The Rebound Girl (Getting Physical) (19 page)

“I’m good at moms and dads,” he offered. “If you’re worried, I mean. They love me.”

“I’m sure they do. You’re every mother’s dream come true.”

But not Whitney’s. The words weren’t said, but they lingered there just the same. He suddenly felt very tired, and very old, and very fed up with maneuvering his life around what women seemed to need or want for the moment. What about him? How much longer was he supposed to give before he finally broke?

Soon
. He had a feeling it was soon.

“So you’ll do it?” she prodded.

“Of course I will.” Before he made the mistake of adding something sentimentally horrifying like
I’ll
do
anything
you
want
, his call waiting beeped.

Laura.

His heart thumped with a dullness he’d come to associate with the phone number he once called his own. “I’ve got another call, so I need to run. But I’m looking forward to meeting your parents, and I promise to be on my best behavior.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” She rattled off the lunch details until the call waiting beeped again. Then, quietly and with an undertone of steel, “It’s her, isn’t it, on the other line?”

He didn’t know what to say. Whitney would never be the president of the Laura Fuller Fan Club. He wasn’t feeling all too keen on his own membership these days, but there didn’t seem to be much else he could do.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Whitney.” Avoiding the subject—that always worked. A deep male voice boomed through the other end of the phone, and Matt heard Whitney call something back about the need for pants and sanitation standards for her leather couches. “Tell your parents I can’t wait to meet them.”

It was true. Knowing that Whitney had parental expectations and a normal life outside Pleasant Park filled him with hope.

He was sorely in need of that hope, he realized as he pressed the call waiting button and braced himself to face Laura’s tears.

There was a shortage of that stuff going around lately.

Chapter Fifteen

“That girl at the coffee shop was right. You’re an absolute sweetheart.”

The woman came at him at a clicking pace, not stopping until he was firmly ensconced in a pair of warm, fleshy arms. It was easy to tell this was Whitney’s mother—she had so much overflowing energy and heat, it wrapped around her like an aura. She had the same dark hair and sparkling eyes, too, and the only lines on her face were the ones people were supposed to have. Laugh lines and smile lines. Two seconds into this meeting and Matt could already tell this was a family that laughed and smiled often.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Vidra,” Matt said politely once he was released from her stronghold. He nodded to the man at her side, tall and hairy and with an arm wrapped protectively around Whitney’s waist. “You must be Mr. Vidra.”

“Please, call us Marshall and Pearl.” He took Matt’s proffered hand and gave it a hearty shake. “I can’t tell you how glad we are to meet you—sweetheart or not.”

The only one who didn’t seem excited to see him was Whitney, who shifted uncomfortably under Matt’s frank stare. He was waiting for her to do the introductions, but she seemed at a loss for words.

“I’m Matt,” he said, looking at her pointedly. “Whitney’s...” He wasn’t sure what else to say. What were they? And more importantly, what were they under the scrutinizing stare of two people who obviously mattered to her?

Pearl waved him off. “You don’t have to worry about offending us. We’re used to the arrangements you kids make today—all the fun and none of the hassle. What do they call them? Fuck buddies?”

Matt’s shoulders shook. That wasn’t exactly how he would have put it—particularly to individuals of the parental variety. But Pearl just beamed at him.

“Good God, Mom. Just call him my boyfriend. I’m begging you.” Jolted from her stupor at her mother’s outrageous words, Whitney strode forward and kissed him softly on the lips. “My parents are horrid,” she said, loud enough for them to hear. “I should have warned you. You will never meet two more inappropriate people on the planet.”

“Don’t be ungrateful.” Marshall took his wife’s arm and led her inside the door of the restaurant they’d chosen—a French-style bistro that overlooked the Riverwalk. “I know plenty of kids whose parents never even gave them The Talk. And you know what happened to them?” He didn’t wait for a response, booming right ahead even though the entire restaurant could hear. “Pregnant. Every last one. Half of them didn’t even know they were having sex at the time. You work with kids, Matt—you tell me. How can they not know?”

“Don’t answer him,” Whitney warned, though her hand seemed to relax a little in his, swinging almost playfully at her side. Louder, she added, “Daddy, he works with six-year-olds. I don’t think it’s relevant.”

“Your cousin Jessica was one of them,” he continued, not paying the least heed to anyone. “Fifteen, I think she was, and didn’t even know she was pregnant until the baby’s head was hanging out. We all thought it was a hemorrhoid.”

“So, Matt,” Pearl interrupted brightly. The waitress had led them to a booth in the back—far away from anyone else. The poor woman’s face bloomed with color, and it was clear she was trying very hard not to laugh. “Tell us about you. Whitney refuses to say anything. She’s afraid we’ll get the wrong impression.”

Underneath the table, Whitney squeezed Matt’s thigh. It was half warning, half playful and doing strange things to his concentration.

“The basic stats? I’m twenty-nine and teach kindergarten. I’ve got two siblings—one of each gender—and two nephews I adore.”

“No kids of your own?” Pearl asked.

Beside him, Whitney sucked in a sharp breath. “We are not starting the baby talk, Mother. I forbid it.”

“I wasn’t asking about
your
reproductive history, dearest heart. I’m well aware how decrepit your eggs are getting these days. I was asking about Matt’s. Not his eggs, of course. The other bits. His swimmers.”

“No, ma’am. No kids. I was married, though.”

“Whitney mentioned something about that. Do you want children some day?”

“Don’t answer the question, Matt. Plead the fifth. Otherwise you’ll only encourage her.”

All this domestic talk was clearly killing Whitney—and he’d have been lying if he said he didn’t love every minute of it. She could be felled after all. With normal, inquisitive, loving parents. Who knew?

“I suppose that will depend on my partner’s views on the subject,” he replied. “I’ve always felt that bringing another human being into the world was something two people should agree upon ahead of time.”

Pearl nodded, accepting the statement for what it was. Whitney did not. Sucking in a sharp breath, she narrowed her eyes and examined him. “But you’re a teacher. And an uncle. You love kids.”

“Sure—I love
other
people’s kids.” He couldn’t help but smile at her disbelief. “I’m not saying I’d be against having some of my own someday, but I could be just as happy without. There’s no right or wrong way to have a relationship, Whitney. Family is what you make it.”

Her hand left his leg abruptly—and didn’t return.

Lunch continued on in the same manner for a few hours, beginning with a bottle of wine and dwindling into glasses of scotch that Whitney’s dad ordered despite it being three o’clock in the afternoon.

Her family’s tendency toward social alcoholism and inappropriateness in public wasn’t something Whitney willingly foisted on just anyone, and by all accounts, Matt was passing with flying colors. He laughed at the worst of her father’s jokes and asked her mother all the right questions about her scrapbooking hobby, which betrayed a frightful tendency toward middle-aged stodginess. He was charming and intelligent and funny, and by the time they were finally ready to leave the restaurant, she was pretty sure her dad was going to propose marriage for her.

“I told you I was good at parents,” Matt said smugly as her parents went to get the car. “I represent stability. They can’t help but love me.”

“My parents would love a horse if I told them it had a chance of someday providing them with grandchildren.” She realized how horrifying that sounded and laughed. “They’re easily pleased, that’s all. They just want me to be happy.”

He turned, his grin wiped off and replaced with something that filled her heart with equal parts joy and doom. “And
are
you happy?”

She feigned a lightheartedness she was far from feeling. “Are you asking in a general sense, or are you fishing for compliments?”

“Forget it.”

“Do you want us to give you a ride home?” Whitney asked. There was a distance of a few feet between them, but she didn’t make a move to fill it, even though it seemed like what he wanted. She’d fill it with inanities instead. “Did you walk?”

“Nah. I drove.”

“You drove the entire half mile to a restaurant?” she joked. “I thought accessibility was the whole point of living in that cheese curdled apartment of doom.”

He didn’t laugh or smile or do anything that might have indicated he didn’t hate her right now. She’d known the parents thing was too much. Now he had ideas. About her and her family and where he fit in the grand scheme of it all.

“Actually, that’s something I want to talk to you about.”

“That sounds like an ominously important conversation. Can it wait?”

“No.” He frowned. “I don’t think it can. I drove because I’m stopping by Laura’s this afternoon.”

Whitney’s first reaction was to scream—not any particular sentiment or statement, but just in general, the kind of sound that would bring men running to her aid and frighten banshees away. She was so freaking tired of hearing that woman’s name coming out of Matt’s mouth. She was also painfully aware of what kind of a person that made her. Bad. It made her the bad kind.

Tightly, and with more control than she thought possible, she said, “Oh?”

“As of yesterday, she’s formally turned down medical care. I’m hoping I can change her mind.”

“What?” Whitney’s senses whirled into a red-hot pool of anger. Of all the ridiculous, wheedling, self-serving... “Why the hell would she do something so stupid?”

He spread his hands helplessly. “I can’t figure it out. She’s so tired all the time, barely eats anything, complains of stomach pains. She came home from the doctor yesterday and announced her intention not to return.”

“Is she terminal?”

“She wouldn’t say.”

“Well, what stage is she in? She has to know that there are experimental treatments...with chemo she might be looking at a few more great years.” Whitney dug in her purse. “I can put her in touch with a great specialist—”

Matt stilled her with a hand on her arm. “Thank you, but I don’t think your help is something she particularly wants.”

Whitney wasn’t about to give up so easily. She shifted on her feet, which were growing strangely numb. “Well, give me the name of her doctor, at least. I can find out if she’s seeing someone who knows what he’s talking about or if this guy is a complete quack. What did you say her other symptoms are?”

“I don’t really know.” He rubbed his eyes, looking suddenly exhausted. She hadn’t realized what a chore it must have been to get through lunch with a smile and his easy charm. But he’d done it.
He
did
it
for
me
.

“It seems a lot like the regular flu to me, honestly,” Matt added. “Sore throat, chills.”

Whitney stopped, a darkness flooding her. “Are you sure that’s not what it is?”

“That’s ridiculous. Why would the doctor even suggest cancer if it was something as simple as the flu?”

“Are you sure she’s not lying? Matt—
are
you
absolutely
sure
this isn’t just another ploy to keep you close?” The question slipped out before she could stop it, but there it was.

Matt’s lips compressed into a firm line and his body tensed. It wasn’t hard to read the signs of anger—as a plastic surgeon, she’d made it a goal to read body language, since the body was her canvas. But if she expected some kind of outburst of emotion, it didn’t come. As always, Matt preserved every ounce of his passion for the bedroom, leaving nothing but quiet, stoic acceptance in every other part of his life.

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just ask me that, Whitney. Look—I know this is unfair of me. I know it’s asking a lot for you to accept Laura in my life, especially if it means you have to explain her to your parents.”

“This has
nothing
to do with my parents.” And everything to do with a woman Whitney loathed in so many ways there was no medieval torture too terrible for her.

“I understand if you don’t want to see me anymore—”

Whitney’s hand shot up. Her parents pulled up at the curb, but they took one look at her and discreetly pulled away. “Oh, our arrangement stands. There’s no way in hell I’m abandoning you to that woman’s wiles now.”

“They’re not wiles, Whitney. She’s afraid to be alone right now.”

“So hire her a nurse.”

“I will, if it comes to that. But what about all the other stuff? Buying groceries and paying bills and...”

“Holding her hair in the middle of the night? Boiling her tea and kissing her tummy and making it all feel better?”

“Yeah,” he said quietly, his gaze direct. “If that’s what she needs.”

Silence fell over them, and neither one seemed willing to say more. But then he added, in a voice so quiet it was almost a whisper. “I’d do it for you.”

“I’d never ask.” And she wouldn’t. Not as her lover, and not as her friend. And definitely not if she threw away three years of marriage with a man like this one.

Her parents pulled around again, slower this time, clearly interested in the conversation taking place on the sidewalk.

“I need to go or my parents are likely to weigh in on this situation.”

“There’s not really much to weigh in on,” he said firmly. “My decision is made. You’ve said it yourself a hundred times, Whitney—you and I aren’t together. Not in any way that matters. You’re here for fun, a rebound. Why should you care if I throw away my life on a woman who’s not you?”

“I don’t care if you throw your life away on a thousand other women,” she flung back, furious at him for putting her in this position. It wasn’t a matter of their relationship, whatever that meant these days. It was a matter of friendship. And friends didn’t let friends make the worst decisions of their life without at least trying to fight back. “But I do care if you throw your life away on that one.”

Her parents honked.

“You should go,” Matt said wearily. “Tell your parents I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Whitney leaned in and kissed his cheek, being sure to hold on to his hand so he couldn’t pull away. “We’re not done here. You’ll be hearing from me.”

He was betrayed into a startled laugh. “That sounds an awful lot like a threat.”

“It is.”

It was also a promise.

* * *

Whitney hid in the office for the rest of the week.

Under normal circumstances, heading to the office as a way of avoiding life was a big part of why she’d chosen to get into medicine in the first place. There was no better career path for someone who liked a justified reason to bury herself in work than the altruistic and demanding role of doctor.

Okay, so plastic surgery wasn’t
exactly
altruistic. And technically, the office smelled of paint thinner and contained no actual people in it—clients or otherwise. But someone had to oversee the coffeemaker, and she was pretty sure she’d left her parents in the middle of a morning quickie.

Focusing on the first—and safe—half of that thought, Whitney fiddled with the espresso machine that sat in their welcome lounge, not to be confused with the relaxation room or the recovery spa. The shiny gold apparatus was a piece of genius on Kendra’s part, a way to encourage the construction workers to move faster and with a little better humor. It was also going to be part of their luxury service—along with the cooler full of wine in the salon, there would be plenty to keep the ladies happy during Botox parties or a weekly waxing.