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“And your…uhh…”
“The father? He didn’t want me to do this, and that’s why we broke up. I feel bad about it, obviously, but I’m twenty-five years old. I’m not ready to have kids! I don’t even know why I told him I was pregnant.”
“Because you wanted support?” Greg ventures.
I hum. “Turns out that didn’t work. I can’t believe he wanted to have kids with me.” I sigh and curl up on my side again. Greg mirrors me. His eyes are pretty—a greenish blue in the middle and gold around the center. Mine are monochromatic blue, whereas I could imagine mountains and valleys in his. “It also makes me think back and question our relationship a lot. Like, how did I get pregnant if we were using condoms?”
Greg stills on the bed next to me. “What do you think happened?”
I roll onto my back, moving the water bottle out from underneath me. “One time, we were having sex, and I realized the condom was missing. And he said that it must have slipped off, and we got a new one, and I didn’t think much of it. But, now, looking back….”
“Ugh.” Greg rolls onto his back, his fists clenched and his jaw tensed. “Stealthing. That makes me angry. Send his address to me, and I’ll punch him.”
I smile and roll back to face him. “First, do no harm.”
“Yeah, yeah. Sometimes being a doctor sucks.”
“I’ve been talking to a lawyer, so hopefully, he’ll get what he deserves without resorting to bodily harm.” I cast about for a different, less intense topic, and, okay, it’s a great tangent because inquiring minds want to know: “What about you? Are you practicing safe sex?”
Greg turns to look at me, eyes flicking back and forth between mine. He’s quiet for so long that I get nervous and blurt out another question.
“Do you have a girlfriend who would be very unhappy to have you spending all day with me?”
I’m supposed to be teasing, but it comes out nervous.
“I don’t have a girlfriend,” Greg says finally. “My job takes up so much of my time and mental energy. Dating is hard.”
Women all over the world weep for handsome, caring doctors like Greg, whose jobs keep them barely dipping their toes in the dating pool. Throw in the fact that he works with kids? Ovaries everywhere rejoice.
I think I’m developing a crush on my doctor.
4
I RESOLVE TO SALVAGE THE REST OF MY VACATION
Michelle
As I stepout of my hotel room mid-morning the next day, I do feel better. The sun is shining, birds are chirping, and the waves are lightly lapping against the beach in front of me.
I take a deep breath and then exhale the salty air. I only lost two days of my vacation. Tonight is New Year’s Eve, and there’s a party to attend.
And most importantly, Greg won’t have to play doctor anymore. He can walk away and enjoy the vacation he planned with his friend and doesn’t have to take care of me.
I push aside the sinking in my stomach and give myself a pep talk.
“It’s gorgeous out,” I say, putting my hands on my hips. There’s no one here, and if any of my neighbors can hear me, then that’s their too bad. “It’s an all-inclusive vacation, and you’re going to enjoy the crap out of it.”
It’s like seeing the resort for the first time. I guess I wasn’t paying much attention when I got here, but wow, that water is very pretty. There are a few boats further down the shore, bobbing idly while tied up to mooring balls, but the beach is empty.
Sadly, for me, today will not be a swimming day. I still have some spotting, so I have a pair of cotton briefs under my shorts, but I do have a bikini top on. It’s strappy and bright red, and when I was packing, I definitely did not think about how I would feel absolutely, undeniably UNsexy after taking the pill. Normal, vacay-Michelle would probably preen in her string bikini, but this version of me is pissed for not packing something more comfortable.
No matter. I turn on my heel and follow the cart path toward the big palapa. I’m pretty sure that’s where the restaurant and pool are, and while I am not swimming today, I am definitely looking for something to eat and a place to relax in the sun.
It feels good to stretch my legs, even if it’s only a few minutes’ walk. There’s a woman at the bar with brown skin, corkscrew curls, and freckles across her nose, leaning over some papers and talking to a Latino man in chef’s pants and a white T-shirt.
“Hi, you must be Michelle,” she says. “Some of the staff were getting worried when you hadn’t left your room the first day, but Greg said you haven’t been feeling well.”
“Yeah, I wasn’t. But I’m feeling better now.”
