Page 37 of Brain Damage

I assumed I’d meet some nice guy in medical school. We’d date for a few years then get married. And after finishing residency, we’d have two children. Or at the most, if he insisted, maybe we would have three. Definitely not four children. What on earth would I do with four children?

Needless to say, I didn’t meet my future husband in medical school. The boys in my class seemed so immature—too focused on partying and joking around—and when I decided on dermatology, I knew I had to work harder than anyone in order to secure a spot. Dermatology is incredibly competitive. Also, I went to school in a small town, where the dating possibilities outside of my classmates were limited, so my social life in medical school was practically nonexistent. At the time, it didn’t seem like that big of a sacrifice.

By the time I finished my internship, I had a bit more free time to consider dating, but by then, it seemed like all the good ones had been taken. Or more likely, there were no good ones in the first place. Not for me, anyway. I started to feel like maybe I was one of those people who was just never meant to couple off.

It didn’t bother me so much. I mean, sometimes it did. When there would be a wedding or some other event, and I didn’t have a plus one. But in general, I was fine. I’m not a particularly social person. I had friends. I had a great job that I genuinely loved. I didn’t feel sorry for myself or cry myself to sleep at night. I was fine with being single.

And now I’m holding hands with my handsome husband as we wait to check into our room at our honeymoon suite in the Bahamas. It’s surreal. I keep looking over at Clark and reminding myself he’s my husband. He’s in no way the husband I would have pictured for myself, even in the days when I believed getting married was a given. I never in a million years thought I would ever be married to such a handsome man. Who’s also a lawyer, for God’s sake.

Clark gives my hand a squeeze. I love the way my smaller hand gets lost in his big one. “I can’t wait to get to our room,” he says.

“Me too,” I tell him, squeezing his hand back.

I may not be as charismatic and likable and gorgeous as Clark, but for some reason, he seems to really like me. I mean, he married me, so he must. Right?

The hotel concierge, a dark-skinned man with an easy smile whose badge identifies him as Pierre, hands over our room keys. “Congratulations,” he says warmly. “I just confirmed your reservation for three weeks.”

Great. We’ve only just checked in and already there’s a screw up I have to fix.

I clear my throat. “I’m sorry, there’s been some mistake. The reservation is only for two weeks.”

“It’s okay, Charlotte,” Clark says, laying his hand on my shoulder. For not the first time, it strikes me as odd that he still calls me Charlotte, even though all of my friends and family call me Charly. Even my work colleagues call me Charly. It’s sweet though. He wants to have a different name for me than everyone else does. “I changed it to three weeks.”

I frown at him. “But I only have two weeks off from work. There’s no way I could take more time off than that. I’ve got patients scheduled.”

“Yeah, I know.” Clark smiles sheepishly. “But I thought I’d stick around here another week. I changed my return flight home.”

He did what?

I am completely stunned. Stunned. I don’t know what upsets me more, that he did this without telling me, or that he intends to spend an extra week alone on our honeymoon. That’s a weird thing to do, right? It’s not just me, right?

“What about your job?” I ask him.

“Oh yeah,” Clark says. He glances over at Pierre, who is still standing there, overhearing every word of our exchange. “I quit my job.”

“You what?”

Suddenly, I can hardly breathe. I feel Clark’s hand on the small of my back. “Charlotte, can’t we discuss this later?”

I look up at Pierre. Admittedly, I don’t want to have this conversation in front of Pierre any more than he does. “Fine.”

The bellboy helps us upstairs with our luggage. I know I should be in total bliss right now. I mean, I’m on a honeymoon in the Bahamas with my handsome husband. It’s every woman’s dream. Instead, I feel like I’m going to throw up.

I just can’t believe he lied to me like that.

When we get up to our hotel room, the bellboy lingers at the door, and I realize he’s waiting for a tip. Clark is already in the bathroom, so I suppose it’s up to me. I have no idea what to tip a bellboy. I reached into my purse and pull out five dollars, and hand it over.

“Thank you, Miss,” he says. He hesitates for a moment then says to me, “Miss, I have to tell you, you have the most unusual and beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen. Are they violet?”

I lower my eyes, embarrassed. “Just blue,” I mumble.

“Exquisite,” the bellboy says.

I suspect he’s complimenting me to squeeze more money out of me for his tip. That’s sort of a rotten trick.

Fine, I’ll give him an extra dollar.

After the bellboy leaves, Clark stays in the bathroom just about forever. If this is some sort of scheme on his part to make me forget how furious I am with him, it’s definitely not going to work. I sit on our queen-size bed, staring at the wall, thinking of everything I want to say to him. I don’t even turn on the TV. I don’t want any sort of distraction from my anger.