Both Sides Now (Seasoned Hearts Club)

Chapter 1

Chapter

One

CALLISTA

TWENTY MONTHS LATER…

S hawn, despite his best efforts, is a liar.

My heart hasn’t healed, and Charlie has been dead for 614 days. Yes, I’m counting. Eventually, I hope to forget how many days he’s been gone.

I doubt that day will ever come.

In my friend’s defense, I am better. I’m not the wallowing widow from a year and a half earlier, unable to leave my husband’s gravesite.

Wounds heal, but time only emphasizes the rough edges of the scars left behind.

Scars that no amount of time can touch. Such is my life, twenty months after it ended.

Yes, I’m still breathing, but that’s about as close as I tread to the world of the living most days.

Still, I have my minor victories. After three months, I leveled up and put on pants.

It was a milestone achievement.

But slowly, over the last million months, I’ ve started adapting to my new normal. One thing is for certain: I hate that term with a passion. There’s nothing normal about spending your life alone when you originally planned to spend it with the man of your dreams.

It’s not like I kicked Charlie to the curb, eager for an upgrade.

He was my everything. I fell in love with him the first time our eyes locked across the pub, and I knew nothing would ever be the same.

Less than one second to realize the massive role this man would play in my life.

Even Shawn recognized our connection for what it was. True love. Poetic and unapologetic true love.

It’s the kind of love which happens once in a lifetime, and only then if you’re paying attention. But we didn’t get a lifetime. Nowhere near it. My Charlie, my reason for living, was stolen from me at the age of thirty-five.

Yet in a cruel twist of fate, my life, if you dare to call it that, plods along.

Some days I search my reflection in the bathroom mirror, desperate for a small glimpse of the woman I once knew. My face is still recognizable to those on the outside, but I don’t know this stranger staring back at me. I don’t know her dead eyes or flat affect.

Where did my glow go? Where is the spark of life I once held so precious?

All I know—all I feel—is the unrelenting weight of my pain, along with a lingering guilt that God got it wrong. There was a mixup in the paperwork and Charlie should still be here, living his best life, while my body becomes worm food.

I’ll never understand, even if God granted me a personal audience, how he allowed such a mistake to occur. If given the option, I’d gladly switch places with Charlie and take my rightful spot in the cemetery, kicking up daisies .

But there is no option. And because of that, God and I are no longer on speaking terms. He’s on the top of my shit list and no amount of miracles will change that lineup.

I’m on anti-depressants. Fairly standard, really, for someone in my situation. No joke, that’s how my doctor termed it. I damn near slapped his face to the other side of his head.

There’s nothing standard about my situation. Or my life, at this point. Although, referring to it as a life is a bit of a stretch.

How can I be categorized as living when I’m dead inside?

Guess the anti-depressants aren’t doing their job. I’d fire the bastards, but who am I to judge?

I’m also the world’s worst business owner, at this juncture.

My wellness center, once a point of utmost pride, has been relegated to the trash heap, right along with my happiness.

I’m blessed to have the greatest employees on the planet. They rose to the challenge and took over my classes. My client load. My bookkeeping. My marketing.

Lord knows I wasn’t able to do it. And they never complained, but in recent months, there’s been murmuring amongst the ranks.

Whispers that grow louder with each passing day. Despite rarely leaving my house, I hear them.

One day, I dared to enter the wellness center without notice and discovered I was the topic of conversation. Even though they had no clue I was standing not two feet from them, they spoke in hushed tones, as if fearful of waking the grief-stricken beast.

Is Callista ever coming back?

It’s been almost two years.

The poor woman. I heard she had a nervous breakdown.

The last comment was the last straw. No, I’m not well. I suffered a slow and torturous emotional execution, one that started years before Charlie’s death. Every day, I watched the love of my life slip from my grasp, no matter how I clung to him.

No amount of love could save him. Trust me, I tried.

So, to hear my employees mumbling about my mental status when the worst they’d seen in life was a morning-after walk of shame, was more than I could handle.

I huffed out a breath and spoke with a voice that could only be described as bullets flying from my mouth.

“Perhaps I should be thankful he’s gone? Grateful my life is once again my own and I’m not stuck caring for a dying man? Would that be more acceptable to you?”

After offering up these retorts to my stunned and well-intentioned colleagues, I realized I’m not fit for human interaction.

Didn’t help that I made one of the women cry. Misery loves company, I suppose.

But seeing her tears only made me feel like a monster, so I apologized, hugged her, and returned to the safety of my house.

Thank God for the internet. Nine months ago, I began baby-stepping back into my yoga practice.

The mat is my home, even more so than my house. Far more now that Charlie isn’t here, although his presence pervades every square inch of the place. This house was never my choice, but Charlie adored the quaint colonial, along with all the fun upkeep that comes along with owning a home that was built when George Washington was a child.

I’m exaggerating.

He was a teenager.

But the repairs are endless. I’ve gotten quite handy at several of them. However, I made the fatal error of attempting a plumbing repair on my own. It only took the basement three months to dry out. Now it has this wonderful musty odor, and I have a $7,500 repair bill. Funny, but home insurance simply won’t cover your own cock-ups. That’s strictly an out-of-pocket expense.

Isn’t home ownership grand?

But one good thing came out of my renovations. I enclosed the back porch, turning it into my personal yoga retreat. It overlooks the garden and has a beautiful view of the sunrise.

It gives me a reason to get up—at least three times per week. I lead a sunrise vinyasa class for a group of local students from the safety of my home. It allows me a glimpse into the world I’m not ready to enter, while proving to my students that I’m still on this side of the dirt.

And with each class, I grow stronger. More grateful for their enthusiasm.

I won’t lie. At first, their eagerness irked me. But now, I find solace in their smiles.

Perhaps one day, when I smile back, it will be the genuine article.

I blink open my eyes, shielding them from the glare of sunlight pouring through the window.

Odd. I sleep with the blinds closed and curtains drawn. But here they are, flung open to give the world a front-row seat into my boudoir.

Although my dog humping the throw pillow is the most action this room has seen in two years.

A grumble sounds from my side, and I chuckle as Domino snuggles deeper into the blanket.

I never wanted a dog. Even when Shawn and Suzanne brought the ball of fluff to my doorstep, I held my ground. No furry objects allowed.

Then she placed those tawny paws on my leg and released the cutest puppy whimper .

I didn’t stand a chance. The dog had practiced her role and delivered it to perfection.

Now, I can’t imagine life without her. Domino has saved me even more than yoga. Certainly more than well-intentioned friends and family. Domino never judges. She just exists in my life. Often front and center but sometimes in the periphery, when she senses I need the space or she’s spotted a garden patch that needs digging.

With her, I have a reason to get up every morning. Even when I don’t want to. Granted, the way Domino is snoring, it’s doubtful she has any early breakfast requests.

“Lazy mongrel,” I chide, tapping her on the butt as I slide out from under the covers. Usually, I’d take advantage of her inertia and claim another hour of sleep.

But not today.

Instead of dragging myself through my morning routine, I trot into the bathroom, eager to start the day. And this time, instead of avoiding my reflection, I meet her head on. For the first time in nearly two years, I see myself looking back from the other side of the glass.

Oh, yes. Today is different.

Something’s changed, and that something is me.

An hour later, I’m seated at the cafe with Shawn and Suzanne. My friends are incredible, dropping everything to attend this spur-of-the-moment get together. I know it’s no easy feat, corralling their tween to babysit their precocious toddler, but they managed it. All to spend an hour with me.

Now, let’s hope they don’t think I’ve lost my ever-loving mind.

“I’ve made a decision.” Folding my napkin in my lap, I swing my gaze between the two of them .

“About damn time,” Shawn mutters, but I note the glint in his eye. “With the size of this menu, I thought we might be here until dinner.”

“You be quiet,” Suzanne warns her husband before giving my arm a squeeze. “I’m so happy to see you, Calli. Especially outside the house.”

“And wearing pants,” I add with a chuckle. “It’s a momentous occasion.”

It’s been a while since I’ve been out. Since I’ve been anywhere. That’s the thing with the world these days. Between online shopping and delivery services, a person can hole up and hide forever.

That was my exact plan.

Until this morning.

“So, what’s this grand decision? Suzanne and I have placed our bets and I want to know who’s buying breakfast.” Shawn swirls his greyhound, the grapefruit juice mixing with the gin, but his dark eyes remain focused on me.

“Well, whichever one of you bet on me having a baby wins.”

The ensuing silence is deafening as my gaze moves from one awestruck face to the other. You know it’s a bombshell when you manage to quiet down these two. They never lack a retort.

“You’re … I’m sorry, I must have heard you wrong.” Suzanne places her hand over her throat, clearing it and buying some time for me to negate my statement. “Did you say that?—”

“I’m going to have a baby.”

Shawn claps me around the shoulder, letting loose with a surprised guffaw. “Look at you—little sneak. Here I thought you were holed up in your house, eating pints of ice cream. Meanwhile, you’ve been dating on the down-low. Pretty seriously, I might add. Good for you, luv. What’s his name? You know I have to meet him, right?”

“His name is Charlie.”

More silence. I swear the entire restaurant has shut up in anticipation of this conversation.

Shawn and Suzanne exchange glances—their faces a mix of confused happiness.

“What are the chances he has the same name? Is he British, too?”

“He is, actually. And he has much in common with Charlie because he is Charlie.”

“Oh, my God.” The words slip past Suzanne’s mouth, and I can tell from her face she fears I’ve lost the last vestiges of my sanity. “Calli, you know Charlie is gone.”

I drum the table with my fingers, glaring at each of them. “I’m aware, but thank you for that unnecessary reminder. Although Charlie is gone, his sperm is still very much here.” I grab my cocktail, sucking down half the contents. Hey, I’m not pregnant yet. “It’s not that outlandish, folks. When Charlie got his diagnosis, we were already in the process of freezing his sperm. We planned IVF since we weren’t having any luck the natural way. We figured as soon as Charlie went into remission, we would thaw out his swimmers and grab a turkey baster. But he never went into remission, and I’ve yet to use the turkey baster.”

Suzanne eyes the tablecloth, although I guarantee the answer isn’t hiding under her salad fork. “Are you certain this is what you want to do?”

Her question raises my ire. “I’m quite certain. I love Charlie. I want to have his child. Continue his legacy. What’s so wrong with that idea?”

Her hand grasps mine, offering some measure of comfort. “There’s nothing wrong with it, and Charlie was an amazing man. But it’s tough being a single mom, Calli. ”

Suzanne speaks from experience. She raised her now preteen daughter without any assistance from her first husband. He was too busy cheating to play the role of doting father and one day, he walked out of their house and lives, never to return.

I’d like a word with that man, should he ever reappear. He’ll be missing a few body parts by the time I’m done.

So, yes, it was tough on Suzanne and that’s the understatement of the century. It was hell, but my friend was tougher than any obstacle life threw her way.

And so am I … I hope.

I fidget with the pendant hanging around my neck, my gaze intent on Suzanne. “You were a single mom until Shawn came along.”

“Not by choice. I’m not saying you can’t do it. God knows you’re unstoppable when you set your mind to something. But it won’t be easy.”

The harsh bark of laughter escapes my lips before I have a chance to rein it back. “Nothing has been easy these last twenty months. Nothing, except this decision.” I clutch each of their hands in turn, my eyes beseeching them to understand. “I need your support. This is the most important thing I’ve ever done, but I need to know my friends are behind me.”

Shawn downs the rest of his drink, motioning to the server for a refill. “Callista, I know you’ll be an amazing mum. No doubt about it. If this is what your heart is set on, then I applaud you. I’m here.”

“Thank you.”

“But,” he adds, eliciting a groan from me, “I want you to consider two things.”

“Which are?”

“One is that you’ve suffered a few miscarriages already. You need to consider there may be something anatomically amiss that might prevent you from carrying Charlie’s baby. I don’t want you to get your hopes up, only to have them dashed.”

I bite back a smile as my best friend slides on his doctor cap, although it’s a rational concern.

Hell, after my first miscarriage, I assumed there might be something wrong with me. By the third one, I was convinced I was broken.

I nod and take a long pull from my drink. “You’re right, and I’ve decided if I can’t carry the child safely, I’ll hire a surrogate.”

“That’s a great idea, but surrogates are ridiculously expensive,” Suzanne adds as she fiddles with her fork. “A coworker went that route and it cost her well over $150,000. Not to pry, but do you have that kind of money?”

“I do. Charlie, being Charlie, had an obscene life insurance plan. I have more than enough to cover the surrogate costs all the way up to when our child leaves for college.”

I know my friends’ concerns are valid, but I need to maintain my momentum. Every one of their questions is an obstacle tossed onto my mental racetrack in an attempt to slow me down. I don’t want to take the time to consider the what-ifs of the scenario.

I just want the baby. Our baby.

“What was your other concern, Shawn?” I inquire, smiling as the server brings around a refill.

Keep them coming, sir.

Like I said, I’m not pregnant yet.

“Not a concern, so much as a request.” Grabbing a napkin, he scribbles down a name in his illegible scrawl. “Give this guy a call.”

I study the napkin. “Keegan Russo. I hate to break it to you, Shawn, but a man will make a terrible choice for a surrogate.”

“Aren’t you all piss and vinegar this morning? He’s a reproductive endocrinologist. ”

“Okay, I understood one word in that title.”

Shawn and Suzanne exchange grins before collapsing into a fit of giggles.

Either the alcohol is catching up to them or I missed a step somewhere.

I hold up the napkin, shooting my friend a strange look.

“What’s so damn funny? Did I mispronounce the bloke’s name? It is a bloke, right?”

“Yes. He’s most definitely male.”

“All man,” Suzanne chimes in with a wink, earning a glare from her husband.

“So, what’s with the chuckles?”

Shawn leans in as if letting me in on a high-level government secret. “They call him the Baby Maker. That’s his unofficial official title.”

“The Baby Maker?” I toss the napkin down on the table. “No thanks. I’m getting a bad feeling from this one already. Besides, why would I need a reproductive … whatever he is?”

“Call him, Callista. He’s a genius in the field of reproduction. They call him the Baby Maker because he’s helped so many couples—and single women—become parents. Hence, the Baby Maker.”

“That’s not the only reason.” Suzanne can barely contain her laughter as her husband shoots her another glare. “He’s also gorgeous. Every woman dreams of making a baby with him.”

“Better not be every woman,” Shawn grumbles, taking a large swallow from his glass.

“Is someone jealous?” Suzanne leans over, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Seriously, Calli. You should go to him.”

“For his brain or his brawn?” I question, unable to hold back a smile when my friends fall into laughter again. Bunch of bastards. They’re lucky I love them .

“Both, I suppose, but be forewarned. He’s a ladies’ man. Total player. But one hell of a doctor.”

I slip the napkin into my purse, holding up my glass in a toast. “I’ve no interest in Dr. Keegan Russo unless he can make me a mother.”

“So she says now.” My friend clinks my glass, but I see yet another round of laughter on her lips.

“Seriously, Suzanne, how good looking can he be?”