Part 14 (2/2)

I go over the rules in my head. I know there are only five, but I'm afraid I'll forget one of them. I go over them in a way I can relate to a little better.

1. Don't sleep around.

2. Don't kiss and tell.

3. Be nice.

4. Don't text or call.

5. Don't fall in love.

Simple enough.

I don't think I'll have any problems with any of them. Normally, rule number five might be a problem because I'm a romantic. But it shouldn't be a concern with someone like Weston-he's so detached, hard, and cold.

”It's too bad about the privacy rule,” Gabe says. ”What is that...rule number four?”

”Rule number two.”

His mouth stretches into a wide impish grin-trademark Gabe. ”I was looking forward to hearing about all the kinky things he's going to do to you.”

I laugh out loud. ”You couldn't stand it. You would hate hearing about it. It would drive you insane with jealousy.”

”You're probably right,” he admits. ”But I'm curious to see what he has in mind for you. Probably some wild stuff, babe,” he warns me. ”You might not like it at all. I know you're not really into that.”

He's right.

What if...

”It won't be like that, I'm sure,” I say, trying to convince myself.

But h.e.l.l, I really don't know what to expect.

Gabe has me a little worried.

”It's always those strange, quiet, uptight types who like to do all sorts of weird s.h.i.+t,” he says.

”Stop talking like that,” I snap. ”You don't know what you're talking about. And you're breaking rule number three again, by the way.”

That night, Gabe and I make love. Actually make love. He's gentle and soft. We look into each other's eyes. It feels foreign...making love. He tells me he loves me, and I tell him he's the only one.

I think both of us know, deep inside...our relations.h.i.+p is about to change.

I study the magazines on the coffee table as I sit in Dr. Fisher's waiting room. It's quite the selection, news magazines, women's magazines, trash mags, and Sports Ill.u.s.trated.

But I'm in no mood to read-I'm on edge. How am I going to address all this with Dr. Fisher? I've known her for so long. She was the one who first prescribed me birth control when I was just seventeen. She was the one who took care of me through my pregnancies. She's almost like family.

An old man sitting across from me, waiting for his wife, stares at me intently with what almost looks like disgust. He's watching me, studying me like he knows something, like he knows what I'm up to. He has big, dark out-of-control brows. I try to look away, but those big scary caterpillars keep drawing me in, and it turns into a staring contest.

What is his problem?

I close my eyes, thinking I'm losing my mind. I'm probably just projecting-he doesn't know anything about me-he's not judging me. I open my eyes to look at him. The scowl of disgust has disappeared. It was probably just the big crazy eyebrows.

The truth is...I'm ashamed.

I feel like a s.e.xual delinquent. I've officially entered into a strange s.e.xual arrangement. I would have never imagined myself capable of this. If someone had told me a month ago about the situation I find myself into today, I would have laughed and told them they were insane.

How do I talk to Dr. Fisher about this?

How are you?

I'm fine, thank you.

How are the girls and Gabe?

They're wonderful and growing up so fast, and Gabe and I are pretty good too, and having sordid swinging s.e.x with sizzling-hot almost-strangers, which is why I'm here, in fact!

I walk up to the pamphlet display-breastfeeding, osteoporosis, tuberculosis, flu vaccine, herpes, HIV testing, HPV vaccination.

Oh s.h.i.+t!

Should I get the HPV vaccine? I've never had to worry about that before. There are about a gazillion pamphlets about STDs, and it kind of makes the whole thing a lot less s.e.xy. If there was ever anyone trying to stick hard to abstinence, this is the exact spot where they should stand.

I feel my doubts creeping up again. I can still change my mind, can't I?

The receptionist calls out my name, and I'm a little hesitant. My feet drag as I make my way to the reception desk.

She walks me over to Dr. Fisher's patient room.

I'm comforted by the familiar room-the whimsical, colorful fish border lining the wall, a painting of a mother and child, the angel fish statue, and the cozy pink covers on the stir-ups. I quickly get out of my clothing, put on the paper robe the receptionist has given me, and sit on the patient bed.

And I wait.

I feel hot and a little sweaty...and I'm not breathing quite right. My blood pressure is probably through the roof. I try to organize the thoughts in my head-exactly how I'm going to go about this.

I hear a knock on the door.

Dr. Fisher looks cheerful. Her graying reddish hair is up in a severe knot, and she wears her usual white jacket. She looks exactly the same every time I see her.

”How are you, Mirella?” she asks, adjusting her dark framed gla.s.ses.

”Uh...good. How are you?”

<script>