Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 39947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 200(@200wpm)___ 160(@250wpm)___ 133(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 39947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 200(@200wpm)___ 160(@250wpm)___ 133(@300wpm)
“Uh-huh. What’s going on inside that head of yours?” Maddie’s eyes tapered. “I can tell you’re overthinking.”
“Maybe I’m just having FOMO.” I tucked my hair behind my ear. “Maybe having a kid is a bad idea after all. I mean, I’ll have to give up my apartment, because a baby won’t fit in there. It’s a great location. Move back in with my parents . . . and those long, sleepless nights.” I munched on my lower lip. “I wish God could give me a sign. Or, you know, a million dollars to make the decision easier.”
Maddie was opening her mouth to say something just as my godson careened out of the foyer, chased by the tall, dark, and handsome male au pair. Ronan jumped into my arms in a fit of giggles, his laughter trickling straight into the pit of my stomach.
“Auntie Layla, Auntie Layla, look, I stole Vinnie’s nose. It’s in my fist.” He held his curled hand up to my face. It was pinched tight, his thumb poking out. I gently stroked strings of dark hair away from his forehead, beaming down at him. He was so precious and sweet. So faultless. He grinned and added, “I missed you!”
Something inside me ached and unfurled.
Ronan was my sign.
I wanted this. I wanted someone to call my own. Someone to pour all my love and devotion into. Someone to watch grow. To take vacations with. To spend the holidays with. A family of my own.
Jesus. I was really going to do it.
“Mommy, why is Auntie Layla crying?” Ronan poked his bottom lip out, thinking he’d done something wrong. I wiped my face quickly and put on a smile.
Maddie stood up and rounded the kitchen island, scooped him into her arms, and gave him a hug. “She’s having big emotions, but they are good ones. Just because you’re crying doesn’t mean you’re hurting. Sometimes you’re just letting yourself feel.”
I waited until I was in my Uber back home before I sent Grant a text.
Layla: Hi. You still in NYC?
Grant: Yeah. My new position doesn’t start until September. And I’ll still keep my apartment.
Grant: What’s up?
Layla: We need to talk.
A minute passed. Then two. I stared at the screen. He wasn’t typing anything. Had he guessed? Was he mad? Fat chance. Five weeks had passed since our last hookup, which meant it was around the time one of us usually reached out to the other.
Still. Anxiety and fear swirled inside my gut. Finally, the three dancing dots appeared.
Grant: Okay. I have an opening Monday, 11:00 a.m.
Cold. Impersonal. Apathetic. But hey, I was going to spring something sudden and life-changing on him, and he’d probably guessed it.
Layla: I have a fifty-minute lunch break, so that should work.
Grant: Can it be at the hospital cafeteria? I’ll be on call.
That was only a ten-minute walk from the preschool where I worked.
Layla: Sure.
He “liked” my response.
I blinked, waiting for more of his words, for an invitation, for a sign I wasn’t more than a nuisance, but they never came.
It was a good reminder that while Grant and I were great in bed, our worlds were still oceans apart. I didn’t belong in his life, and vice versa. He was a world-renowned oncologist—and I was a preschool teacher.
I was a booty call.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
Chapter Seven
Grant
She was going to break up with me.
More specifically, break off whatever it was between us. This casual thing. It had been a long time coming. Now that I was moving away, Layla was ready for an upgrade. Switch to another lease. Find another man to satisfy her needs for the next ten years. Every time she texted me, I had an impending feeling the world was over and that I would get my fucking life back at the same time. That’s why I was always so dry and impersonal. I never knew if she wanted to tell me we were over, or that she wanted me all over her.
I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t taken my Layla situationship into account when I was offered the Mayo Clinic position. I’d gone back and forth about whether it was worth it. Which was crazy, because CAR T-cell therapy had been my passion ever since I became an oncologist, and this job would mean working with researchers who offered a cutting-edge experimental program to terminal patients.
Oh, and because Layla wanted a husband like I wanted a second bladder.
I stopped at the edge of the cafeteria and wiped my sweaty hands over my khakis, glancing at myself in the mirror. Why did I wear a black sweater over a dress shirt? I looked pretentious. Haughty. Stale. I’d also put too much product in my hair to try to tame it into submission. I tousled it with a frown.
There. Better.
Actually, now I looked like a nerdy rabbi on a Netflix show who spoke with a slight lisp.