23. Fallon

Fallon

I'm not a fan of doctor's offices at the best of times, and right now, with June fussing in my arms, the anxiety in my chest is mounting. Of course, there are all the typical hospital triggers, like the sterile smell, the sharp sting of alcohol, the quiet, muffled voices in the waiting room, but there's also the building fear in my chest that I'm doing everything wrong when it comes to this little girl.

Like flirting with the man housing us. Like sitting on the counter and tugging him between my legs and melting when he gives his fake answer to a fake question. Closing my eyes, I remember saying Matching pajamas on Christmas morning , and I remember the look on his face.

Like he wanted it, too.

If Brett wasn't such an amazing hockey player, I would tell him to pursue acting. It may be painful to do the dance with him, to pretend like we're happily married, but at least he'll be able to pull it off during our meeting with the lawyer.

Images of our kiss flood in at random moments, my brain supplying me with the memory of his fingers grazing over my skin, the way he had pulled my shirt up and pressed our stomachs together.

I suck in a breath now, thinking about it. Thinking about how it was more than the skin-on-skin contact, the impossible warmth—it was the act itself. It was him saying I want to feel you . Like my stomach was just as interesting, just as sensual, as the rest of my body.

Trying to keep from bouncing my leg, I focus instead on June's small fingers, watching as she clenches and unclenches her tiny fist, pushing memories of Brett from my head.

"Hi!" Dr. Hernandez says, coming in, her eyes scanning over June and I quickly. I keep thinking that every person I see must assume that I'm a teen mom—much too young to have a baby of my own—then I remember that I'm twenty-six, and know plenty of people my age who've had a kid. Or even more than one.

"Hi," I manage, hands shaking slightly as she sits down. My mind is racing with everything that could be wrong with my sister—maybe the surgery didn't work, or maybe I haven't been tending to her sutures right.

The doctor is an older woman, her shoulder-length black hair showing streaks of white and gray. She's poised and confident, and it helps to set me at ease.

"So," Dr. Hernandez says, clearing her throat and opening the file in front of her. "The surgery worked perfectly. What we're seeing in the post-op and examination results is that everything looks excellent."

"Really?" I gasp, without meaning to, and Dr. Hernandez glances up at me, a smile spreading over her lips as she nods slowly.

"Yes," she says, returning her gaze to the file. "The surgery to repair the congenital diaphragmatic hernia was successful, and it looks like she's healing beautifully. Her breathing has improved—you can see the vitals here—and her lungs are now starting to develop normally. That's because they have the space to do so."

"That great," I say, swallowing hard, trying to keep the ball in my throat from choking my words. I've never felt relief like this before, pounding through my system each time my heart beats. Muscles I didn't know were tensed are now relaxing, and I feel myself sink back into the seat.

"I'll have them schedule her for another check-up in about a month," Dr. Hernandez goes on, "keep her on the antibiotics until they're done, of course, and after that, there's nothing else she needs to take. Keep an eye on her, and on the sutures, and just bring her in if it seems like she's in any pain, or having trouble breathing again."

"Of course." I nod, for some reason needing this doctor to know that I will take care of her, that I'll do exactly what she's saying. That I'm a good guardian.

Without warning, memories flash through my mind in rapid succession: stepping on a cigarette butt and burning my foot, my mom pouring some vodka over it and telling me to stop crying. The time I had mono for months and she claimed I was just being dramatic. As a senior in high school, my mom had been gone for months when I had appendicitis, and the only reason I went to the hospital is because I collapsed during gym class, and they called an ambulance.

"I'll be sure to bring her in if I notice anything," I say, as Dr. Hernandez stands.

She pushes her hair away from her face and gives me another warm smile, before heading out into the hallway.

"I'm sure you will."

Ten minutes later, I'm pushing out into the bright sunshine, dialing Brett's number.

"Hello?"

"She's fine," I breathe, as I unlock my car, getting June's carrier locked into the car seat. "They said everything is healing well, and after the antibiotics are finished, she won't need any other meds."

"That's great!" Brett cheers, and I hear some voices around him hush, almost like he's walked into another room. "So, the sutures are fine, too?"

"Yeah," I say as I slide into the driver's seat, and start the car. It beeps and lights up, and the air from the vents starts to blow softly into my face. June coos from the backseat.

The car is a little warm, and I crack a window, letting in a rush of crisp fall air.

"That's so great, Fallon," Brett is saying, voice soft. "Give her a kiss for me."

Just the word kiss from his mouth is enough to send a wave of heat through my body, but Brett breezes forward, as though the word itself doesn't plunge him back into the memories.

"We should celebrate tonight! What do you want—sushi?"

"That sounds great," I laugh, letting my head fall back against the seat and closing my eyes. Everything with Brett feels downhill. Easy.

So easy, in fact, that my brain is warning me about him, saying there has to be a catch. A man like this simply can't exist. And if he does, he certainly doesn't want anything to do with me.

"Well, after the meeting with the lawyer," he says, a hint of nervousness creeping into his tone.

"Right," I say, eyes opening to the bright sunshine. "After that."

When we hang up, I see several texts from my roommates in the group chat, all asking about June and how she's doing.

I realize that, any other time, I would have called Chloe first if I had important news. But this time, I called Brett.

"Okay," Chloe says, in lieu of a proper hello, "I'm determined to be the best dang babysitter that kid has ever had, so I've been doing some research."

"Chloe Green," I laugh, backing my car out of the spot. "It's not going to be that different from when we're at home."

"It is different! I've been looking up lists on the internet. We need to know her feeding schedule, her allergies, her favorite toy. What soothes her. Additionally, you should leave the name of her primary care doctor and an extra car seat, if you have one. Just in case there's an emergency."

"Okay," I relent, eyes flicking to June in the backseat. I can see her toes peeking up over the top of the car seat. Even though the doctor's appointment went fairly well, there's still a lingering sense of dread in my chest that something else is going to happen to her. "That's actually a pretty decent idea. And, by the way, we picked a name for the baby."

"You did? Please tell me you went with something old-timey, like Mildred or Gertrude."

"We named her June."

There's a long silence, then Chloe makes a little hiccupping noise.

"Chloe?"

"Fal, that's so fuc—flipping sweet of you."

"What was that ?"

"Babysitting.com says never to swear around a child that's not yours."

***

When I see Brett coming out of his room, briskly tugging on his sleeves like a character in an action film, I duck back into my room, quickly shrugging into a black dress and running the straightener through my hair. He's wearing a gray suit, black undershirt, and shoes that probably cost more than my laptop. His hair is neatly styled.

"I didn't know we were going formal," I tell him when I emerge into the living room ten minutes later. I'm rifling through my boxes of stuff to find my flats, and Brett holds his arm out as I slip into them, helping me keep my balance.

"Figured it would be good to make an impression," he says, grinning, and my heart starts to squeeze in my chest. We stand like that for a moment, frozen, my hand on his arm, until a knock at the door breaks us apart.

"Holy fuck, Fallon," Chloe gawks when she arrives with Joey. They both step through the front door like they're entering an alien spacecraft. Joey and Brett exchange a brief guy-nod while Chloe grabs my shoulder, hissing into my ear. "We have to debrief later."

In the car, Brett says, "I don't think Joey likes me that much."

"Let him borrow the kitchen," I laugh, quickly transferring my stuff from my backpack to a little black clutch—tissues, lip gloss, hand sanitizer—so my outfit will be complete.

As Brett flicks on the turn signal and pulls into the law office parking lot, I'm struck by how he looks like an ambassador. Something about this moment—Brett looking so polished, us going somewhere important together—makes my hands start to shake. Every day being around him feels like I have more and more to lose.

When we get to the law firm, a receptionist ushers us in, showing us to Mr. Blackstone's corner office.

"Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Ratcliffe," Mr. Blackstone says, eyes not mean, but not kind, either. He's sitting in a tall, high-backed chair behind a mahogany desk, eyes tracking us as we move into the room. "Please…" He stands and gestures to a pair of plush leather seats. "Sit."

"Thank you for accommodating my work schedule, Mr. Blackstone," Brett says, and when I glance at him, I'm still struggling to convince myself it's him I'm looking at.

Our kiss is still playing on a loop in my head. Every time I glance over at him, my brain latches on to a different detail. His fingers flexing on the arms of his chair. The corner of his mouth quirking. His biceps flexed under his shirt.

"Of course," Mr. Blackstone says, face serious. "Though, I must admit, I was rather surprised to learn about your line of work, Mr. Ratcliffe. It seems you're quite a famous man. How is it that you and Mrs. Ratcliffe came to meet one another? I'm obviously not a professional athlete, but it seems like the two of you would run in different circles."

"You know," Brett says, smiling easily and leaning back in his chair. He's the picture of confidence, and it's doing something to me—I can't take my eyes off of him. "I don't know if you know this or not, but last year was my rookie season. I don't always make the best decisions, and one of those was getting onto a waterski just before that season started. There was an accident, and I thought it would turn out to be the worst thing that ever happened to me."

Mr. Blackstone nods, listening intently, and my heart skips when Brett reaches out, taking my hand loosely, casually, like it's something we do all the time. He swipes his thumb over the back of my hand, and I feel heat rush to my core.

Ridiculous .

"But it turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me," Brett continues, tearing his eyes from me, like it's nearly impossible for him, and looking at Mr. Blackstone, a warm, loose smile spreading over his lips. "Because I met Fallon. She's a physical therapist—the best I've ever seen. And I've seen a lot. It's not a question of whether or not I fell in love with her, but rather, why it took so long for me to build up the courage to ask her out."

"That's quite a beautiful story, Mr. Ratcliffe," Mr. Blackstone says, but his tone doesn't carry the same message. His use of story makes my spine stiffen a bit, eyes darting to Brett.

Maybe he's laying it on a little too thick. Maybe it's obvious that nobody—and especially not a famous hockey player—could see me rumpled up in a pair of scrubs and fall in love with me.

"What about you, Fallon?" he asks, eyes swinging to me. The cadence of the conversation, and the substance, feels almost like we could be having a chat with friends, but there's something behind Mr. Blackstone's gaze that betrays the seriousness of what he's asking. "Did you fall in love during your sessions?"

I stare at him, heart pounding in my chest. Brett and I decided to try and keep as many of the details of our fake relationship as close to the truth as possible—meeting at the PT clinic, getting to know each other through the appointments—and now, I need to stay as close to the truth as I can. Glancing at Brett, I feel a blush creeping over my cheeks, face turning red.

"Well," I say, clearing my throat and looking down at my lap. It's almost unbearable to see Brett gazing at me like this, like I'm the love of his life. "When he first came in, he was like any other patient to me. I mean, I obviously noticed he was handsome, but we're not really encouraged to get too personal with our patients. It was hard, because he was so friendly. We talked, got to know each other. He was funny and kind, and even when he was in pain, he never yelled or became frustrated. I think that's a really important thing to look for in a man. It got to the point where seeing him was the best part of the week. All my roommates would make fun of me for it, how happy I'd be on Mondays and Thursdays, just because I knew I was going to see him."

I trail off, realizing I've been rambling, and when I spare a quick glance at Brett, there's an undecipherable look on his face, a light dusting of pink over his cheeks. Maybe he can tell that I'm telling the truth. Maybe it's making him uncomfortable.

But maybe—a voice from deep in my brain says—just maybe, he's not uncomfortable. Maybe he likes me. Maybe that's why he kissed me back.

I push it away.

Mr. Blackstone continues with the meeting, asking questions casually and paying close attention to our responses. By the time the meeting is over, it seems like he doesn't quite believe us, but also hasn't found anything to prove that we're lying.

Brett and I each sign several papers, one after the other, and my hand starts to cramp.

"Well," Mr. Blackstone says, briskly flipping a binder clip shut on the papers in his hand, "that's everything I need from you, for now. As there is a new member of the family, your child will be added to the trust. I'll need to schedule a meeting with you to complete the paperwork at a later date."

"Oh," I choke out, nodding. "Right."

I'll have to adopt June officially in order to add her to the trust. The hospital has already been making a fuss over not having a record of her birth certificate. I don't even know if she has a birth certificate. My chest starts to tighten with thoughts of everything I'll need to figure out.

"And, Mrs. Ratcliffe," Mr. Blackstone continues, "the remaining funds will release to your bank account in the coming days. I suggest you communicate with your bank to ensure that full sum is covered. It was a pleasure meeting with you both."

We stand and shake his hand, then Brett puts his hand on the small of my back, guiding me out to the car.

"Do you think he's watching?" I ask, almost from the corner of my mouth.

"We can never be sure," Brett says, as we get closer to the car. I head to the passenger seat, and, to my surprise, Brett follows me around. I turn to him, and he boxes me in against his car, grinning. "Maybe we should put on a little show. Just in case he is watching."

"Right," I breathe, eyes immediately dropping to his lips. My vision blurs a bit when he leans in, the scent of his cologne washing over me. Instead of meeting my mouth with his, like I thought he would, he turns to the side, kissing the spot just near my ear so tenderly my knees almost give out. As though he can tell, Brett anchors a hand on my waist and leans in, his chest against mine.

Slowly, he kisses his way down my neck, his lips only featherlight against the skin there, his breath warm, his nose dragging over my pulse.

"What do you think?" he asks, voice husky when he pulls back, his eyes looking unfocused.

"Hmm?" I hum, my brain feeling out of sync with the world.

"Do you think that was convincing?"

"Oh." I clear my throat and nod. My stomach is molten, and I squeeze my legs together, embarrassed at how I'm throbbing, so needy, my brain wailing and pleading for me to bring him close again. "Yes."

"Good." He straightens up and steps away from me. It takes my body a full ten seconds to recover so I can slide into the passenger seat.

When he sits in the driver's seat, his shoulders broad in his suit, his hair curling at the nape of his neck, his hand over the gear shift, I have to tear my gaze away, heart pounding.

As we drive back to Brett's place I force myself to ignore the way his fingers twitch, almost like he wants to reach over and put them on my thigh. I force myself not to think about what it would be like if that hand inched up, sliding under the hem of my dress.

"You okay?" Brett asks, glancing over at me when I crack the window, tipping my face to the breeze.

"I'm fine," I croak, closing my eyes, realizing this thing is going to be a lot harder than I thought. "I just need some air."