3. Savannah
three
Savannah
“How’s my little squish-mallow?” I coo into the camera.
My nephew Thomas, who is named after my dad, gurgles and blows spit bubbles. He has the sweetest little mush face.
It’s been a month since I’ve seen him. I snuck up to San Francisco the weekend my parents were at a medical conference so I could visit my sister and spend time with my nephew.
“He’s great; me, not so much.” My sister switches the baby to her other arm. There are dark shadows under her eyes from her recent run of sleepless nights with a newborn.
“Aww, sissy. The sleepless nights will pass. He’s just gassy. And teething.” I do my best to reassure her. I’ve already given her my tips for helping with Thomas’s colic.
Charlotte sighs. “I know. It’s just a lot harder than I thought it would be.”
“Do you need me to come home?” I lean closer to my laptop and watch a series of thoughts cross her face.
I’m already making plans in my head to call the hospital for time off so I can drive north when she shakes her head and lovingly stares at Thomas. “No, I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?” I would drop everything if Charlotte needed me.
I’d even face my mother.
“Totally.” Thomas babbles, eliciting a bright smile from Charlotte.
Relief washes over me as I sit back on the couch and watch them together. Motherhood looks good on her. She’s tired, but happy.
“It’s harder than twenty-four-hour shifts, isn’t it?”
“Ohmigod, yes. How is that possible?” she asks.
“It’s the lack of adrenaline.”
There’s a rush doctors get from seeing new patients, diving into emergency procedures or surgeries. It makes it easier to stay up all night at a hospital.
It’s the comedown that hurts.
“Of course. I should have figured that out.”
“How’s Jonathan been with the baby?”
Charlotte gushes about how wonderful her husband has been in helping her with Thomas and how they plan to hire a nanny to start when he returns to work.
“Just make sure your nanny is old and wrinkly.”
“Obviously.” Charlotte barks a laugh, and poor little Thomas startles with a cry. “Look what you made me do, Sav.” Charlotte soothes the baby, bouncing him around until he calms down. I love watching her with him. “Enough of me. Tell me what’s new with you.”
“Nothing, really. Just work and catching up on junk TV.”
“Savannah banana, what in the world is wrong with you? You need to get yourself out there. Go out with friends. Meet new guys.” She wags her eyebrows at me.
My brain automatically leaps to visions of Nico Romero.
That hot, sexy bastard.
Even though I couldn’t see him, I could feel his eyes on me. Worst part? My traitorous body loved it. Just knowing he was sitting in that car, staring at me, had my panties getting wet. Then my brain caught up, and my blood boiled for a whole different reason.
Screw that guy.
“No, I’m not ready.” I shake my head, and I don’t know if it’s for my sister’s benefit or mine, but I shove away the image of the hot baseball player watching me through the tinted car windows.
“Sav, it’s been six months since you ended things with Bradley. It’s okay to move on. You need to put yourself out there.” She thinks I’m sad about my breakup, but I’m not. I didn’t tell her half of the crap Bradley put me through.
There’s an unexpected knock on my door.
“Wait. Were you lying? Are you actually expecting someone?” My sister looks hopeful at the prospect of my having someone over.
“Definitely not.” I sigh.
Charlotte smiles sadly at me, and I hate the pitying look on her face. Before she can drill into me about making friends, the knocks start again. My annoying and unwelcome visitor saves me from having this conversation.
“I’d better see who’s at my door.”
“Fine. But be safe. And text me if you’re okay after?”
I roll my eyes at my sister’s “if”. “I doubt a serial killer is going to announce their presence by knocking on my door.”
“You never know. Same time tomorrow?” she asks.
“You know it. Love you.” I’ve enjoyed our recent late-night video calls. While she nurses, we chat about our days and what’s been going on in our lives. But mostly, we talk about Thomas.
Did I mention how adorable my nephew is?
“Love you too.”
“And I love you more, baby boy.” I laugh at Thomas’s garbled reply.
With one more goodbye, I close my laptop. The knocking turns to pounding, and the hair on my arms stands on end. It’s after ten at night.
Who on earth is banging on my apartment door so late?
Lead weights roll around in my stomach as I creep towards my door and look through the peephole. My stomach bottoms out at the sight of the one person I do not want to see. Ever.
“What do you want, Bradley?” I ask through the door.
“I want to talk. Open the door, Savannah.” Bradley has his arms crossed over his chest as he stares blankly at my door.
“No. There is nothing to talk about.” I watch him drunkenly wobble as he steps closer to the door.
“Please. Open the door and talk to me. I miss you, sweetheart,” he says, trying to sound sweet.
I roll my eyes. What he misses is the connection to my family and their friends.
“Not tonight.” Or ever. But I keep my mouth shut. The last thing I want is for him to make a scene and annoy my neighbors.
“Please. I love you. We can work this out. Please, just give me another chance,” he pleads.
I’m not falling for his manipulations. It’s all “I love you” and “you’re amazing” until it turns sour. Then he’s calling me a frigid bitch and pathetic.
I wouldn’t be frigid if he knew how to please me.
We had absolutely no chemistry in the bedroom.
Not once did he bother to give me an orgasm.
Seriously, the man couldn’t find my clit if I drew it on a map and marked it with a giant X for him.
He’s a doctor, for crying out loud. How did he pass human anatomy?
“We were so good together. Don’t you remember?”
I roll my eyes at him, thankful he can’t see me.
We weren’t good together.
Aside from our being doctors, we have nothing in common. I have more things in common with a bowl of white rice.
Bradley Crane is a man of zero substance.
Sure, he’s good-looking with his square jaw, blond hair, and blue eyes.
But he brings nothing else to the table.
All he cares about is making connections that benefit him, what car he drives, and if he’s following his macros properly.
He is selfish and rude, and honestly, he gives me the ick. The biggest ick.
I don’t know why I ever agreed to marry him, let alone date him.
Two words: Sarah Stratford. My brain sneers.
I bristle at the thought. It’s true. A small part of me thought getting married to a fellow well-established doctor would gain her approval. All it did was make me miserable. Mother didn’t even like Bradley until I broke off the engagement.
“I don’t want to get into this again. Please go home,” I state clearly.
“Come on, sweetheart. Open up. You know I love you.”
My stomach churns at his fake, sickly-sweet tone.
“You don’t love me, Bradley. You love the idea of me. Now please go home and sleep it off.”
“Stop being such a bitch and open the fucking door,” he snarls.
And there they are. His true colors.
Bradley is a mean drunk. He never hit me, but during the year we were together, he used his words and twisted mine to make me feel less than. It was all about control for him.
I quietly lift the chain and slide it through the track. “No. Go home. I’ll talk to you when you’re sober.”
“Sweetheart, just open the door. We can work this out.” He’s back to sounding sweet as he taps on my door. His mood swings always give me whiplash.
“There’s no working this out. We’re done, Bradley. Don’t come back here.”
“You fucking bitch. You think you’re so much better than me just because of your last name?” he snarls.
How he figured out I was a Stratford when I use my grandmother’s maiden name for work still bothers me. I don’t want people to judge me or use me because of who my family is and how successful they are.
“Please leave. If you don’t, I’ll call the police.”
“Fuck. Fine. But this isn’t over, Savannah. When you’re ready to come crawling back, you know where to find me,” he seethes.
Pigs will fly before I call that man. For anything. Freaking douche canoe.
I watch him storm off in his drunken stupor. As he turns the corner and the sound of his footsteps recedes, I sag against the door and breathe.
The thought of another Bradley pop-by has dread wrapping itself around my throat and squeezing. He needs to move on, and so do I. That only happens with a fresh start, which means… I need a new apartment.
I glance around my apartment and sigh.
Crap on a cracker.
Finding a place in Los Angeles is nearly impossible.