Alana & Hudson's Very Real And Totally Legitimate Marriage (Friends With Benefits Book 1)

1. Alana

The waitingroom smelled like disinfectant and Chanel No. 5, and on the television, Rachael Ray was making the worst-looking pad Thai that Alana had ever seen. She wasn’t one for superstition, even if she was wearing her lucky nipple rings and NARS Orgasm blush and had said all of her affirmations that morning. Hell, she even spent an extra five minutes tapping on her feminine power, hoping that would somehow tip the scales in her favor. And while that sounded like a metaphor for masturbation, it was not. Though she did that too. But that was mainly for the endorphins.

She had texted her friends, letting them know that today (TODAY!!) was going to be the day that one (she checked her calendar) Dr. Kevin Bradford was going to be the lucky lucky doctor who would finally give her that damn referral to the surgeon for a total hysterectomy. Seven was a lucky number, right? Right.

So maybe the receptionist looked like she had a stick permanently fused to the inside of her ass, and the one other woman in the waiting room had been staring daggers at Alana’s absolutely incredible shoes while she waited. Who wouldn’t gawk in wonder at the Georgia O’Keefe-inspired stilettos? A person with no taste, that was who.

But she was not letting go of her optimism, even though her appointment had technically been one hour and thirty-seven minutes ago.

Full. Of. Optimism.

Alana was answering a work email to one of the UX designers, informing him that she didn’t care what he thought about user experience if they weren’t physically able to sustain the changes he requested when one of the nurses walked into the waiting room.

She was petite, blonde, and wearing the expensive scrubs that all the nurses who were once high school bullies and now side hustled as Instagram influencers wore.

Don’t judge books by their cover.

Alana leaned tucked her phone into her bag and was about to stand up when the nurse called the name of the other woman in the waiting room, and perhaps she was going to start judging books by their covers (and their tragically boring manicures).

The woman gave Alana a smug grin before following the nurse back, as though she had won a contest that Alana hadn’t known she was taking part in.

Rachael Ray was now making dog food from scratch. Alana had eaten a cold Pop-Tart for breakfast. She had been too lazy to take out her toaster.

‘How’s it going???’ Shannon texted.

‘Still in the waiting room,’ Alana replied. ‘But thinking happy thoughts!’

If she wrote it, it was true, right?

Right.

Everyone on the internet was having babies. Every ad on all of Alana’s social media feeds was for baby clothing or maternity wear or strollers. Which, good for everyone else, but that shit was never going to be her, even though the algorithms hadn’t learned that yet.

Her phone dinged, and she responded to the UX designer once again, this time using the phrase, ‘as per my previous email’. She was invincible now, and now had the energy to wait in this Groundhog Day of a doctor’s office forever.

Or, at least, another fifteen minutes, give or take.

One eternity and forty-two minutes later, Nurse Designer Scrubs came to get Alana.

“The doctor will be with you shortly,” she said, eyeing Alana like she was a pair of used hospital regulation scrubs and left the room.

Alana made herself comfortable on the examination table. Well, as comfortable as one could be in an ice-cold room decorated by someone whose idea of good art was Architectural Digest but without any soul, on an exam table covered with the standard crumpling paper that made the loudest goddamn sound known to mankind and had a tendency to rip under you if you breathed funny.

They hadn’t given her the paper-thin gown that usually accompanied the slab imported from somewhere discovered by Ernest Shackleton to change into, and that was weird. Normally one punishment for needing healthcare came with the other. Maybe because this time, things would be different. Was she trying to look for signs and meanings in piles of shit? Probably. But she was going to pretend to be an optimist about this doctor’s appointment even if it killed her.

(Because if the optimism wasn’t going to kill her, the endometriosis might. Or her attempted management of it would.)

She distracted herself by admiring her nails, because, as usual, they were the most exciting things in the room. Two weeks and not a single chip of nail polish. Every crystal was still intact. Bless Ophelia and her magical manicuring skills. Some people took edibles, Alana huffed monomer.

“Miss Bruckner.” Dr. Kevin Bradford looked more like an aging finance bro than a medical professional who could make decisions about Alana’s reproductive organs, which she did not love. Everything about him was just a little too perfect, almost as though he played a doctor on TV instead of actually being one in real life. He had definitely gotten hair plugs since those pictures had been taken.

“Dr. Bradford.” Alana infused as much cheerful, can-make-my-own-medical-decisions, kind of competence as she could manage.

Nurse My Idea Of A Wild Nail Color Choice Is Lilac stood by the door, barely concealing a sneer.

“According to the paperwork you’ve filled out, you’re here because you wanted a referral to a surgeon for a total hysterectomy.”

“Yes.”

“You know, Miss Bruckner, we don’t just hand those out to people because they want one. It’s not like,” he glanced at her chest. “A breast reduction.”

“I’m aware,” Alana said carefully. “I’ve been diagnosed with endometriosis for five years and have already had two surgeries to remove cysts.”

Two horrible, painful experiences with the smallest windows of relief after, just for things to go right back to the way they were. Only then it was worse, living with the knowledge that there was a possibility of being pain-free but it being snatched away.

“I see,” said Dr. Bradford, who very clearly did not. “Now, Miss Bruckner, it seems that you enjoy body modification, and you’re still young. In your twenties. A total hysterectomy would mean you wouldn’t be able to carry your own children.”

“I am aware of the consequences of a total hysterectomy, Dr. Bradford.”

“Paperwork says you’re not married.” He tsked, sounding like a male American version of Mrs. Bennett. “Maybe one day, when you get past this…” he eyed her clothing like she was a squirrel that not only had gotten run over by a city bus, but then moved onto the sidewalk and got run over by a horde of those little toy cars that the men in her neighborhood loved to drag race at midnight. “And settle down with a husband who will want children. You can’t change your mind with procedures like this. Jennifer would know.” He beamed toward the nurse in the corner.

Were they married? That look was a little too familiar for just coworkers.

“I thought I didn’t want to have any children,” Nurse Jennifer said, “but then I met Peter, and I couldn’t see how I would be able to fully express my love to him otherwise. Little Barlow is the light of our lives.”

Alana resisted the urge to throw up and hoped that Nurse Jennifer and her husband were putting aside money for all the therapy Little Barlow was going to need for the rest of his life, and not just because his mom was very clearly fucking her boss. How could two people named Jennifer and Peter have the gall to name a child Barlow?

“I won’t be changing my mind,” Alana said.

“Nonsense. Every woman’s biological clock is ticking. Maybe you’re just distracting yours with whatever you young folks are doing nowadays,” Dr. Bradford, who could not be that much older than forty, said briskly. He patted her arm patronizingly. “Maybe if you lost some weight your symptoms wouldn’t be so bad. Have you thought about bariatric surgery?”

Alana crossed that off on her mental bingo card. “I’m here about the total hysterectomy, not weight loss surgery.”

He was almost at full bingo now. All he would have to say was–

“Well, as I said. I’m sure you’re going to change your mind about children once you get married. You’ll thank me one day.”

Bingo.

He dusted off his hands (he hadn’t even put on a pair of fucking gloves, she should have known), and turned to leave.

In retrospect, Alana knew that she shouldn’t have done what she did next. That on a scale of one to stupid…but she couldn’t. She had been living in the worst fucking room in Hotel California since she was diagnosed with endometriosis and did a Google deep dive and found out there was an alternative to living like this forever. An alternative that she had been trying to get to for longer than she had ever done anything besides existing.

There are only so many times Alana was capable of hearing the word no, and she had reached her limit. She couldn’t make nice to another doctor, couldn’t grit her teeth and smile as another person told her that one day she would want to have children, that she wasn’t capable of making decisions about her own body.

And so she lied.

“But I am married.”

Dr. Bradford stopped. “Your chart doesn’t say anything about being married.”

“It’s fairly recent.” Alana tried to look like she was grossly in love, while tucking her hands away from sight as discreetly as she could.

He walked back over to the computer in the corner of the room, and after a few moments, looked up. “You’re married to…Shannon Rhodes?” He tried to keep his face composed, but Alana knew that if she said yes, he would find a way to somehow make it even harder for her.

“No, she’s my emergency contact because my husband,” emphasis on husband, wheee, how heteronormative and 1950s housewife! “Goes on business trips fairly often, so it made more sense to have someone who I knew was consistently nearby, just in case.”

“Hmm.” Dr. Bradford looked puzzled. Well, as puzzled as he could with a forehead that wouldn’t move. “I don’t think we’d be able to make a firm decision until I also talked to your husband, since this is a decision that affects him, too.”

“Of course,” Alana gritted.

“Speak to Katya in the front to schedule a follow up with me,” Dr. Bradford instructed. “And of course, take your time. This is a permanent decision.”

And with that, he left the examining room, Nurse Jennifer trailing behind him.

Primal screaming was discouraged in doctor’s offices, right?

“So,” Alana said, later that night. “Picture this.” She gestured with the hand that Ophelia wasn’t filing. “There I was. At a bar full of finance bros, having my gin and tonic, extra tonic, looking glam as hell. I was young and naive, which was why I was hanging out in a bar full of finance bros.”

“When did this supposedly happen?” Ophelia asked.

“Uh. Like, a few years ago? Anyway. Me, looking hot. Nails perfectly done, although not as good as they are now. With the girls, because I may have been naive, but I was not dumb enough to attempt to brave finance bros alone. And we’re drinking and having a fun time and absolutely nobody has used a fake ID to get into the bar except maybe Matilda but it’s fine, and I see a guy across the bar. He’s tall and handsome and his suit is well-tailored and he’s not wearing a polo shirt and his name doesn’t end with a numeral.”

“And you can tell this from across the bar.”

“Of course. And he’s with his friends, all of whom are also not in polo shirts, and then,” Alana gestured wildly with one hand, nearly knocking into the nail polish. “Our eyes meet, and time stops, and the next thing I know, he’s telling me that I’m beautiful and he wants to buy me a drink and pay for my manicures for the rest of my life.”

“So, like a sugar daddy?”

“No. A romantic partner. Anyway, after that great pickup line, we start dating even though his parents disapprove of me, and it’s a whole angsty situation and we have incredible sex and fall deeply in love and after a while, his parents realize they do love me because I make their son happy. And then one morning we’re making breakfast and he tells me he wants to spend the rest of his life with me, and we get married almost immediately after because once you decide you’re going to get married, what’s the holdup? His parents aren’t thrilled but they understand, and his mom wants to throw some destination wedding in a few years and my parents are thrilled–”

“This version of you talks to your parents?”

“Oh, this version of me has a super functional life and family and also better skin and a much higher credit score and no student debt.”

“I see,” Ophelia said, clearly not seeing.

“Anyway, we get married and live happily ever after and never ever ever have a single fucking baby ever, the end.” Alana beamed up at her.

Ophelia turned off the nail file. “That’s your plan?”

“What’s wrong with my plan?”

“What about medical tourism?” Ophelia asked. “One of my old coworkers went to DR to get some work done. Why can’t you do that?”

“There’s a gynecologic surgeon who works out of LIJ that I’ve heard great things about,” Alana said, as Ophelia went back to filing off the previous set, a blue lace agate and rose quartz inspired manicure, complete with little crystals glued onto the nails. All that calming energy at her fingertips would have really come in handy to keep herself from punching Dr. Kevin Bradford in his smug smug face or skewering his dick with her vagina stilettos. Unfortunately, sometimes crystals did not work as Alana wished they did. “As long as I can get a referral from my doctor, the insurance will cover my surgery and recuperation, and I can take off from work using FMLA. If I went out of the country, I’d have to pay for everything out of pocket. That’s like, the final straw, last, last, last resort.”

“Fake marrying someone is less of a last resort?”

“It’s cheaper,” Alana replied. “Going out of the country for cosmetic surgery is one thing. Having your uterus and ovaries removed is a whole different ball game. And there’s also the part where I may have told the doctor that I was married, and I’d be more than happy to bring my husband to the next appointment so he could also tell the doctor he wanted me to have the hysterectomy.”

Ophelia’s magnificent eyebrows shot up, and she put down the nail file completely. “You told the doctor you were married,” she repeated. “Hold on. Shannon!” she bellowed.

“What?” Shannon yelled back. “Is it important? They’re almost finished having sex!”

Living with a person who wrote romance novels was weird at times.

“It is, but everyone can orgasm first!” Ophelia called back. She pointed her nail file at Alana. “Not a singular word until Shannon comes out from her cave after the monster has appropriately fucked whichever girl this book is about.”

Alana mimed zipping her mouth shut.

“I cannot believe you right now,” Ophelia said as she started filing again. “And this is coming from me, the bitch who blew up her entire life and career after spending approximately eight bazillion dollars on college tuition.”

“I’m not allowed to comment but you are?”

“Bitch, you just fucking told me you lied to a doctor about being married. To a whole ass man. You don’t even know any men!”

“I know some men,” Alana argued.

“Is that the point?? No it is not, and you know it.”

Shannon walked into the living room, dressed in what Alana could only describe as Deadline Chic. Oversized sweatshirt, all the hair piled on top of her head, and her oversized bluelight glasses. “What’s on fire?”

“Your roommate’s life,” Ophelia tattled.

“More than usual?” Shannon asked.

Alana used her free hand to flip Shannon off, before blowing her a kiss.

“The doctor’s appointment,” Shannon remembered, coming to sit at the table with Alana and Ophelia. “And you have a follow up appointment in like, two months, right?”

“Two months?” Ophelia gasped. “How the hell are you supposed to find a man to con into marrying you in two months?”

“Hold the fucking phone. What is this about you needing to marry a man in two months?” Shannon demanded.

“I was desperate! This damn uterus has a permanent eviction coming its way, come hell or high water. I can’t keep living like this.” Alana slumped back into the chair, careful not to move her hands. “I’ve never been able to go on a proper vacation because all my PTO gets used up every year on days off for period pain. My esophagus is probably permanently fucked from the amount of throwing up that happens every month. My liver is probably damaged from all the painkillers. And let’s not even mention my tooth enamel. Do you know my dentist tried to stage an intervention for me? The same dentist that told me that I don’t need lip injections. Unsolicited, by the way.”

“Please tell me you have a new dentist,” Ophelia said.

“I do, and nobody in the office has mentioned the state of my lips once. But the point is. I’ve lived with endometriosis for too long. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to let seven different misogynistic asshole doctors get in the way of me throwing a permanent goodbye party for my uterus because they’re concerned about what my husband thinks, because maybe we’ll change our minds one day and decide we want children. Even though I have no interest in changing my mind ever, and I don’t have a fucking husband.”

Ophelia nodded sympathetically. “Men are the worst.”

“Three of them were women!”

“No.”

“Yes. And when doctor number seven made mention of my husband, I just…let him believe I had one. I don’t want to have to wait another three months to find a new PCP and make an appointment with them to get a referral to another specialist and make an appointment with them and wait another three months just to have to go through the same thing again. We’ve hit the desperate times calling for desperate measures bit.”

Shannon clucked her tongue. “Well, you know I’m all for you getting rid of your uterus, but seriously, Alana. I don’t think this is gonna work out the way you think it will.”

Ophelia laughed. “I was just gonna say I didn’t approve of your methodology, but Shannon has a point.”

“Well, if either of you come up with an alternative brilliant plan, please let me know. Because I’ve gone through all the alternatives in my mind, and they haven’t played out.” Alana ticked off the options on the hand that Ophelia wasn’t working on. “Sell the uterus? They’d file a claim with the Better Business Bureau for false advertising, and that would even be if I managed to sell it on the dark web. Knowing me, I’d stumble across some undercover cop looking to bust people buying black market uteruses. I’d donate it to science, but in general they don’t seem to want to take organs from people who are still living. Like, if there was some sort of Dexter-type who thought female reproductive organs tasted extra sexy, I’d figure out a way to give him the meal of his lifetime. But alas.”

“Sometimes you worry me, Alana.” Ophelia pulled out the enormous keychain of dip powder samples. “So now that you lied to your doctor and told him you had a husband?—”

“Well, technically…no, I lied. Fully. With my whole chest and everything.”

“So now that you lied to your doctor and told him you had a husband, how exactly do you plan on finding yourself one in the next two months?” Shannon asked.

“…I haven’t quite figured that out yet.”