Pulse by Liv Hayes Page B

having a baby with his ex-fianc é e, because he stupidly
chose to fuck her without protection.
    Well, not
exactly. The condom broke, and she swore her shot was still good, and I kept
going, because I just needed a fucking release from the same person who drove
me to needing one to begin with. What a circular mind fuck.
    And what
I couldn't say, above all, was how impossibly hard it was to have walked away from
Mia. The look on her face, as she gazed up at me, wondering how I could be
treating her so coldly. It made me think of my own choice of words, when I was
sitting across from Cait back at the coffee shop:
    How do
you do something like this to someone ?
    I deserved
to lose my license. I deserved to be ostracized, to be viewed as a predatory
monster, to be forced to have everything ripped away at the root. But she had
spared me. In what I could see were the obvious brink of tears, she walked away
without taking a dagger to my back.
    And God,
I missed her so much. When she had left that day, I had holed myself up in my
office, and for a solid hour – I didn't cry, or feel any anger, or even feel a
sense of regret – I just sat there, staring at the wall, feeling numb.
    I needed
her. I needed her in my arms again. But that was over; the spark of a match,
doused in gasoline, and burnt to such a point that there was no identifying the
remains.
    Rubbing
my eyes, I tore myself away from the man in the mirror and went back to work. I
checked on Mr. Moulton, who was back and suffering from congenial heart failure
because he had never heeded my advice to watch his diet. I signed off on some
lab-work, a few prescriptions, and I bought the ladies in Triage a box of
Krispy Kreme donuts.
    “You're
amazing, Dr. Greene,” they cooed. And yeah, to the hospital, I was. I was the
kind doctor, the nice doctor, the well-meaning doctor who wore his heart on his
sleeve. If they could give accolades for Doctor Boss of the Year, I'd have
plaques lining the walls of my office.
    But it
was all a farce – because none of them really knew what I was capable of.

 
 
    “I'm not
sure whether we really need a bassinet or not,” Cait said.
    Standing
outside the window of a local baby boutique, I clutched my phone in my hands,
listening as Cait droned on about all of the other things she wasn't certain
were absolutely pertinent, like self-rocking rocking chairs, or bassinets, or
artisanal cloth diapers with fancy prints on the fabric.
    “But I
thought it was really cute,” she added. “Could you take a look for me, anyway,
and let me know if the numbers work?”
    “Yep,” I
told her. “Anyway, aren't laundry baskets and bassinets kind of the same
thing?”
    “Alex,”
she said sternly, and I cracked a grin.
    “Sorry,
sorry,” I insisted. “Anyway, yes, I'll look. Don't worry. It would be helpful
if you'd decide to know whether it was a boy or a girl.”
    “I told
you, I want it to be a surprise.”
    Because
this wasn't enough of one. While Cait was off attempting to find a job, and
still technically leeching off the dole that was my salary, I took a small part
in navigating around the overwhelming world that was baby furniture shopping.
    So I
shrugged off my lab-coat, tossed it in the Porsche, and spent my small break
in-between the hospital and the office skimming over cribs and bassinets and
rocking chairs.
    At one
point, an overly done-up woman that couldn't have been much younger than me,
and was way too perky, hopped over.
    “Are you
looking for something specific?”
    “Bassinets,”
I told her. “At least, that was my instruction. She wanted me to make some
pricing notes.”
    “Do you
have a price range you'd like to stay between?”
    “Not
particularly,” I confessed. “But I'll be honest, I have no idea what I'm
doing.”
    “A
first-time father, I gather?” When I nodded, she smiled. “Well, that's
wonderful. You and your wife must be thrilled.”
    I glanced
around at an array of baby mobiles. One of them featured