Both Sides Now (Seasoned Hearts Club)

Chapter 2

Chapter

Two

KEEGAN

“ D r. Russo, your two o’clock is here. Oh, and Megan called. Again.”

I glance up from my computer, catching the exasperated look on Alice’s face. The woman has the patience of a saint—a good thing as my office manager—but there is no love lost between her and the woman she aptly dubbed the drama queen from hell. Megan earned that nickname after spending only five minutes with Alice.

Unfortunately, neither the nickname nor the mannerisms have changed.

“I’ll call Megan and tell her to stop harassing you.” I run a hand over my jaw, chuckling.

“Better yet, tell her to stop harassing you .”

“Tell me how you really feel.”

“I’d better not do that,” Alice counters, her hand resting on the doorknob. “I’d like to keep my job.” With a wink, she walks away, closing the door behind her.

Alice is the big sister I never had, and even though I sign her paychecks, she’s had my number since day one.

She’s right about Megan, too. But there is something about Megan, of which Alice is unaware. No matter how vapid, shallow and tiresome the woman may be, she sucks a mean cock. She’s not half bad in the sack, either, when she isn’t three sheets to the wind on her prescription cocktail of choice.

She can’t function without those little pills, or so that’s her claim. Valium and martinis are Megan’s special diet, along with an ample serving of Botox injections. She thinks she looks fabulous. Personally, I find her frozen face a ghoulish mask of plastic perfection, never certain what emotion she’s feeling.

Although, knowing Megan, she isn’t experiencing any emotion of real depth. That’s not in her wheelhouse.

But she’s got a killer body, even if her implants are a bit on the ridiculous side.

Another fun fact about Megan? She’s easy and I don’t mean in that way, although she likely wouldn’t say no to any man offering her a Prada bag.

The woman has the intellect of a flea. Whether it’s genuine or some goofy act, I can’t tell. But there are no intellectual conversations with Megan. She has zero expectations. I buy her the occasional gift and pick up the tab at any number of eating establishments, and she’s good to go. Happy to be seen on my arm and not clamoring on about the triple threat—rings, marriage, and babies.

My work may specialize in creating happy parents, but I specialize in avoiding that box. That tightly sealed, constrictive, miserable box some folks term domestic bliss.

Megan knows this fact, and she has yet to argue with me on any of my points. My non-negotiable points.

So, that is why Megan is still around. We fill a need in each other, and the L word is never mentioned.

Shallow? Perhaps, but it works and I have yet to meet any woman to change my mind.

Dialing Megan’s number, I kick back in the chair, propping my feet on the corner of my desk. I have a few minutes. My two o’clock appointment is early, and if Megan makes any more unwarranted phone calls to my office, she will be on the receiving end of Alice’s wrath. I’ve been there a few times. It’s a storm I’d rather not weather again.

“Baby, finally.” I swear, I can hear her hyaluronic-acid infused lips jutting out in a pout. “Where have you been?”

“Work, Megan. Like I am every day. What’s up?”

“Gold or black?”

What the fuck is this woman blathering on about? “In regard to?”

“My dress for the dinner next week.”

“What dinner?”

“Keegey, you know what dinner.”

What I know is that I detest her nickname for me. “Megan, I’m too busy for this nonsense today. If you can’t come out and tell me what you want, it will have to wait until I’m finished seeing patients.”

I realize I’ve adopted the same tone with Megan that my mother used on me—when I was eight.

Megan, for her part, is undeterred by my stern voice. Like I said, not the brightest bulb in the pack. “The medical dinner next week. You said I could come with you.”

“Right. I did say that.” She’s referring to the upcoming medical shindig at one of the premier restaurants in the Hudson Valley. Honestly, I never intended on her going as my date, but she found the invitation on my counter and hounded me until I relented.

Okay, fine. There was some oral involved in the negotiations. Sue me. She got her wish.

“The black dress is shorter, but the gold one is so sparkly. I want to look pretty for you. Impress all your friends.”

I rub my brow, a headache brewing behind my eyes. The woman means well, and I know she wants to please me, but I couldn’t give two craps what color dress she wears. To be fair, neither will the myriad of men ogling her at the dinner. “Go with the black.”

Her high-pitched giggle echoes through the receiver, cutting through my brain like a scythe. “That was my choice, too. Okay, Keegey, get back to work. I’ll see you tomorrow for dinner.”

“Can’t wait,” I mumble, disconnecting the call.

Why, seriously why, would anyone want to be attached to one person for the rest of their lives? I spend two or three nights a week with Megan, and I’m tempted to slice my own throat.

All I can say is thank God for blow jobs.

I glance over the paperwork before visiting with my newest patient. Callista Webster. That’s not a name you hear every day. Thirty-seven years old, no children. Fairly standard in this field.

I push open the door, my gaze focused on the paperwork. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Webster.”

“Callista is fine.”

Her voice stops me in my tracks. It’s like warmed honey oozing over me. Low and throaty, with a killer English accent to boot.

Glancing up, I realize she looks as good as she sounds. Not that she’s actually trying to impress me—or anyone, for that matter. She’s wearing jeans and an oversized sweatshirt, her auburn hair pulled into a braid, and not a speck of makeup covering her ivory complexion.

A natural beauty. I’d forgotten there was such a thing.

I extend my hand in greeting, offering a smile. “I’m Dr. Russo.”

I shoot a quick glance around the consultation room, looking for her partner. None to be found. Then again, it’s not that odd these days, and I don’t judge my patients. Or their decisions.

That detached perspective took years to acquire, and I still often slip from my seat of neutrality, despite my best intentions.

Here’s the thing: People decide to have a child for a myriad of reasons—desire and obligation among them. But in the world of infertility, there is another pervading emotion—desperation. These people often feel less than and are desperate to prove their worth. Sometimes they don’t even know why they want a baby, or their reasons make my head spin—to rekindle a romance, rebuild trust, repair a relationship—all equally terrible ideas.

No matter how cute a baby may be, they are not band-aids. They’re stressors, and they won’t fix anything that was broken before their arrival.

A sad but true fact—saddest for the child.

In the beginning, I would voice my opinion, hoping to trigger a lightbulb moment before patients careened further down a path of expensive self-loathing. I learned involvement in their affairs was not in my best interest. Emotions ranged from a dismissal of my concern to downright fury at my insinuations.

Now, I do my duty and leave my opinions at the door. There’s simply no room for them in this line of work. At least, not if I want to maintain a patient roster.

Settling behind the desk, I fold my hands in front of me, meeting her gaze. Unlike some of my patients, she’s not giving off an air of nervousness or desperation. I get a different read off her. Determination. That’s a nice change. “What brings you to my office, Callista?”

“I want to have a baby. Although you likely knew that already. ”

“Your file indicates that you’re thirty-seven years old, and you don’t have any children?”

She nods, her lithe fingers toying with the edge of the desk. “That’s correct.”

“Have you ever been pregnant?”

“Three times. I suffered miscarriages with all three, early in the pregnancy.”

I clear my throat, tapping my pen against the desk. Her history is all too common and often doesn’t bode well for the patient, especially after three failed pregnancies.

“I know what you’re thinking.”

My eyes widen as I meet her gray gaze. Damn, the woman has the most unique eyes I’ve ever seen. They’re like a storm brewing over the ocean, and right now, they’re ready to rail at me. “What am I thinking, Callista?”

She stands, pacing the length of the carpet. For such a tiny woman, she certainly takes determined strides. “That I’m too old. I’ve had too many failed pregnancies. I should just suck it up and accept my situation.” Callista stops directly in front of me, turning to face me. “But you’re wrong.”

I lean back in my chair, the corners of my mouth pulling up. “You’ve summed up our entire visit, and all I’ve done is say hello and ask your age.” I hold up my hand to halt her answer. “I hate to break it to you, but you’re wrong about what I’m thinking.”

“Bugger. Now, you also likely think I’m a haughty bitch.” She flops back into her seat with a sigh. “I had to gear myself up for this visit. Be ready to take on whatever argument you threw at me.”

“As much as I’m enjoying your self-diagnosis, and diagnosis of me, might I jump in? Offer my two cents? I have a little experience with the subject.”

Callista chuckles, wiping her hand across her brow. “I’m sorry, Dr. Russo. I’m like a cat on hot bricks today. ”

I can’t hold back the chuckle. “A what?”

“Good old British slang. I’m nervous.”

“You know what helps nerves?”

“Whiskey?”

Her banter and sarcasm are infectious. I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed speaking to a patient in this manner. Or any woman.

“True. I’m referring to answers, though. I had a professor in medical school who said that you don’t need all the answers. You only need to know where to look to find them.” I motion to myself. “I’m your means to find those answers.”

“I really hope so.” There’s something so earnest in her face, the set of her jaw. An immense pain bracketed by a thin layer of self-preservation.

This infertility issue has really put Mrs. Webster through the wringer. “Did they do any testing after your miscarriages?”

“No. They discussed it, but I never pursued it.”

An odd decision for someone so desperate to have a child. “That’s the first step, then. Obviously, you don’t have issues conceiving. Still, we have to verify if there is a physiological reason why you couldn’t carry a baby to term. We’ll draw some blood, check your hormone levels and then perform a transvaginal ultrasound. That will check the condition of your uterus and ovaries. Have you and your partner discussed alternatives if you can’t carry a baby to term?”

“I’ve looked into surrogacy as an option.”

Okay, still no mention of a partner. “What about adoption?”

“No.”

Her answer is quick. Final. Again, not the first time I’ve seen patients display this behavior. They don’t want to hear that natural conception methods won’t work for them. Often, after several rounds of failure and tens of thousands of dollars, they come around to the concept. “Let’s start with step one. We’ll draw some blood, and then I’ll examine you. When we’ve determined your ability to carry a child, we’ll take it from there. Fair enough?”

Callista nods, but she fails to stand when I do. That’s never a good sign.

“Something wrong, Mrs. Webster?”

“I sound like a horrible person, knocking down the idea of adoption. I think adoption is a beautiful thing, but I need this child.”

“I understand.” And I do, to a degree. I’ve never felt the pull toward parenthood, but I understand the inclination. Women are nurturers, and this woman appears to be an ideal candidate for motherhood. An odd deduction on my part, considering I know nothing about her, save for a few details in her file. For all I know, she’s a prostitute, turning tricks for dope. Although, judging by her posture and unblemished skin, I highly doubt it.

I rub my brow, wishing I had taken some aspirin before our appointment. This headache is taking on a life of its own.

“You should try trigger point massage. It’s helpful for headaches.” I shoot her a curious glance. “Did I mention having a headache?”

“You don’t have to. You’re squinting, rubbing your brow. Trust me, it works. At least, it always has for me.”

“Are you a doctor?”

“Heavens, no. I dabble in yoga, massage, acupuncture. That sort of thing.” She stands, closing the distance between us. “May I?”

Before I can reply, she reaches up, placing her hands on either side of my brow.

“There are pressure points that help relieve the pain. At least until you can find some aspirin.” Her fingers work gentle circles over my temple, and although the tension in that head has been released, there’s tension growing in the other one.

I clasp her hands, halting her movement. Do I want her to stop? No way in hell. But she’s a married woman desperate to have a child. Me getting a hard-on does not figure into that equation.

She draws her hands back, biting her bottom lip. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have touched you like that, but I thought I could help.”

I blink, noting that the pain has indeed lessened. Interesting. “You did. I must remember that trick.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t touch you again. Promise.” Her pale skin reddens, and she stares at the carpet. “That sounded even worse.”

Actually, it sounds even better, but I’m not letting her know that fact.

“I’m leaving. Are you headed home soon, or do you have plans for the evening?” Alice drops some files on my desk, her lips pursed.

“I’m not seeing Megan, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“Keegan, what do you see in her?”

“There’s plenty to see in her, Alice. You’ve got eyes.”

Alice barks out a disapproving laugh. “Don’t be a heathen. You need a nice woman. An intelligent woman. Someone you’ll actually want to spend time with.”

I raise my hand, slowing her roll. “That’s the whole point with Megan. She doesn’t require the work of a regular relationship.”

“She doesn’t have enough brain cells to spell the word relationship. ”

“She graduated college,” I remind her, although I can barely contain my amusement.

“With a degree in interpretive dance. There are monkeys with higher IQs.”

Settling back against the chair, I meet my manager’s gaze. “I know you’re not Megan’s biggest fan, but you’re especially harsh today. Why is that?”

“Might have some to do with the fact that she called a total of twenty times. Twenty, Keegan. The last five, she demanded that I burst into your patient appointment so you could provide your opinion on her choice of footwear. She has no concept of reality, and never will, so long as you don’t force her to behave like an adult.”

I cringe at the knowledge that my fuck buddy has driven my office manager to distraction. “I’ll speak with Megan and tell her she can’t continue in this vein. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry for you. A good woman—a real woman—would do wonders for you. Forget the floozies. They’re not worth the energy.”

I do not like the track this conversation is taking.

“You know I’m not relationship material. This is not news. I have zero desire to bind myself to one person for the rest of my life. Trust me, it’s better off for everyone if I continue hanging out with women like Megan.”

Alice leans across the desk, squeezing my arm. “Your father was a shit for abandoning you and your mother. But you are not him, Keegan. You’re a good man. You deserve more out of life and I swear, you’ll enjoy it. Love isn’t some terrible concept to be avoided, but so long as you refuse to acknowledge the possibility, you’ll remain in this cycle.”

Except for my mother, Alice is the only woman who can get away with speaking to me so bluntly, and only then because she has the best of intentions.

But she’s right about one thing: my father is a shit .

“Maybe if I met the right woman, but in all my years, that hasn’t happened. And no, I don’t want to be introduced to anyone you know. Or their daughters, or their sisters, or whoever. I’m too busy for that nonsense.”

It’s my go-to excuse, my unofficial end to the conversation.

Alice rolls her eyes, which is her signal that she’s dropping the topic. For now. “This is Mrs. Webster’s file. Her former physician sent over her health history.”

I glance at the folder. For some reason, that petite woman has floated through my mind all afternoon. “I’ll take a look. Thank you.”

“Why can’t you date someone like her?” Seems my office manager is not quite finished with me.

“Like who?”

“Mrs. Webster.”

I raise my hands in mock surrender. “Because Callista is unavailable and desperately wanting a child? Those are but two of the roadblocks I see.”

“Heaven forbid you dated a woman who wanted a future.”

“Alice, she’s not single. I’m not sure what her deal is, to be honest. She was quite evasive about her partner.”

“Her paperwork states she’s a widow.” With a final tap on the folder, she walks to the door. “Have a good evening.”

I snatch Callista’s folder from my desk before the door closes, flipping through the pages to her history. Sure enough, she’s a widow. A young widow.

Suddenly this case, one that seemed so cut and dried, has taken a turn into interesting territory.

No wonder she didn’t mention a partner. She doesn’t have one.

I’m not sure why my mind is hung up on that fact. It doesn’t change a damn thing.

My phone buzzes, interrupting my reading. It’s Megan. Again. With a grunt, I flip the folder closed before answering her call.

But as Megan prattles on about some inane topic, Alice’s words hover in the forefront of my mind.

Maybe I should start looking for a woman who’s more than the wrapping paper. Someone who’s the complete package.

Someone like Mrs. Webster. Callista.

I jerk in my chair as the sentence flashes across my brain.

No. Just no. On so many levels. Don’t even go there, Keegan. She is untouchable.