Ch. 25 – Prem
S aturday was incredible…but
But…
That word bounced inside Prem’s skull as he numbly stared out the windshield. In the driver’s seat, Layla piloted her SUV through town, her headlights piercing the growing twilight.
A knife wouldn’t be strong enough to cut the tension between them. Maybe a chainsaw?
In med school, he’d learned the human heart weighed an average of 8 to 12 ounces, but now he knew his textbooks had lied. His heart weighed at least 10 pounds in his chest. It sagged against his rib cage. He’d seen the look on Layla’s face back at the clinic, known the words about to come out of her mouth were nothing near I feel inextricably drawn to you and want to explore our feelings in a healthy adult way, like maybe on this exam room table, right now.
No, she wanted to forget what had happened.
But Prem couldn’t do that.
“So, about our discussion—” Layla began.
“Why exactly are you driving?” Prem cut her off. “I’m perfectly capable of following Google Maps.”
It was insanely childish, he knew, but maybe if she didn’t actually say the words out loud, then her feelings…or lack of feelings wouldn’t be true.
Layla frowned. “I know where Jim McDonald’s farm is. Google Maps doesn’t always get the back roads right.”
“And can we please address the elephant in the room…or car?” Prem continued.
Layla’s hands tighten on the wheel. “Yes. It’s just that—”
“His name is McDonald? And he owns a farm?” Prem cut her off again. “Really?”
Her mouth tightened. “What? He’s not allowed to own a farm because his last name is McDonald?”
“It’s just a little on the nose, wouldn’t you say?”
“And he’s not old, by the way.” She took a hard right onto a gravel road. “Jim’s solidly middle-aged. But Prem, we really need to talk about—”
“What do you have in here?” Prem heaved her massive purse onto his lap. “Like, seriously, are you some kind of Doomsday prepper?” He hefted the colorful, patchwork bag as if weighing it. “Is there a battle ax and fire starter kit in here?”
“It’s a perfectly normal purse,” Layla replied tartly. “Women need lots of things.”
Prem peered into the purse.
“Hey!” she snapped.
“Let’s see.” He tapped on the overhead light. “We’ve got some lip gloss, a compact, a bag of pretzels, a pack of tissues…oh, a screwdriver.” He held up the item in question.
“That’s come in handy more than you might imagine,” Layla said.
The SUV bumped across a winding gravel road, darkness stewing just outside the reach of Layla’s headlights.
Prem resumed his archaeological dig. “Hairbrush, more lip gloss, box of Band-Aids, eye drops, small pink can of mace.” He glanced at her. “I remember that.”
“You were lucky I didn’t use it on you.”
“If I remember correctly, you were holding the bottle backward. You would’ve maced yourself.”
“Would not!”
Prem looked down again. “Damn, woman, how many tampons do you have?”
“How dare you!”
She swatted at his hands, but he simply scooched closer to the passenger door. “Okay, large bottle of Advil, another lip gloss, a wad of expired coupons, a small Bible, another lip gloss. How many lip glosses do you own?”
“None of your beeswax.” She wrenched the wheel, turning onto a tiny ribbon of road Prem hadn’t even seen. The engine of her SUV revved as they bounced down a rocky dirt path.
“You’re invading my privacy,” she insisted. “I think that’s a federal crime. I’m gonna call the FBI if you don’t put my purse down right now.”
“Travel stick of deodorant, nail clippers,” he continued. “A book about Daring Greatly or something.” He paused before pulling the next object out of the purse.
“Layla, why do you have a roll of duct tape in your purse?”
She glanced over at him, an expression of supreme innocence on her beautiful face. “Oh, that’s where that went.”
She hit the brakes. Hard. Prem jerked forward, nearly slamming into the dashboard before his seat belt snapped rigid against his sternum.
“We’re here,” Layla said.
Prem dropped the duct tape back into the bag. Beyond the headlights, he glimpsed the outline of a neat farmhouse surrounded by fields. The dimming twilight outlined a dozen or so large shapes in the field. Some cows lowered their heads to pull at the grasses while others stared forward, slowly chewing their cud.
Prem’s mind snapped into veterinary mode as he set down Layla’s purse. He jumped out of her SUV and pulled his medical kit from the back.
“This way,” Layla called. “Jim said Buttercup was in the south pasture.”
Prem followed her lithe figure, her braid swinging like a rope. She fearlessly veered into the grass. The cows lifted their massive heads, looking at them with black, liquid eyes as they passed. Prem fumbled in his bag, found his headlamp, and put it on his head.
Layla held her phone out in front of her, its flashlight offering a small puddle of light for her steps.
“Jim?” she called.
“Over here,” a gruff voice replied.
A minute later, they found a man sitting on his haunches in front of a heifer. The cow was lying on the ground, never a good sign. Even outside the light, Prem could see the animal was in clear distress.
“How’s Buttercup?” Layla asked.
Jim McDonald stood. He was short but sturdy, his hair peppered with gray. Thick arms showcased muscle earned the old-fashioned way.
“Not good,” he reported. “I wouldn’t call you otherwise. Usually, I just leave my girls alone when it’s time to drop their calves, but Buttercup’s been at it all day. I think the calf isn’t positioned right.”
The man’s gaze moved from Layla to Prem, and his eyebrows rose. “He the new vet?”
“Yes, this is Dr. Dhawan,” Layla said.
“He’s young,” Jim stated. “Doesn’t look like he’d know the front end of the cow from the back.”
“ He can’t help his age,” Prem snapped. “And he interned with a livestock specialist at Southern California Emergency Veterinary Hospital and attended over a dozen breech births.”
He rolled up his sleeves, dug into his bag, and snapped on a pair of gloves. Dropping to his heels, he placed a hand on the cow’s head. She was clearly in agony.
“We’re going to get you through this, Buttercup,” he said. Moving his hands over to her swollen abdomen, he didn’t like what he felt. It was hard to tell from the outside, but the shape of the calf seemed wrong. Her contractions were also weak, suggesting that she was tiring quickly.
“Do you know when she went into labor?” he asked.
Jim scratched at his beard. “Around noon, I noticed her starting to act antsy. Started crying around 1 or 2.”
Prem looked into the cow’s terrified, pain-clouded eyes. “She’s older, isn’t she?”
Jim nodded. “Thirteen. She was one of the first cows I brought to the farm. I didn’t mean for her to get pregnant, but I rented a bull. He had other ideas. Ran right through the electric fence.” The farmer smiled weakly. “Buttercup has always been a flirt.”
Prem sat back on his heels. An older cow laboring this long wasn’t a good sign. Jim’s hunch was probably correct, but there was only one way to find out. Without hesitating, Prem slid his arms into Buttercup up to his elbows.
“Damn,” he hissed. “The calf is breech. Completely backward.”
He looked up at Jim. “I’m going to have to turn it around. That’ll be tricky enough, but Buttercup’s exhausted. I’m not sure she’ll be able to get the calf out.”
“I don’t want to lose her.” The faintest wobble hit Jim’s voice.
Prem pulled his arms out of the cow. “I’ll do everything I can. If Buttercup can’t finish the birth, I’ll need to perform a cesarean section. That’s not ideal for the mother or calf, but—”
“Just do what’s necessary to save Buttercup,” Jim instructed him.
Prem nodded. He put his hand on Buttercup’s heaving side. “Okay, lady. I need you to be strong for me. We’re going to get through this together.”
Layla dropped down next to him. “What can I do?”
Prem didn’t even bother to argue. By now, he knew Layla would insist on helping whether he wanted her to or not. And, right now, he did need a second set of hands. Layla may not be a veterinary technician, but she was nearly as good. She had years of on-the-job training and possessed a calm, intent demeanor that helped ease his nerves.
“I’ll have you work on the outside,” Prem told her. “Put your hands here and here. When I tell you, push clockwise.”
Layla nodded and immediately placed her hands on the cow.
“Anything I can do to assist?” Jim asked.
Prem shook his head and caught Layla’s gaze. “We’ve got this.”
“Sure, sure.” Jim nodded. “I’ll start getting the other animals fed and penned so they don’t bother you.”
Prem barely noticed when the farmer left. His entire focus dialed in on the cow. He slipped his hands inside Buttercup again.
“On my mark,” he told Layla. “Three, two, one.”
Slowly, he shifted the calf inside the cow. Layla followed his lead from the outside, matching his pace. They repeated the effort three more times until Prem pulled his arms free and sat back on his heels, breathing hard.
“There. We got the calf in the right position, but that was the easy part.” Poor Buttercup had been in labor for at least seven hours, her body trying to push out a calf that couldn’t come. The heifer was exhausted and in pain. Could she birth the calf naturally, or would Prem have to risk her life and the life of her calf by performing a cesarean section here in the field?
“We’re going to help her push,” he instructed Layla. “Keep your hands on her. When you feel a contraction, push the calf this way.” He demonstrated, pushing toward the cow’s dilated opening.
Layla nodded.
Prem positioned himself on the other side of Buttercup across from Layla. Their hands lined up together on the cow’s heaving side, their fingers almost touching.
“There. Contraction,” Prem barked.
He and Layla pushed.
“Come on, Buttercup,” Layla coaxed the cow. “You can do it. Your calf is ready now.”
A low, pained moan erupted from the cow.
“Okay, contraction over,” Prem said. “Give her a little while to rest.” He tried not to frown. The calf hadn’t moved much during the contraction. Buttercup was out of energy.
“She’ll make it,” Layla insisted across from him. “Buttercup is strong.”
In the beam of Prem’s headlamp, Layla’s face was stern, her eyes shining like topaz stones. He couldn’t help but believe her.
Another contraction hit, and they pushed the calf down the birth canal. This time, Prem felt more progress. Buttercup was tiring quickly, but she might be able to do it. The contraction eased. They both sat back. The sky had grown inky black, now dotted with stars and the faint winks of satellites.
The silence stretched. Layla lifted her hands from Buttercup in order to grab her braid.
“So,” Layla glanced at him over the cow. “I know this is awkward timing, but we didn’t finish our conversation at the clinic.”
“Layla.” The word was a prayer. A plea. Don’t do this, his heart begged.
“What happened this weekend was special,” she began.
Special? She might as well have smashed his balls with a sledgehammer. “But, well,” she continued, her eyes downcast to her hands. “I’m not ready for, um, something new right now.”
“What does that even mean?” Prem demanded.
She started a little at the sharpness in his voice.
“It means I just got out of a 10-year relationship. It means I was supposed to get married in a month and a half. It means I need time to think and breathe and figure out how to stop crying every night.”
Oh.
“Oh,” Prem said out loud.
“I’m scared.” Her voice was barely audible above the chorus of crickets. “I was so wrong about Cal. I…I don’t trust myself.” She stared at him for a long…long time. Then lowered her eyes.
His soul crumpled like a paper crane under the wheels of a tank.
“I’m not ready,” she whispered.
“Contraction.” Prem’s voice was monotone. Layla placed her hands on Buttercup and together they pushed.
The cow groaned.
“I’m not sure she’ll be able to do it,” Prem said. “She’s out of strength.”
“She can do it,” Layla insisted. “Come on, Buttercup,” she cooed. “Just a few more pushes and you’ll see your baby.”
A cold, heavy silence fell between them, broken by Buttercup’s ragged breathing.
“Say something, Prem,” Laya begged.
He wanted to tell her everything, how their experience in the stables had lifted him up. Brought sunlight and hope into the darkest places inside of him. How his body hummed as soon as he heard the back door of the clinic open in the morning. How her smile was his oasis. Her laughter like wine, intoxicating him with warmth and comfort.
But the words stuck in his throat. Saturday had been the best day of his life. To her, it’d been a mistake.
So, he lied.
“I was actually thinking the same thing,” he said. “We can’t repeat what happened this weekend.
“Oh…. Really?” She sounded surprised.
“You’re my employee. This is an HR nightmare.”
She nodded, her lips pursing in the glow of his headlight as she stroked Buttercup’s side. “You’re right. Of course, you’re right.”
Prem should have stopped there. The excuse was plausible. They could just put this all behind them. Pretend it never happened. But Prem didn’t want to pretend. Her words had lacerated him to ribbons.
“And, well, you’re not my type,” he added.
“Not your type?”
“Contraction.”
They pushed. Buttercup squealed in pain. Her body shivered and twitched. Reaching inside of her, Prem helped pull the calf forward.
When the contraction ended, Prem put a hand on Buttercup’s side. “Give me one more good push, girl,” he begged her.
“What do you mean, not your type?” A note of pique lingered in Layla’s voice. Sweat beaded her brow, and she pushed away several stray wisps of blonde hair from her eyes.
“You’re too nice.”
She bit out a sharp laugh. “Too nice? Is that supposed to be a criticism?”
Prem shrugged. “Take it however you want.”
“Well, you’re not my type either, since we’re on the subject,” she snapped.
“Oh yeah?” he challenged. “Do tell, please.”
“You’re grumpy. And mean. And…and… grumpy. I like nice guys.”
Prem’s jaw ached. Probably because he was busy grounding his molars into dust. “Well, glad we got that out in the open. We’re obviously completely wrong for each other.”
“Completely wrong,” she agreed.
“We probably dodged a bullet.”
“Definitely.”
“Contraction!”
Prem guided. Layla pushed.
“It has to be this one. She can’t go another round,” Prem said.
Buttercup pushed. Two spindly legs appeared from her opening.
“There you go,” Layla encouraged her. “Come on! Almost there!”
Buttercup writhed, and Prem could feel her energy ebbing. She wasn’t going to be able to push out the calf.
“Push!” he ordered Layla.
“I am!” she hollered.
Prem moved his arms further inside Buttercup, found the shoulders, and pulled as hard as he dared. A head appeared.
Prem pulled.
Layla pushed.
Buttercup shivered, and the calf slid out, right into Prem’s lap.
He quickly scooped mucus from its mouth and watched with relief as its slick sides expanded with breath. He set the newborn carefully on the ground. Its legs wheeled, and then it slowly found its footing.
“Buttercup, you did it!” Layla cried and threw her arms around the cow’s neck. Buttercup huffed out a weary breath but managed to shift into a more restful position.
The wet little calf bobbled over to her. Prem watched with immense relief as Buttercup nuzzled her baby and began washing him with her tongue.
Over the cow, he met Layla’s gaze. She grinned at him, her eyes sparkling with wonder. In spite of the pain of his bruised heart, Prem smiled back. Together, he and Layla had just brought a new life into the world. They’d saved Buttercup. And now, together, they witnessed the first, transcendent moments when mother and offspring imprinted on each other.
The look on Layla’s face told him she shared his feelings of awe and delight. It was all he could do not to move around the cow and pull her into his arms.
Reluctantly, he broke eye contact and peeled off his gloves. Another minute later, Buttercup pushed out the afterbirth. Just as Prem finished tying off the umbilical cord, Jim returned, a large flashlight illuminating the path in front of him.
“Buttercup did it!” Layla announced before the farmer could even ask.
“Mother and calf are both doing well,” Prem added. “Buttercup will probably need a few days to heal and regain her energy. She’s got a male calf, and he’s healthy as a bull. Literally.”
“Male? Damn,” Jim grumbled. He rubbed at his jaw. “Well, he comes from one of my best milkers. Maybe I can use him to stud.”
Prem stood. “I’m happy to come back out in a week or two to get him vaccinated and do another checkup. It was a rough birth. He doesn’t seem worse for the wear, but I wouldn’t mind following up just to see how he’s doing.”
“Sure, sure,” Jim nodded. “Can’t thank you enough, Dr. Dhawan. You really came through for me.” He stuck out a calloused hand.
“Of course,” Prem responded. “But you really don’t want to be shaking my hand. It’s been up inside a cow for the past hour.”
“Fair enough.” Jim chuckled. He glanced at Layla as she wiped an arm across her beaded forehead. “Well, why don’t you two head to the house and clean up before you go? Door’s unlocked, and the guest room has a full bathroom with a shower.”
For the first time, Prem looked down at himself. His button-up and slacks were stained beyond redemption from catching the newly born calf. Layla didn’t look much better. Tufts of blonde hair stood out of her braid, and her jeans were nearly as dirty as his pants.
“That’d be great, actually,” she said.
“Go on up,” Jim said, jutting his chin toward the house. “I still have a few chores to finish up, but I’ll make sure to send you home with some food and whatever payment you need, Dr. Dhawan.”
The trek to the farmhouse was long and dark. The feelings of awe and wonder that had filled Prem after the successful birth ebbed with each step, leaving a heavy ache in its place. Layla was a silent shape beside him, the only sound the light crunch of her steps. Far away, an owl released a haunting cry.
By the time they reached the farmhouse, Prem’s legs felt heavy with exhaustion. Layla opened the door, and they moved through a rustic living room. They shuffled over hardwood floors and neat rugs and around a fabric sofa and stone fireplace. Down the hall, they found the guest bedroom with a quilted cover on the bed and framed pastoral paintings on the wall.
Both moved toward the bathroom in tandem, nearly touching shoulders as they stopped in front of the open doorway.
Prem glared at Layla. “I just had my arms inside a cow.”
“Too bad. Ladies first.” She turned and shimmed sideways through the opening. Before Prem could argue, the door closed sharply in his face.
“I take it back!” he yelled. “You’re not nice at all!”
“Well, you’re still grumpy!” she responded a moment before he heard the hiss of the shower come to life.
Fuming, Prem stomped out of the guest bedroom, found the kitchen, and stuck his arms under the sink. As he scrubbed soap up and down his arms, he couldn’t help but imagine Layla in the shower. The hot beads of water hitting her skin, rolling down her breasts and flat stomach, dampening the dirty blonde curls of her sex.
Prem laid his forehead against the edge of the sink. His balls ached. His penis strained against his pants.
He was such a fucking liar. Every part of him wanted her. He liked that Layla was nice. Loved it. Adored her compassion, her generosity, her utter goodness. He wanted to be with her. Wanted to explore where this could go no matter the risks or consequences.
Only, she didn’t feel the same.
Wait.
Something tingled in Prem’s brain.
That’s not what she’d said. He recalled her words.
I’m scared.
I don’t trust myself.
That wasn’t a denial. That was fear.
Did that mean she wanted him…possibly as much as he wanted her?
Prem remembered the fire that had flickered in her eyes in the horse stable. The sounds she’d made. The way her core had been slick and ready for him.
And tonight, after the birth, they’d shared something without words, connected beyond just physical attraction. There was something more between them. Something Prem couldn’t ignore or give up.
Layla had felt it, too. He knew she had.
Prem blinked. The hot water from the sink still gushed over his arms, but the soap had long ago swirled down the drain. He turned off the faucet. Conviction pumped through him.
Pushing back his uncertainty and fear, Prem returned to the guest bedroom. He paused for just a moment in front of the bathroom door.
Was this insane? He’d never done something so impulsive.
But his heart told him to try.
He wrapped his hand around the knob only to feel a bolt of fear. Had she locked the door? Would he have to bellow his feelings through layers of plywood and shower noise? The knob turned in his hand, and he stepped into the bathroom.
Layla’s head popped around the daisy-print shower curtain. “What are you doing?” she squeaked. She’d piled her braid on top of her head, and her skin was pink from the hot water.
“I lied,” Prem said. “I want to be with you.”
“What?”
“I don’t care that I’m your boss. I don’t care that you’re nice. Actually, I love that about you.” The words spilled out of him. “I want to do what we did in the stables again. And again. And again. But more than that, I want to get to know you, Layla. Like, what’s your favorite color? Why do you wear such crazy, wonderful outfits? Why do you have duct tape in your purse? Why are you a receptionist when you could clearly be an amazing vet tech or, hell, a vet in your own right?” He pulled in a breath. “I want to be with you.”
She stared at him, her mouth slightly ajar, her hand clutching the shower curtain. “I…I like that you’re grumpy,” she said. “But…I can’t. Not now.”
Prem shook his head. “I’m scared too. Terrified, actually. And I know the timing sucks…but, who cares? Layla, you said you couldn’t trust yourself, so trust me. This is real.”
He pounded a fist against his chest over his heart. “I feel it. Don’t you?”
She crumpled the shower curtain in her hand. The silence stretched. The air was heavy with the shower’s humidity.
“Tell me to leave,” Prem said.
“What?”
He enunciated each word. “If you don’t feel it. Tell. Me. To. Leave.”
Their eyes met. Eons passed. The wind wore mountains into sand. The continents broke apart and drifted. The sun went cold.
Layla pushed back the shower curtain.
In seconds, Prem tore off his shirt, kicked off his boots, and was out of his pants and boxer briefs. Naked, he stepped up to the shower. Layla waited for him, her lips parted, her breath coming in short pants.
She lifted her arms, holding them out to him. Prem stepped into the shower and pulled the curtain closed around them.