own kid.”

Sasha tipped her head down so she could laser-stare me. “Uh, really? Smelly liquid green poo sliming you and your carpet and—dear God—your clothes is okay when it’s
your
kid’s fecal matter? I don’t think so.”

“Okay, so let’s agree that that’s probably one of those manipulative lies parents tell other people.”

“Yes,” Sasha said fervently. “Along with ‘You won’t even remember the pain of childbirth.’”

“Hoo, boy. That’s on the list, huh?”

She nodded. “And birth defects. And crib death. And never sleeping again. And puberty. And paying for college. And also
not
paying for college because my kid is a deadbeat who won’t get a job and lives at home for the rest of its life. Honestly, Brook, it would be easier to list the things that
aren’t
freaking me out.”

“Oh! Okay, that’s good—let’s do that. What’s not freaking you out about this?”

“Christmas,” she said immediately. “Having a kid around at Christmas—with all you guys—but also…Okay, this sounds stupid, but I picture Christmases years from now—or whatever, Thanksgiving, Easter, you name it—when this kid is an adult, and he comes home to me and Stu for the holidays and…we have a family. My
own
family.”

Sasha sounded forceful on that last line, and a pang shot through me. When we were kids she spent most of her time at our house, like my parents’ honorary third child. But at holidays, only-child Sasha had to stay home in her silent, angry household where her parents seemed to barely tolerate each other, and when they finally—blessedly—divorced, she spent holidays shuttling back and forth between them, crushed every year at having to miss the time with me and Stu and our parents.

I squeezed her leg. “That sounds nice. Promise you’ll let me come for Christmas.”

“Are you kidding? You and your family
are
Christmas. That’s the best thing about all this.”

I smiled. “What else?”

Her face softened. “Having a teeny Stu. You remember what a cute little bastard he was when he was a kid?”

“You’re half right, anyway—he was a little bastard.” But my words lacked any sting. I was too happy that for the first time, the prospect of impending motherhood was putting a graceful smile on my friend’s face instead of pulling it tight with fear.

“What else?” I asked.

Her smile vanished like clouds chasing away sunshine. “I don’t know, Brook. That’s all I’ve got in the plus column. Really. Why do you think I’m so scared?”

“Okay. We can work with this.” I leaned forward over her legs and took another sip of my lemonade. In the silence between us I could hear birds arguing in the live oaks in my backyard, the shushing sound of passing cars on Winkler.

“That’s it?” Sasha said, paddling her legs in my lap. “You’re finished?”

“Sash, I’ve been rubbing for like fifteen minutes.”

“Not that, bonehead. My life. I thought you were going to fix it.”

“Oh. Right. Let me give it some thought and figure out a plan.” I set down my glass, turned to face her, and gave her my best Wise Therapist expression. “Don’t worry about a thing.”

My phone beeped with a text just as I pulled into Ben’s neighborhood to return Jake:
Running a little bit late from work, but left you the key.

Dammit. After talking things out with Sasha, I was hoping another conversation would yield some answers about how serious things were with Perfect Pamela. I couldn’t put off making a decision about Michael forever.

But as I let myself into Ben’s dark house with the key I’d found just where he’d said it would be—under one of the stepping-stones to the backyard—Jake happily trotting in ahead, Sasha’s words about figuring out a way to scope out the private areas of his house came back to me.

What better chance could I ask for?

Flipping on the entryway light just inside the front door, I glanced around in its modest spill of illumination. With Sasha’s instructions in mind I took a long inhale through my nose. The house didn’t smell “feminine” that I could tell—just of something clean, like bleach or Febreze—underneath the barely detectable scent I always associated with Ben: cedar and citrus, a fresh smell like cut grass. And the barest musk of eau de Jake.

I walked over to the lamp on a table beside Ben’s sofa, clicking it on. There were no definitive clues in the living room—a single half-drunk glass of water on the cocktail table, the remote beside it. A throw blanket cast over the arm of the sofa—maybe Ben had pulled it over himself and Perfect Pamela as they snuggled in front of the TV late one night…or maybe he’d just flung it there out of the way.

Sasha’s words still playing in my head, I headed into the kitchen, but the refrigerator offered no clues.

I walked over to his bedroom door and glanced inside as Jake came and sat beside me, looking into the room as if he were a spectator to some mysterious sport that would unfold before us. The bed was made, no frilly pillows or stuffed animals on it. (I did register, on some level, that I was ascribing to Perfect Pamela the habits of a prepubescent girl.) There were no women’s slippers lined up at the foot of the bed beside the pile of castoff shoes that Ben always let accumulate there.

But Sasha said the bathroom would tell the real story.

As I took a step inside, Jake leaned his head into my thighs, impeding my forward movement.

And this was the point at which I once again became a rational adult.

What was I
doing
? The last time I’d snooped around someone’s place was right after Kendall had summarily dumped me via text message, and I’d let myself into his condo, determined to find proof of another woman.

I hadn’t, but my rooting through his things had turned out to be the first loose rock in my avalanching sanity. And we all knew how that turned out.

I was not going to go down that road again. More than that, I wasn’t going to betray Ben. He’d given me his dog to care for, a key to his house. How could I meet his renewed trust with an immediate breach of it—whether he ever knew about it or not?

As Sasha said, everything that was happening between us lately was a good sign. I’d try to have faith in that.

I bent to pet Jake, who still sat leaning into my leg in the doorway, as if anchoring me to reality. “Thanks, buddy,” I said, stroking his soft head. “Thanks for saving me from myself.”

Jake just wagged his tail and jabbed his nose into my eye, blissfully unconcerned with the ridiculous affairs of humans.

I fed Jake—it was nearly seven, past his usual dinnertime—and we were standing together in the backyard for his usual postprandial poop when the dog cometed over to the side of the yard, barking joyously and doing his bunny-bounce—Ben was home. My heart did the bunny-bounce too.

I coaxed the dog around to the back door, and we were waiting in the kitchen by the time Ben came in from the garage. Jake streaked over to where he stood carrying a fifty-pound bag of dog food in one hand and a paper sack in the other.

“Hi, buddy!” he said to Jake, setting the sack on the breakfast bar so he could pet Jake’s bouncing head. He looked up to catch my eye. “I was hoping I’d catch you.”

My heart fluttered. “Me too. I went ahead and fed him…since it’s a little late.”

“Thanks.” He carried the dog food over to the pantry. “So what’d the vet have to say?”

I leaned back against the counter, hands braced behind me, letting myself enjoy watching the muscles in his strong, tanned arms work as he opened the bag and poured the food into the big plastic container he kept it in. I cleared my throat. “Um…Jake’s lonely.”

Ben straightened, facing me.

“What?”

“Your codependent dog is lonely.”

“That’s what the vet said?”

“No—she’s a vet, not a mental health professional. That’s
my
analysis.”

Ben cocked an eyebrow at me with a corner of his mouth lifting, then retrieved a six-pack from the paper sack, popped the caps on two bottles, and stepped closer. His green Millennium Homes shirt was smudged with something dark, and underneath his usual clean scent was the faint hint of dried sweat—musky but not unpleasant. Actually, I reflected, remembering studies of pheromones in men’s sweat and how they affected women’s sex hormone receptors, slightly a turn-on. Ben never simply delegated to the men on his company’s build sites—he got in there with them and did the work. It was one of so many things I liked about him.

“And why do you think that, Madam Therapist?” He handed me one of the beers.

I shrugged, hoping my quickening pulse at the implied intimacy of the casual offer—one we’d played out so many times when we were dating—didn’t show beneath my skin. “My guess is he was taken from his mother too soon.”