Page 100 of The Unfluencer

“Of course you’re here.” I huff out a laugh. “I guess I’ve just been busy giving it up on Clover Cay to influence you into exhibiting Sherry’s collection with me. Hope it’s not in vain. But who knows… maybe Zeek will triple his offer. Save you the trouble of exposing him.”

“What are you—” He stops cold, realization smoothing his expression.

“Yes, I know all about your little wager with Cord.” I drop all pretense, fire blazing in my chest. “So, unless you’ve changed your mind and want to take back the collection, please don’t contact me. My business hours are available online and my assistant will take care of you. Goodbye.”

And then I run, tears hot on my cheeks, away from the man I love.

Too early on Monday morning, I go for my follow-up gyno appointment. Usually I sign in, check my insurance—again—then wait for upward of an hour before I’m called back. Then she inspects all my goods for ten minutes, I leave, and six months later, I get a bill not too far off my mortgage payment. That’s the deal. The predictable script I’ve recently come to appreciate. But today, when I look like I’ve been dragged in the mud by my lifeless coronary arteries, of course my left butt cheek barely touches the seat before my name is called.

I follow the nurse to whom I’ve been providing a play-by-play about my body and sex life for over eight years, yet we have never actually called each other by our first names, to the third room on the right, and⁠—

“Hello, Ms. Graves. I’m Dr.—”

The doctor is already in the room?

Not mine, but a doctor. Forest-green scrubs, stethoscope, spotless sneakers, same I’m standing here but my mind is six appointments ahead look on her face. She’s sitting there just basking in all that glowing melanin with a chart in her hands and a tray full of tools, ready for action.

“Are you mine?” I mutter, before I can fully process what I’m actually saying.

She laughs. “If you mean, will I be your new assigned doctor, yes,” she says, and then what’s left of my heart warms as she informs me that she’s new to the practice, but she takes more of a hands-on approach, if that’s okay with me.

If that’s okay with me? Ha!

An emotion-choked laugh sputters out of me.

Does she know how long I’ve dreamed of having a hands-on gynecologist? Is she kidding with this?

For a solid fifteen minutes, my spanking-new gyno doesn’t just talk at me. She thoroughly explains not only my recent double-whammy lab results, but my chart. Bloodwork, preventative actions to take, how my family history affects my health but may not always be a guaranteed predictor. And my results? Still abnormal. But? But…

“Are you ready?” she asks, gloved up, game face on.

Why, yes, I am ready to not sentence my dense breasts to the pancake smasher, and instead use the magic sonographic wand, currently dipped in warmed jelly, to discover my gorgeous C-cup tatas are healthy, just thick as hell like me. I know that’s right. And yes, as it happens, I’m also actually ready for cryo, Mr. DeMille!

Clearly, my movie intake as of late has increased to unhealthy levels, but I don’t have it in me to care.

I’M NOT DYING!

Just walking around like any other slightly crampy zombie with a frozen cervix, a broken heart, and a to-go prescription for a fourteen-to-twenty-eight-day sex fast. Funny enough, it just so happens I’m fresh out of desire to be with anyone other than the man responsible for tossing my heart into the crusher.

All in all, though, my mood needed the uptick.

Which is why I’m not the least surprised when I get to my car, and the second I sit behind the wheel, my phone rings on Bluetooth and the name Gertrude Graves appears on my screen, zapping every ounce of relief from me.

Knew my good luck couldn’t last all day.

For my sanity, I let it ring two times, taking deep breaths, before I connect the call.

“Hi, Gertrude…” I answer, locking my doors.

Just in case.

“Whitney, have you got a moment?” Her tone cuts sharp and unwieldy. It always does. But she didn’t use my full name, so it makes me pay closer attention.

“Yeah, what’s up? Everything okay?”

The engine is still off, so I hear her belabored sigh before she says, “I just got off the phone with your mother.”

I just saw my vitals, so medically, I’m okay, but I just know she’s about to run up my blood pressure. Or give me palpitations. Anything.