Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Maisy
That was the most embarrassing thing that has ever happened to me in the history of embarrassing. And that’s saying something because situations like these are always happening to me.
It’s more embarrassing than the time the school announced that I’d been voted Homecoming Queen.
I’d gasped, stood up from the lunch table, and started to thank everyone who supported me, only to be informed that there’d been a mix-up, and my friend Missy Baptiste was actually Homecoming Queen.
Which made more sense, seeing as Missy was actually popular and a beauty queen pageant winner.
It happened again in junior year when the drama club listed “Maisy Baptiste” on the posters for the lead of the school play.
By then, I’d learned my lesson and knew better than to celebrate, and sure enough, it was a mix-up.
I wasn’t even in the play–just a stagehand, and the only reason I got that part was because Missy was my best friend.
No one ever wants me–they always want Missy. Or they confuse Maisy with Daisy and get me mixed up with my grandmother.
The point is, there have been plenty of opportunities to graduate summa cum laude from the school of Mortifying Ordeals, and I have my degree.
But today I got my Ph.D. Not only did I end up telling my doctor crush–the hottest man in the state–about my awful ovaries, but I fell off the table, and he had to catch me.
Not that I minded getting swept up in his powerful arms.
I draw in a breath. I can still smell his cologne, notes of cedar and sandalwood. He touched me, and I keep reliving his hand stroking my belly.
I know it wasn’t supposed to be erotic, but to me, it was the most sensual thing I’ve ever experienced. He’s so big, he makes me feel petite. And beautiful. It was fun to imagine for a moment–me as the fairy-tale princess getting wooed by the handsome prince.
It’s only a fantasy, but it sure feels good.
It’s the only thing about today that isn’t terrible. I am seriously thinking about faking my own death. Or at least running away from home.
I’m hiding in my bedroom when my grandma knocks on my door. “Maisy?”
“Come in.” I’m lying in bed with all my favorite stuffies. The overhead light is off, but the room is lit by the purple and white fairy lights I bought online.
“Dr. Matthias just came by. Said you left this behind.” She enters with my bag. Right. In my rush to escape, I left it on the patient bed. I’d realized it as soon as I got outside but was way too mortified to go back for it, even though it had my wallet and my phone.
I figured I wouldn’t need them if I faked my own death. I’d just pay for a new identity.
Now I might actually die of embarrassment.
“Did you go to the clinic?” Daisy asks. She has me call her Daisy, not Grandma. Says it keeps her young.
“Yes.”
“Good for you. Are you feeling better?”
I nod. I actually am feeling better, just from discussing my symptoms with a sympathetic listener. I’m also grateful that Daisy was here to answer the door for Dr. Hunk. I can’t face him, but I find myself bracing for Daisy’s barrage of questions.
To my surprise, she lets out a relieved sigh but doesn’t pry further. “Is it okay if I head out for a bit? I’m off to check in with Old Man Duncan. He says he’s noticed a strange man hanging around his house.”
“What?”
“Don’t you worry yourself. He’s probably making it up. He wants to set up a neighborhood watch. I’ll only be a half an hour.” She waves a hand.
I can’t believe I’m getting off so easily. Normally, Daisy pokes into every boring detail of my life. She even arranged my prom date. “I’ll be fine.”
“That’s my girl. I’m making tortilla soup for dinner. I even got avocados to have on the side. You just rest up.” She shuts the door behind her, leaving me alone.
I dig into my backpack and notice a brown bag that wasn’t there before. Inside is a bottle of prescription pills–birth control and pain pills. The instructions on how to take them are written in Dr. Hunk’s strong script.
Stop calling him Dr. Hunk!
The birth control pills will help even out your cycle. The pain pills are for when you’re in pain.
I take one immediately with a gulp from my water bottle.
My bag holds my journal and my phone. I have a few texts from Missy, but there’s another text from a contact I’ve never seen before. It reads only “Matthias.”
What? Oh...oh wow.
Butterflies fill my belly. He entered his number into my phone. And he texted me:
You have an appointment with Nancy tomorrow at ten am. I told Daisy you’re to take the day off and rest. The painkillers will help, and Nancy will update your chart with your symptoms. PCOS is manageable with birth control.
Set an alarm on your phone to remind yourself to take the pill at the same time every day, so you don’t miss a day.
Rest now. I mean it.
I can hear his deep voice giving me the command. My pussy clenches. Goosebumps spread all over me. God, that’s hot.
Good girl, he said. And I almost came right then and there.
While I hold the phone, it starts ringing with an unknown number.
It’s my dad, blowing up my phone. I made the mistake of answering him and had to listen to his drunken ramble for fifteen minutes before I finally gave up and hung up on him.
My phone buzzes with a voicemail. I shouldn’t listen to it, but I press play.
“Flower girl,” my dad slurs. “I miss you. I want to see you. How ‘bout you come visit me for your birthday? I’ll buy you a ticket, and we can hang. It’ll be like old times…
” The message rambles on and on. He sounds like a loving father, except he’s probably drunk.
My birthday is on Valentine’s day, and I wanted it to be special.
I don’t want to spend days traveling by bus, only to have him take me to a dingy, smoke filled casino, talk me into buying him drinks, and forget about me as soon as he’s had a few.
I need to set a boundary with him, but the little girl inside me who’d do anything for her father’s attention just wants to call him back, apologize, and promise to visit him. I wish I could just cut ties with him.
I don’t have the energy to even think about this right now.
Baby steps.
I’ll figure it out later when I’m feeling better.
I pull out my New Year’s resolution list and cross off the second item. See the doctor about PCOS. I did it, and it feels good.
You did a brave thing coming in today, Dr. Stark said. Almost as if he knew I needed the praise.
It might be my imagination, but the bag handle holds the scent of his subtle cologne. I inhale it and imagine him saying Good girl, and it gives me the strength to do what I need to do next.
I pull out my phone and change his name to Dr. Stark. Then I text him,
Thank you.
I use punctuation and everything. I don’t gush over him or ghost him; I just send one text. Like a normal person.
Then, I collapse back on my frilly bedspread with my hands over my face.
I’ve got to get my crush under control.