Ten minutes later, a nurse hooked me up to an IV bag that promised relief in liquid form.
Sweet, sweet chemistry.
I stare at the ceiling as it works its magic, my thoughts floating just slightly behind my lips. When I turn my head, Emmy and Celeste are standing on either side of the bed.
“Remem… remem…” I try to wrestle the word into focus.
“Oh no,” Emmy murmurs. “She’s delirious.”
Celeste waves her off. “Leave her be.”
“No,” I insist, wiping my eyes because they’re suddenly leaking for no reason. “You guys remember when Emmy went into labor with Sasha?”
Emmy sighs. “Hard for me to forget, Mads.”
“No, but remember,” I say, laughing now, “we all took turns with the gas and air thingy.”
“You stole it,” Emmy says flatly.
Celeste grins. “That was a great night for everyone except Emmy’s vagina.”
We all lose it.
My back twinges, but I don’t care. I’m high on pharmaceuticals and nostalgia.
“Well,” I gasp, “this is what that feels like.”
For a second, I’m not in a hospital. I’m back in our tiny university apartment. Three girls with no money, no plan, and no idea what we were doing. Emmy got pregnant before any of us were ready, but we adapted. We took turns with night feeds and argued about diapers.
Until she met her husband, who is a wonderful man, but he stole her and the baby. Which was fine because she had another one and he’s a cutie.
Warmth hums through me when the curtains pull back, and a Greek god in scrubs walks in.
I try to blink the haze away.
Am I hallucinating?
“Mrs. Callahan, I’m Dr. Lawson.”
“Oh God,” I sigh. “You’re not the other doctor.”
He pauses.
“You’re hot.”
“Madison!” Emmy and Celeste say together.
Dr. Lawson presses his lips together as if he’s fighting a smile. He’s tall with broad shoulders, and he’s wearing pale blue short-sleeve scrubs, so I get to see his forearms.
They’re great forearms.
Theymake me feel warmer.
His hair is dark and a little messy. I like it.
I bet Dr. Lawson hates hot yoga.
“I see the medication is working,” he says.
