Chapter 41
Forty-One
“Ihope he chews with his mouth open.”
I put a palm against the front door for balance as I pull on my shoes. “Gee, Mom, thanks.”
She folds her arms over her chest. “I don’t like this, Reese. You’re smart, you’re beautiful, you have Gavin.” She gives me a pointed look. “You don’t need to resort to headhunting sperm. And Sylvia said tha—”
“No.” We are not talking about that lunatic. I grab my purse. “Call me if you need me, and I’ll be home in a couple hours.” She opens her mouth. “And no painting.” Then: “Or tapsersizing.”
Her frowning face is the last thing I see before I slam the front door. I descend the porch steps, muttering as I dig through my purse for the keys until I collide with another body.
Gavin.
“Hi,” I say, breathless.
“Hi yourself.”
He pecks a kiss on my lips and that brief point of contact warms me. He’s smiling, just showered so his hair’s curling a little at the ends, and in a T-shirt and jeans, devastatingly handsome.
He says hello with a kiss like it’s the kind of thing we do. Maybe it is.
I drag a finger along his jaw. Today it’s freshly shaved and the texture new.
He’s been with his mom all day, helping her move. He came into the store between trips to her new place to say hi while I worked, but even just a few hours away from him makes me feel like I’m seeing him for the first time in weeks.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Everyone got tired of the boxes. Addie’s staying there tonight.
” He smiles something sinister, then raises his hand and flicks a folded piece of paper pinched between his index and middle finger.
“I thought I’d come over here and convince you to have dinner with me.
” He flicks the paper again. “And I have something for you.”
I grin. “Really?”
“An official document, if you will.” His focus shifts to my clothes—I’m in black pants and a white silk top. My hair’s done, I’m wearing makeup. I look like I’m going on a date because, well, I’m kind of going on a date. “You going somewhere?”
“Um.” I return to fumbling for the keys in my purse then glance back at Mom’s house like the answer will be revealed. “Out.”
His “Out?” twists my stomach.
Guilt ripples through me even though I’m doing the thing I came here to do that he’s okay with me doing.
I clear my throat. “With one of the donors. I met him on a dating app.”
Silence.
“But it’s not a date. Not a date, date, you know?”
Silence.
“There will be no punched noses or closets.” Because that’s what he said he didn’t want any more of. “Or anything.”
He says nothing.
“I’m only staying long enough to make sure his nose is as advertised and there are no baby kinks.
” All of a sudden, I’m thirsty. Like the journey from my mother’s porch to here was through the Sahara Desert and not a rose bush-lined pathway.
“He’s a doctor, so . . .” So thirsty. “I won’t be late though.
And we’ll be in public. That Italian place off 65, what’s it called? ”
He doesn’t answer.
“I can call you after.”
The next stretch of silence involves his jaw clenching and a look of hurt in his eyes so palpable I feel it around every bone like a strand of barbed wire.
Finally, he says, “Don’t worry about it.”
He gestures with the piece of paper in his hands then drops it into my purse.
“Gavin.” I reach for him, but he takes a step back.
After a long look, he stuffs his hands in his pockets and turns away.
“Gavin!” I call to his back. “It’s not a real date!”
He goes into his house, without looking back.
He has no right to be mad. I’m doing exactly what I said I would to have the baby I told him I wanted—that he said we’d figure out. If anyone should be mad, it’s me. I told him what I was doing, and he said okay.
Fuck that.
And him.
And my sisters.
And Mom.
And Sylvia.
I stomp to the Volkswagen and shove the key into the ignition.
“Private equity?” Rhett asks with a chuckle. “Where’s the scythe.”
I smile and tilt my sparkling water toward him. “Why do you think my purse is so big?”
“I had my suspicions.” His smile and gaze linger.
He’s attractive—good teeth, good hair, good skin, good body based on his dating app pictures—and based on how he’s smiling and his easy demeanor, he’s attracted to me.
The server sets a glass of wine in front of him, and he thanks him then lifts his glass to mine. “To new beginnings.”
I smile and clink my glass with his. “New beginnings.” I take a sip. “Tell me about your practice.”
“From the beginning?”
With my nod, he does. About his decision to go to medical school and how he ended up going into family medicine.
He started out wanting to be a surgeon but realized so many modern medical conditions could be prevented and saw family medicine as an opportunity to facilitate real change by addressing the root cause.
It doesn’t take long for me to realize he’s the one. Out of all the donors, Rhett is completely as advertised: He’s attractive, tall, educated, nice, and funny. He’s a catch.
I wonder what Gavin’s doing.
No I don’t.
“Like cancer,” Rhett says. “So many types of cancer could be avoided by lifestyle changes if they were implemented early enough. That’s what I want to do. Help people heal before things get worse.”
“I think Chuck Norris’s tears can cure cancer,” I say over the rim of my glass. “Too bad he’s never cried.”
It hangs there.
“Sorry.” I set my glass down. “Bad joke.”
“Chuck Norris?” Rhett’s brow furrows. “Didn’t he pass away?”
Right.
I clear my throat. “Making heaven a safer place, no doubt.”
He sips his wine, and I would love to unsay that.
Gavin would think that was funny.
Or he’d say it’s funny then not think it’s funny at all because apparently what he says isn’t what he means.
“Would you still practice medicine if you didn’t need the money?” I ask.
Rhett considers this. “Sure. Volunteer with underprivileged populations.”
That’s a nice answer. Charitable. Probably why he donated his sperm.
Gavin would mow less grass and blow more glass. That isn’t as noble but is significantly more interesting. And rhymes.
“What about you?” He leans back in his seat and drapes an easy arm over the empty chair next to him. “You in private equity for life?”
“Hm.” I spin my glass and press my tongue against my cheek. “If I ever change careers, maybe I’d do something in wine.”
His face brightens with a smile. “You’re in the right town.”
Rhett’s four years younger than me; Gavin is ten years younger than me.
Too bad I don’t care about Gavin but have come to realize I would be furious if he were out with another woman hunting her eggs like the Easter Bunny, as my mother so annoyingly put it.
“Where do you see yourself in five years?” Rhett asks. “Kids?”
This reminds me of Trish’s inquisition, only this time, instead of having no answer, the answer appears in front of me as bright and bold as a yellow balloon with a name written on it.
I stab it with an imaginary knife.
“I want kids, yes.” Maybe yours. I clear my throat, thirsty once again even after two glasses of water. “And my career is important.”
“You tied to Chicago?” he asks.
Gavin has no right to be mad I’m here. No. Right. He knew this is what I was doing, I told him I want kids and how I was having them. He’s a hypocrite. Who wants to change me. Good luck, buddy.
I sigh. “Well…” When Addie asked me to live with them, I could see it.
And the barndo. Even though I have a million-dollar home, I could see myself living in a shed.
Not with Gavin—because I don’t love him—but with Addie.
My phone dings with a text. “Sorry,” I murmur, pulling my purse from the back of my chair.
Rhett smiles warmly. “Duty calls, I get it.”
I dig through my bag, finding Gavin’s folded paper before the phone and pull both out. I skim the text from my mom then unfold the paper in my lap.
I read it. Twice. Three times. Seven thousand times, I don’t know. Enough times my heart stops before pounding full speed ahead.
“Everything okay?” Rhett asks.
I refold the paper.
“No.” I stand and sling my purse over my shoulder. “My mom’s having a dizzy spell from tap dancing—tapsersizing. She just had brain surgery and it’s part of it. I have to go.”
His face fills with concern as he stands. “Can I help?”
“She’ll be fine.” I scoot my chair in. “Her biggest issue is following directions. Surgery can’t fix stubborn, you know?” I give him a look he chuckles at. “I’m sorry about this.”
His eyes bounce all over me, no doubt trying to figure out if I’m lying or running. “Rain check?”
Rhett’s a good man. He’s attractive, nice.
Educated and accomplished. He’d volunteer if he didn’t need the money.
He kind of reminds me of Matt, now that I think about it.
If I didn’t want to run out of here like my ass was on fire, I might ask him how he feels about lollipops.
He’s a doctor—he probably has jars of them all over his office.
“Um.” I look at the table, then him. His pressed navy blue button-down and styled hair. I don’t want lollipop sperm. “I might be in love with someone else.”
His eyes widen—he expected me to say that about as much as I expected to say it.
“I have to go.” My hesitation is purely for show. “Sorry.”
I don’t care what Gavin’s doing, but that doesn’t stop me from running every red light between this restaurant and him.