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Chapter 20

ALEX

“Elaine
knows. I'm fucked.”

“Jesus,
Nick.”

Dr.
Weisman sat in a puddle of his own tears, slumped over his desk. He was
staring, dazed, at a blown-up photo of his family against the backdrop of their
sprawling estate. His three kids, Elaine, and their Terrier, Vince.

“Well,
fuck, man,” I muttered. “How did she find out?”

“A
fucking hair elastic,” Weisman proclaimed. “She found some stupid hair elastic
laying around the house, of all things, and started connecting the dots like a
fucking constellation.”

It was
hard to feel sorry for him, but I wanted to. I wanted to feel some sort of
empathy for his plight, and for the fact that everything he had so intricately
built for himself was now slowly burning to the ground.

But the
guy deserved it. What do you say to someone who asks for trouble to fall into
their lap?

“I'm
sorry,” I told him. “Are you still seeing the girl?”

He
nodded.

“Yeah,”
he said. “I care for her, Al. I really do. I didn't think I would, you know? I
thought I'd just have some fun, enjoy the throw around. But I'm in deep, and
now I don't know what to fucking do. I'm forty-five years old. What have I
done?”

I watched
him as he clutched the framed photograph in his hands, his face drained of all
color, and I knew that was something I never wanted to create for myself. The
same kind of hell.

“Why
don't you go home,” I suggested. “Give me your files. I'll handle your rounds
for you. Lie down, think about the shit you've got going on. You've got to,
Nick.”

“My kids
despise me,” he sank lower into his seat. “What do I say to them?”

I shook
my head.

“I don't
know,” I answered. “I'm not a father yet. But if it's real, what you've got
with this girl, she'll wait while you figure it out.”

I picked
up his files from the desk, the manila folders heavy with stapled paperwork.
I'd be working straight until it was time to leave for the office at this point.

As I
turned to leave, Weisman remarked:

“You
will,” he said. “Soon. You'll know what it's like soon enough.”

“What?” I
asked, turning to him. “What will I know?”

“What
it's like to be a father,” he answered quietly. “It's not fucking easy, Al. The
lives we build and try to maintain. But you'll figure that out soon enough.”

Later
that night, as I drove over to Cait's apartment, I tried not to think about
what Weisman had said. Even as I looked around her kitchen, her living room,
and saw all of Mason's belongings littered here and there. A coat draped over a
dining room chair, or a pair of glasses sitting on the counter.

When I
went to use the bathroom, absentmindedly leaving my phone on the kitchen
counter, Cait was holding it in her hands when I walked out.

“You
missed a phone call,” she said. She was leaning wearily against the
faux-marble, her free hand resting on her stomach. “It was Mia.”

My skin
prickled. Our gaze caught like a snag, a deadlock.

“The
patient, right?” she asked. “The patient who means nothing to you.”

A hard,
sour swallow.

“Yeah,” I
said.

Cait
narrowed her eyes, but there was no outburst. Frankly, she seemed not to give
the slightest genuine fuck about what I was doing, and it was starting to
startle me.

“How old
is she?” Cait asked. “She looks like a child.”

“Why does
it matter?”

She
rolled forward, straining against the weight of the baby. I offered her an arm,
but she seemed offended. She sat down at the kitchen table, still holding the
phone, staring at the empty black screen.

“Are you
fucking her?” she asked.

“Excuse
me?” I balked. “She's a patient.”

“Was,”
Cait corrected me. “She was, right? She's not anymore.”

“Give me
my phone, Cait.”

She
didn't protest. She set it aside, sliding it across the tiled table. I picked
it up, the blood in my veins pulsing.

“You
didn't answer me,” she said. “My question. You didn't answer my question.”

“And what
exactly are you demanding to know?”

Cait
glared at me, her pale eyes like a wash of ice-cold water.

“Are you
having sex her?” she asked, her voice cracking. “Are you having sex with that
girl?”

“I told
you. I told you she means nothing to me. She's just some girl that showed up at
the ER one evening, and I treated her for anxiety, and now she's gone. She's
nothing.”

Another
arrow to heart. I was slowly bleeding out.

Cait
winced, pressing a palm to her stomach. The baby was kicking, hard.

“Our
daughter is going to be here soon,” she said, breathing heavily. “And you're
lying to my fucking face.”

“I'm not
lying to you,” I spat. I lied. A cold, bitter lie. “And what is this, anyway?
With Mason, and his shit scattered all around the apartment.”

“He lives
with me,” she answered coolly. “Because we're back together. Because we're
working things out.”

“While
you're pregnant,” I started, taking in a breath. “With
my
daughter.
While you're playing house with an on-again-off-again boyfriend in an apartment
that I've paid for, furnished, and even kept the goddamn fridge full. All of
this – all of this
stuff
, Cait -” I gestured dramatically. “I've taken
care of all this for you. I've bought all this shit for you. And for what?”

Her eyes
flickered to meet mine. The tension was excruciating.

“I've
found a job,” she snapped. “I'll pay you back.”

“You are
fucking impossible,” I snapped. “I don't want you to pay me back, Cait. I want
to know why all you've given me in return for my attempt at giving you what you
asked for, is silence.”

Her face
softened. Blonde hair brushed against her cheeks as her head fell forward, and
she pressed two fingers to her temples.

“I can't
do this right now,” she said. “Please leave.”

“Are you
serious? No,” I said. “I'm not leaving. Not until you talk to me.”

“Mason
will be home soon,” she said. “So I think you do want to leave. I think you
need to leave right now, Alex.”

I stared
at her. I felt as if she had a knife to my throat. Standing there, still in my
lab-coat, straight from the office to see her. And this is what I got.

“Fuck
this,” I muttered. “Fine. I'll give you what you want, then.”

In the
Porsche, my phone vibrated again. Mia.

Rain
started to fall against windows in a soft mist. Eventually the clouds would
open up, and everything would go straight to Hell.

“Honey,”
I said. “My sweet little fox.”

“What's
wrong?” she asked.

“I need
you be inside of you,” I told her. “Are you at home?”

“Yeah,”
she said softly.

“I'm
coming over,” I told her. “Wait up for me.”

The rain
started falling. I could feel my chest opening up with the clouds. The pain was
frightening.

“Always,”
she said.

Her
apartment smelled like one of those bath and body stores. Like bath salt,
perfume, powdery deodorant. She had clothes littered all over the floor;
shirts, camisoles, jeans. Everything was an organized mess, as if she like to
keep it that way, and maybe she did.

I poked
at a the chabby-chic chandelier that hung from her ceiling. The crystals
reflected the moonlight, carving little slivers of light that danced like stars
across the walls.

When she
emerged from the bathroom, I turned to her. She stood in the doorway, looking
timid. Nervous.

Quietly,
for a moment, we just looked at each other. I slid my eyes down her frame, my
lips parting, my heartbeat jumping in my throat.

“Take off
your clothes,” I told her.

When she
started to yank up her shirt, I grabbed her wrist.

“Slowly,”
I said.

Mia
stepped back, shocked at first. Then, pressing her lips together, she spoke
softly.

“Okay,
Dr. Greene.”

I felt
starved and impatient as she let her denim shorts fall, kicking them off. She
slid her tiny tank-top up, and it caught her hair, sending it spilling messily
over her pale shoulders. Her breasts were full, plush against the gray push-up
that she wore.

She
looked at me, her eyes full of question. She had never seen me like this
before.

“Finish,”
I told her. “Take off everything.”

Glancing
down, she rolled her underwear down her thighs, then unclasped her bra. It fell
at a snail's pace down her shoulders, revealing hardened nipples that she
covered with her hands, shy.

I took a
step forward, taking her chin in my hand, and kissed her, hard. Her gasp was
immediate. One hand reached up to cup my face, the other curled around my tie.
She was naked, and I was still dressed, and when she started to tug against the
tie, to loosen it, I let her remove the silk noose, unbutton my shirt, un-tuck
it from my pants.

“You're
more...” she paused, her breath clipped. “You're less gentle than you usually
are.”

“Is that
what you want?” I asked. “Do you want me to be gentle right now, Mia?”

Her eyes,
all dark wading water, grew large.

“I want
you...” she said, then paused. “I want you to do whatever you want with me. I
want you to have whatever it is that you're craving.”

I was
already throbbing. I didn't bother taking off my pants. Grabbing her, pressing
her stomach against the bed, I unzipped my fly, took my cock in my hands, and
slid inside of her. She was the only thing that felt like home.

She
gripped the bed-sheets, her eyes shutting tightly. I thrust into her again,
sharply, and she moaned. It was guttural, loud.

“Am I
hurting you?” I asked. She shook her head.

“Harder,”
she said. “Don't hold back. I don't want you to hold back.”

I was
hesitant at first. She was so fucking small. I could break her shoulders with
my bare hands if I squeezed hard enough.

I lowered
myself so that I was hovering inches over her back, kissed her neck, and felt
her move. Her eyes were still closed, her groan was soft. I kept kissing the
back of her neck, her shoulder blades, as I started moving again – each thrust
harder than the last.

I caught
her hands in mine, and her grip was like a vice.

“I'm...”
she said, soft as an exhale. “Oh, Alex...”

I loved
it when she said my name. It felt like we were real lovers. It felt like she
was mine.

I felt
her tighten as every wheel inside of my brain began to slow and stop. In my
morbid state, her body was like a coffin I would happily sink into.

I was
losing it. I was losing everything. And as I fucked her, I tried my hardest to
push away the salient fact that I'd
 
soon
lose her, too.

With one
final thrust, I shot straight into her, the orgasm steeping my rigid bones in
morphine.

I rolled
over, and we were both on our backs, trying to catch our breath.

“Fuck,” I
said. Her hand was still in mine, but the grip had softened. “Mia. Oh, Mia.
What have you done?”

She
laughed gently, closing her eyes. When she nuzzled against my chest, I was
suddenly consumed in a fit of warm fuzzies.

For a
minute or two, I watched the ceiling fan whir. It made the chandelier crystals,
all fake plastic, send the star-like reflections of light scattering. Like the
night sky and stars were nothing but grains of sand, kicked up in the wind.

“Back at
the hotel,” I said. “Why wouldn't you tell me what you wanted to say?”

Mia grew
quiet. I had hit a nerve.

“I've
been saying it all the time,” she answered. “In actions, not words.”

She
kissed me. I touched her cheek with my free hand, tracing down the jaw-line.

“Please
tell me,” I said. “Mia. You can tell me.”

A part of
me knew, of course. But I wanted to hear it. At least, I thought I did. I
wanted her feelings to transcend what had now spent hours tirelessly doing:
fucking, kissing, clinging to each other with a pathetic desperation.

Or maybe
I didn't actually want to hear it. But we never know until the words roll out.
Until we can't take them back.

“You have
my heart, Dr. Greene,” she whispered.

I thought
about my own, full of puncture wounds, draining slowly.

“Have you
ever seen what a human heart looks like?” I asked her. “It's a ticking bomb
wrapped in flesh and blood. It's heavy as a brick. You can pass it around from
one set of hands to another until they grow too weary of holding it, and their
fingers snap. You can break things, break people with it. Until eventually it
stops beating.”

Mia took
back her hand, and I regretted the words immediately. But they were true. They
were the truest thing I knew.

“I would
never drop yours,” she said softly.

I held
her for a long time, until I needed to leave. Paperwork, patient files,
hospital bullshit. And as I lay in the dark of my own bedroom, I tried to shove
away what Dr. Weisman had said about how I would soon know just how hard it was
to keep the things I cherished alive and breathing.

But it
was all in vain. I spent a sleepless night letting them haunt me. His words
hung over me like a ghost.

Chapter 21

MIA

After Dr.
Greene had left, I took a long shower, slipping soapy fingers over my skin and
in-between my legs. A small pin-prick of anxiety compelled me try and wash away
the evidence of another reckless encounter.

With my
hair still wet, wrapped in a towel, I threw myself down on my rumpled mess of
linens. I was exhausted and restless all at once.

Before
falling asleep, I pulled out my official replacement phone – a prehistoric
Motorola Razr – and texted him. I had my towel fully covering me, and I would
never go so far as to send a full nude-shot or anything, but I snapped a photo
of me, smiling sleepily, and captured it with:
wish you were here
.

He
replied a moment later, with a photo of what must have been the view from his
desk. The Orlando night-life, all bleeding lights and crystal-speckled rain. It
looked like a painting.

I wished
I was there. Standing, hands against the windows, watching the world spin
beneath me. I loved the windows of his apartment. I loved everything associated
with him.

I sighed,
set the phone down, and glanced out my own bedroom window. Heavy winds crippled
the palm trees, and they strained to keep their stance. It made the Oleander
bushes yield to the ground. Rain flecked against the glass, making everything
harder to see.

I waited
for another text, because his photo had been without a caption. But I never
received one.

It was a
whole twenty-four hours before I heard from Dr. Greene again. Which was not
much time in the grand scheme of things, but still felt like an eternity.
Especially after his shutting me down when I'd confessed – maybe not directly,
but still – my feelings for him. Whenever you feel like you've said the wrong
thing, or made some sort of misstep, you take everything, every bit of silence,
as a sign.

Still, I
chose to focus on other things. Like the many hours I was now spending in the
empty library, watching the summer rain fall, or thoughts of Cambridge, and the
fact that soon, I'd be kissing goodbye to Florida, to the States, in exchange
for something new. A new life.

A new
life without Alex. Without my doctor.

So maybe
I shouldn't blame him for being so dodgy. It wasn't me he was trying to avoid.
It was the bullet that would eventually go sailing straight through him. And I
knew I wouldn't be able to save him, then.

Not that
love alone can ever really sustain. It's just a beautiful illusion, and we're
all magicians when in love.

But he
showed up, as he always did. This time, 11 o'clock had already slipped around,
and I was hidden between bookshelves, poking at a stack of classics that I had
yet to put back. The library was quiet as a cemetery. It was just me, and some
other summer employee, who had made herself comfortable at the front desk,
watching YouTube videos on her laptop.

His text
burned hot in my pocket. He asked me where I was, and I told him: the library.
At work.

When I
asked him what he was doing, he never replied. I rolled my eyes, vaguely
irritated, and finally decided to return to the idle work at hand. I put away
the rest of the books, then plunked down and settled on finishing a well-worn
copy of
Lolita
. Light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul.

The prose
always made me shiver.

When he
came around the corner, standing in front of me like some kind of well-dressed
phantom, I almost didn't recognize him. He stood in front of me, soaked from
the rain, his dress shirt clinging and his tie hanging limp. His hair was a
mess of curls, his jewel-eyes hinting at hunger.

“What are
you doing here?” I asked quietly, more from shock than anything else. “What's
going on?”

He didn't
give me an answer. Instead, he lunged at me, pinning me against the wall, his
kiss so harsh that it cut my lip and I tasted metal. He smelled like cologne
and leather. We were all teeth against teeth, starved mouths, animalistic
hands. My heart nearly sprung from my chest like a bird released from its cage.

When he
dipped is hand between my legs, I shoved him away. He looked at me, wild-eyed,
breathing heavily.

“What's
gotten into you?” I whispered. “Are you insane?”

“Yes,” he
said, as if brushing dust from his shoulder.

He kissed
me again, his graze trailing down my neck. Dr. Greene slid a hand up my top,
squeezing my breast while his other hand cradled my chin.

“I need
you,” he said. “Now.”

“I can't
leave.”

“Then
here,” he said.

He wasn't
just insane. He was completely out of his mind.

“This
isn't your apartment,” I whispered, pointing to the ceiling. “Cameras.”

His
breath hitched. He stiffened, closing his eyes, finally settling back into
reality. He shook his head for a long time before finally saying:

“I'm sorry,”
he whispered. “I don't know what's gotten into me. I just – I needed to see
you.”

He slunk
down against the book-shelves, picking up the copy of
Lolita
and
regarding the cover with soft eyes. But he said nothing about it. Just set the
book down again, stood, and sighed heavily.

“Let me
take you home,” he said. “When do you get off work?”

“Fifteen
minutes,” I said.

He opted
to wait outside while I finished up, our curled fingers lingering for a moment
before he actually let go and walked away. And when I left, crawling into the
familiar passenger's-side seat, we made-out for awhile beneath the apocalypse,
in the drowning parking lot, in the dark.

“I've
missed you,” he breathed.

“It's
only been a day,” I told him.

“I know,”
he said.

Back at
his apartment, he threw me against the windows. Palms splayed, naked skin
pressed against cold glass. He fucked me slowly, sinuously, our mouths never
parting. His kiss was more timid, full of fermenting passion.

We both
came at once, clinging to each other.

I could
never get enough of this. Even though I knew that we needed to slow down. We
were just too greedy.

“I have
something for you,” he told me, picking up his pants, sliding them on. He
neglected his shirt entirely. “A present for you, little fox.”

“A
present?” My ears perked up. “What for?”

“Because
I can,” he grinned. “Because I wanted to.”

I dressed
quickly while he disappeared into his bedroom. Grabbing a glass from the
kitchen, I filled it with water, gulping slowly. My throat was still dry when I
set the glass down.

Dr.
Greene returned with a box wrapped in silver paper. Gesturing for me to sit
down on the couch, he set the gift down on my lap, and I winced. It was kind of
heavy.

“Open
it,” he said excitedly.

I tore
off the shimmery paper quickly, like a little kid would while opening Birthday
presents.

When
finished, I stared at the glossy box balanced on my thighs.

It was a
brand new MacBook.

“I can't
accept this,” I told him. “It's too much.”

“It's not
too much. Besides, yours isn't working,” he insisted. His tone dropped an
octave, more serious, pressing. He sat down beside me. “You need something new,
and you deserve something nice.”

“But this
is
too
nice,” I told him. And it was, compared to my ancient Dell. “I
feel uncomfortable accepting it.”

“Don't feel
that way,” he said. “Just please take it. I want you to have it.”

He was so
happy. He looked like a teenager, all brimming with delight and lit up with
anticipation. He grabbed my hand, kissing it over and over again.

He was
insane, I realized. But I could see the obvious affection imprinted on his
face. And he treated me like a princess, spoiling me with paying for cab fare,
whisking me away to beaches, making love to me in expensive hotel rooms
overlooking the oceanfront. Buying me expensive electronics.

I
wondered about all the things he would attempt if we could actually go outside,
into the open unknown together. If we weren't forced to live on the sly.

“What
happens when I leave?” I asked him. “For graduate school. In the fall.”

His
expression fell instantly. His hands dropped to his knees, clutching them. I
still held onto the laptop, awkwardly placing the box down on his glass coffee
table. It seemed like everything in this apartment was sharp or breakable.

“Mia...”
he paused. “Maybe we shouldn't take too much time thinking about the future.
Maybe we should just enjoy what we have now.”

“Which is
what, exactly?” I asked. “Aside from you trying every damned minute that you
can to get your hands underneath my clothes.”

“You know
I care about you,” he said carefully. “You know this means something to me.”

“Then
what's the problem?” My throat started to tighten. “Talking about what this
means. I'm not your patient anymore. I know...I know it's impossible to take
back how we met. But when I'm across the ocean, will any of it matter anymore?”

Alex grew
deathly quiet, folding his hands together. I could see the bones beneath the
skin. He looked ill, anxious, distraught. There was a vague coldness that
glinted across his expression, and I hated to think it was directed towards me.

I stood,
crossing my arms.

“I don't
want your gifts, then,” I said. “You're too much of a coward to even tell me
that you care about me. Or that you don't.”

“I do
care about you,” he spat. “How could you say I don't?”

“Because
all we've done is fuck like rabbits and make moon-eyes at each other,” I said.
“That's not something real. That's not something substantial. It's lust. And
when you're sick of me, and you find another pretty patient that stumbles into
your hospital or office, you'll probably toss me aside and I'll have been
nothing but a cheap victory.”

His eyes
grew wide, as if I'd thrust a blade into his stomach.

“How
could you say that?” he asked.

“Because
it's all I've been shown,” I answered. “And if you care about me, you'd tell me
that we could at least attempt some kind of future. Even if it was pointless.
Even if the road led to a dead-end. But you're just sitting there, staring
blankly, telling me that you don't even want to see what could happen.”

Dr.
Greene nodded weakly. He didn't stand, or try to fight. His eyes, staring
towards the floor, were only full of unspoken disappointment.

“At least
take the gift,” he said. “It's yours.”

“So this
is really it, then?” I asked. And I was enraged, right then, because it all
felt so typical. I should have expected it. This is exactly what I should have
seen coming. “You fuck me, then you let me leave?”

He stood,
picked up the gift, and placed it in my arms.

“Let me
drive you home,” he said. “It's raining. I don't want you standing around,
waiting for a cab. You'll get soaked.”

He
touched my cheek, and I jerked away. I felt like a cornered animal. Frightened,
ready to strike. Caught between an obsession and logic. My heart and mind.

I let him
drive me home. There was no music or things spoken. An invisible wedge was cut
between us.

Outside
my apartment, we sat with the engine running.

“I feel
vulnerable,” he said after awhile. “Surely you can understand why.”

I turned
to him, barely. My eyes darted back and forth between he and the door.
Something in me softened, but damn my fleeting moments of immaturity, I didn't
want to give him the satisfaction of saying that I understood. Not right then.

I'm not
perfect.

“Yeah,” I
said. “I know. Everything in your illustrious, clean, perfect life would be
completely stained if someone were to find out about us.”

“My life
isn't pretty,” he said, somewhat harshly. “You know first-hand that my life
isn't something placed like a prize on my mantle. It's hard.”

He
paused, taking in a deep breath.

“It's
fucking exhausting,” he added. “I barely sleep, and when I do, I'm thinking
about you. When I'm with my patients, I'm thinking about you. When I'm forced
to have one of my failures rolled down to the mortuary, I'm thinking about you.
Or when I'm sitting, staring at the bland cafeteria walls, trying to
contemplate my next move, I'm thinking about you. It's not just flesh and
blood, or wanting to fuck you,” he said. “You've consumed my entire fucking
life, Mia. You're everywhere I turn. And I'm drowning.”

I felt
the first trickle of a tear start to fall. My insides felt strangled.

“What do
we do?” I asked. “How can we make it stop?”

Outside,
somewhere beyond the clouds, the moon was swollen. I could see it, full and
brimming, even through the haze.

“I don't know,”
he answered. “I became a doctor so I could fix people, so I could help the
sick. But I can't help people like us. I can't fix this, Mia. I just don't know
how.”