The jake ryan complex, p.16
The Jake Ryan Complex, page 16
I drop down onto the bed while tugging on the nightie’s thin black strap at my shoulder.
“I think you’re going to have to help me take this off . . .”
His lip bite gives way to an adorable little grin. “Oh, I’m happy to help. But . . .” He suddenly stops his progress, feet cementing to the rug at his feet. “I think we should save it for tomorrow, when I’m not so tired.”
My jaw drops. “You’re too tired . . .”
“I’m sorry.” He drops his head. “It’s not you. You look amazing. You’re . . .” He refocuses his attention on me. He sighs. “You’re perfect, Mac. It’s me. I’m just really—”
“Tired. Right, I know.”
My response comes out clipped, like I’m angry, or like my feelings are hurt by his rejection, but the truth is right now I’m feeling more concerned than anything. It’s been obvious all night that something’s bothering him, and while every Cosmo article would tell me otherwise, I feel confident that it has nothing to do with how he feels about me . . . yet he still insists on keeping it to himself.
“Is there anything you want to talk about?”
A big knot slides down his throat before he gives his head a shake and says, “No. Not just yet.”
“Okay,” I concede over a broken smile. At least an explanation sounds like it’s on the horizon. “Then let’s go to bed.”
I pull back the covers and settle into my side of the bed, on my right side so I’m facing the door. He stays still, unmoving, for a tenuous beat before he finally crosses the room and turns out the light. The mattress shifts as he drops down onto the bed, then slides under the covers beside me.
My heart beats hard and hopefully as he settles into his usual sleeping position: spooning me from behind, his chest pressed firmly against my back, arm resting with familiar ease over my hip. As always, the heat radiating from his body is intoxicating and beckons me to nestle deeper against his embrace . . . but I don’t. I can’t.
Despite my earlier concession, I do feel a little rejected.
And hurt.
J.T.’s warm, slow breaths tickle the back of my neck, alerting me awake. Blurry eyed, I glance at the clock on my nightstand: 5:13, less than an hour since the last time I looked.
I carefully untangle myself from his arms and slide out of bed. He snuffs at the disruption but thankfully doesn’t wake up.
My heart softens as I stare down at him. He looks so at ease now. Peaceful. A stark contrast to the tossing and turning he struggled against all night. Whatever conflict he’s wrestling, it didn’t afford him any of the extra sleep he claimed to have needed, and I didn’t fare much better.
Yawning, I grab some clothes from the closet, then quietly make my way to the guest bathroom to shower. Technically, it’s a “non-patient” Friday at the clinic, but my patient load is so heavy right now that I scheduled a few appointments this afternoon anyway, including one with Caroline. I hadn’t planned on starting my day this early, but some extra time at the office will do me good—I’m years behind on paperwork. And a little alone time would probably be good for J.T.—and me.
I get Rerun squared away with breakfast and a trip to the bathroom, then head out to the car. Much to my surprise, Gia’s already up and heading out herself.
“Where are you off to so early?” I ask, taking in her ensemble with a raised brow. She’s in head-to-toe black: beanie, sweatshirt, leggings, combat boots, even fingerless gloves. All black. Like an old-timey bank robber.
“I corral the Zig Zags on Fridays.”
“Corral the . . . what?”
“The Zig Zag scooters,” she clarifies while tugging the beanie down tighter over her ears.
I shrug, and she sighs.
“The little electric scooters you see around town? People rent them for as long as they need them and then just leave them on the sidewalk or wherever for someone else to rent—”
“Oh, sure. Okay. I’ve seen those around.” I’ve never tried one myself, but they seem pretty popular. Though they are kind of an eyesore.
“We go out and find the ones people have ditched and put them back into circulation.”
“How do you know where to find them?”
She gives me a tired look. “They have GPSs on them.”
“Oh. Right. Of course.” I give my head a quick shake. I’m going to need serious amounts of caffeine to get through this day. “How long have you been doing that?”
“A few weeks now.”
“I thought you started at Wicked Brews a few weeks ago.”
“I did, but the customers were assholes, so I quit.”
“Okay.” She wouldn’t last a day tending to pregnant women.
“So, did I hear right?” she goes on, fishing her car keys out of her hoodie’s front pocket. “Is the wedding Nazi coming into town again?”
The wedding Nazi. Mom would love that.
“Yes, she is. Tonight, actually. Hope and her bridesmaids too. We’re getting fitted for our dresses tomorrow.”
“And the wedding’s in two weeks?”
“Yep.”
“Well, at least you’ve got a date now.” She nods toward my bedroom window, which overlooks the backyard. “Unless you were planning on asking Carlos to go with you?”
Ignoring the waggle of her pierced brow, I cross my arms over my chest and say, “Not funny. I’m still considering raising your rent for that one.”
“Hey, I was just trying to help.” She smirks. “A lot of moms book private lessons with Missssssster Carlos. I just figured you might want to get in on some of the action too.”
I cast a sad glance back toward my window and shake my head. No, I’m getting plenty of action with someone else. At least, I was . . .
“Will your mom be cooking again?”
What makes the menu isn’t my main concern for the weekend; it’s peeling off the Michael Band-Aid gently enough so that nobody gets hurt in the process. I turn back to her, shrugging. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Okay, well, if she does, make sure you find me. Otherwise I’m just gonna plan to steer clear. She’s kinda scary.”
I nod. Don’t I know it.
It’s just shy of seven o’clock when I arrive at the clinic. I’m the only one here, which means I’ll have plenty of quiet time to get caught up on paperwork. I make myself a strong cup of coffee, then head back to my office.
Because we’ve yet to transfer over to a digital filing system (something Helen, our newly hired office manager, will be administering), we’re still inputting handwritten patient notes into our online system. It’s time consuming but isn’t particularly challenging. Or it usually isn’t. Today it’s proving to be as easy as nailing Jell-O to a tree.
Despite my best efforts, all I can think about is J.T. and what could be causing him so much distress. When we went to bed, I was convinced his mood had nothing to do with me, and as I looked at him this morning, I was still sure of the same thing. But there were plenty of times last night—in those lonely hours when sleep eluded me and speculation stole my train of thought—that I wasn’t so sure. Did he run into his ex? Did she realize what a crazy fool she was and now she wants to get back together with him? Or is something physically wrong with him? His mom has dementia. Is it hereditary? Is it possible that he went to the doctor and got some bad news about his health—oh god. What if he’s got cancer? Or a brain tumor? Or maybe his ex has a brain tumor, and now he’s feeling conflicted. Is he going to leave me to take care of her while she’s dying—
Ugh!
Frustrated, I slap shut the patient folder in front of me and sink back into my chair. I hate that I’m acting like one of those insecure women in a Hallmark movie. Why can’t I just accept that he’s working through something, and if I needed to know what it was, he would tell me—
I hear the clinic’s front door open, followed by the familiar sound of ice sloshing against plastic. That’s Daisy with her daily iced caramel macchiato. An unsettling thought suddenly springs to mind. I hate the idea of involving her in my love life, but it’s becoming pretty obvious I need another opinion on this situation, or I’ll never be able to get any work done.
“Good morning, Daisy.”
“Oh, hey, Mac.” Her eyes narrow as she starts to peel off her jacket. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be at the free clinic.”
The free clinic . . .
My eyes snap wide.
Daisy called me shortly after I left work yesterday, asking if I could cover for Renee Bradford, the on-site doc of the free clinic where we volunteer. Apparently she had a family emergency and had to head out of town. Since I have only three patients on my docket, and both Tracy and Andy have scheduled deliveries at the hospital, I agreed to help. However, Daisy’s call came in while I was trying on nighties, so I wasn’t as focused on work-related issues as I probably should have been.
“You forgot, didn’t you?”
I nod sheepishly, and she rolls her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Were you able to reschedule my patients to next week?”
“All but that icky friend of yours,” she says, referring to Caroline, while she hangs her jacket on the back of her chair. “She said she had to see you today, so she’ll just drive over to the free clinic so you can see her there.”
The free clinic is a solid twenty-minute drive from here—and not in the friendliest of neighborhoods. If it were any other patient, I’d be concerned that something was wrong. But knowing Caroline, she probably just wants the scoop on my love life.
“You should probably get going if you want to get there when it opens.”
“Right,” I say. But I don’t make a move to leave.
“Did you need something else?”
“Yeah, actually, I do.”
It doesn’t take long to recap the events of the night, and by the time I’m done, Daisy offers me exactly what I was hoping for: a very confident diagnosis.
“He’s just self-protecting because he’s scared of getting hurt again.”
“Really? You don’t think he’s dying of cancer or something?”
She shakes her head. “You guys are moving pretty fast—not that that’s a bad thing—but it probably caught him by surprise.” I nod. I sort of feel that way myself sometimes. “My guess is that he’s starting to feel really comfortable with this happy little world you’ve created, but with that happiness comes the fear of having it all taken away from him again. His ex did a serious number on him. There are bound to be some residual bruises he’s got to learn to work through.” She pauses to take a pull from her green straw. “But that doesn’t mean he’s not totally invested in you,” she quickly adds, and places a reassuring hand on my forearm. “He’s not intentionally pulling away from you. His subconscious is just demanding he take a little breather so he has time to assimilate and stabilize his feelings. It’s actually a very healthy response. It shows that he’s mature and taking this relationship seriously. He’s not the type to just hop into bed with someone and not worry about the aftermath. He cares about how this is affecting both of you.”
“That’s so true,” I say over a relieved breath. “He’s not the kind of guy to do something without thought. He’s very mindful of his actions. That’s one of his most attractive qualities.”
“You just need to give him a little extra room to work through all of his feelings, but it will be okay. He’ll come back around once he’s feeling more secure.”
Daisy’s astute observations instantly calm my worries. Of course he’s feeling a little insecure—after what he’s been through, that makes perfect sense!
I give her a grateful hug, then return to my office to gather my things—and find my faith in our relationship further renewed when I read the text J.T. just sent:
I’m sorry I didn’t get to see you before you left.
And even more sorry for last night. I’ve got a lot going on in my head right now—I will fill you in soon.
I miss you.
My poor guy. He’s clearly going through something difficult, and yet he’s still thinking of my feelings . . .
I miss you too. And it’s okay. We’re good. Really, really good. <3
Despite my exhaustion, I still navigate my busy day at the free clinic with a spring in my step. J.T. and I are good, and the fact that he’s willing to share his troubles with me only solidifies that point and his commitment to our relationship.
I head into my two o’clock appointment and find a smiling Caroline waiting on the exam table.
“What’s up, hooker?”
“Hi, Caroline. How are you?”
We exchange a quick hug, and then I drop down onto the stool beside her.
“I’d be better if we weren’t in the fucking ghetto.” She scowls as she takes in the less-than-impressive surroundings. “Are you working off community service hours or something?”
“No,” I say, silently praying her baby is born wearing earplugs. “I’m just covering for the usual doctor who had a family emergency. This is where I volunteer every other week.”
“Well, they need to add your name to the sign then. I drove around the block like five times thinking I was at the wrong place. You know there’s a nasty homeless dude talking to his feet out in the parking lot, right?”
I sigh. “Yes. That’s Tom. He’s got some issues, but he’s harmless. So, how’s everything?” I ask, making my way over to the sink to wash my hands. “Are you feeling good?”
“Yeah, I guess. I’m tired as fuck, and I can’t stop farting, but otherwise I’m fine. How about you? Tell me all about this new cock who’s rockin’ your block . . .”
I cringe, not only at her choice of words but at the callousness of her delivery. J.T. is so much more than a body part.
“He’s great,” I say while pumping soap onto my hands. “He’s sweet and funny and thoughtful and just . . .” I sigh contentedly as images of my handsome guy dance through my head. “He’s everything I ever wanted—”
A soft knock on the door cuts off my sentimental train of thought.
One of the nurses must need something—
“Oh fuck,” Caroline blurts out. “I totally forgot. The baby daddy is coming today.”
“What?” I quickly glance over my shoulder. “He’s here? That’s him knocking?”
She nods over a budding smile. “That’s why I had to keep the appointment today—’cause he said he’d come.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. He said he wants to be involved.”
I exhale a monumental sigh of relief. I’ve always thought that Caroline would be a good mom, but going it alone is never easy—even for the most resilient women.
“Oh my god, that’s fantastic, Caroline.”
“I know, right? I was going to tell you when I got here, but I totally forgot. I swear I can’t remember shit these days.” She shakes her head absently. “Fucking pregnancy brain . . .”
“So, are you guys back together then?”
“Not officially, but I’m sure it’s just a matter of time. It’s okay that he came, right?”
“Yes, of course,” I say, turning back to the sink, smiling. “Tell him to come in.”
“Come on in, babe,” she calls out, just as I reach for a paper towel—
“Sorry I’m late.”
The familiar sound of his voice in this very unfamiliar setting steals my breath and sends a chill up my spine. I quickly turn toward the door and gasp as I take in the person standing in front of me. It’s J.T.
My J.T.
His brown eyes snap open, impossibly wide, and his jaw drops in shock—the same shock that’s cementing me where I stand.
Unable to move.
Unable to breathe.
J.T. is the baby daddy . . .
Chapter 13
I grip the edge of the countertop, my body suddenly swaying like a sapling in the wind.
No.
No, no, no . . . this isn’t happening.
J.T. can’t be the baby daddy.
Caroline said she was in a relationship with him—that he got spooked when he found out she was pregnant.
But J.T. hasn’t been in a relationship since his ex—
“Mac—” he starts to say in a soft voice at the same time Caroline crows over him.
“See, I told you my baby came from good stock. We’re gonna have some damn pretty Christmas cards, aren’t we?”
Christmas cards?
NO!
He’s supposed to be on my Christmas card, not yours!
Oblivious to my distress, Caroline bursts out laughing while I grapple to grip the counter even tighter, my breath growing shallower by the second.
This can’t be happening.
J.T. is my guy.
HE’S MY JAKE RYAN!
All the delicious memories of our time together start spiraling through my mind like photographs in a cyclone—late-night chats, walks with Rerun, movies by the fire—but they feel far away from me now—distant, like I’m not sure if they’re even mine.
“Well, I guess I’ll have to do intros, since neither of you seems capable,” Caroline goes on, then turns to J.T. and says, “Babe, this is Dr. Huntress, but you can call her Mac.” Her use of the word babe prompts a wave of nausea to swirl through my gut. “We went to high school together like a hundred years ago. I used to copy her homework, and now she’s delivering our baby. How crazy is that?”
J.T.’s chin trembles as a mountain-size knot slides down the length of his throat.
“Hello . . . Mac.”
The waver in his voice makes my stomach turn again.
I’m going to be sick.
I’m going to throw up all over him.
Or die.
Shit.
I’m going to die right here—
“And this is Jake,” she says to me. “But everybody calls him J.T.”
The familiarity with which she speaks of him forces a disturbing image of the two of them TOGETHER to come to mind. Bile races up my throat, and I quickly cover my mouth with my hand.
