Violet

I’m trembling like a leaf on a tree in a spring thunderstorm, and I look like one of those crazy chicks from a horror movie with wide, frightened eyes and freaked out hair. I think I’m going to throw up, and I can’t even blame it on my pregnancy.

I turn my palms outward and grip the vanity in the bathroom of Gerard’s Deli and step back, dropping my chin to my chest, looking down at the polished cement floor. Sometimes, if I take deep breaths, the nausea subsides, but not often. It seems to be working today, though. Breathe in . . . breathe out . . . I have to calm down and get back to Marie. She doesn’t like sitting alone in public.

I’ve been planning on driving down to see Major since I found out I was pregnant. I was hospitalized for a week with pneumonia, and I spent the following week recovering at home. When I finally got the guts up to make a move, I happened to speak to Kimber one afternoon and she told me that Major had gone on vacation. He wasn’t due back until sometime this week. I guess that’s today.

Now he’s here and he wants to talk to me. What the hell could he possibly have to say? He’s just touched down from his vacation, probably with his girlfriend, and he shows up outside my office asking to meet with me privately. What could he want?

It doesn’t matter. By the grace of God, he’s been conveniently dropped into my lap so that I can tell him he’s going to be a daddy. It’s time to stop hiding and tell him what’s going on so he can decide how much he wants to be involved in our baby’s life—if at all. I don’t know which will be worse, having him eager to be involved, knowing he’s with another woman, or the pain of rejection when he says he wants nothing to do with our child. I wipe the smudges of mascara from under my eyes and straighten my ponytail before going back to the table.

“Seriously, Violet, you are one lucky woman. I thought you were dating that hot doctor. How do you know Major Steele?

“I met him when I went down to Oceanside for a wedding a few months ago, when the earthquake hit, remember?”

“Yes, now I know where the epicenter of that thing was. The way he looked at you . . . he’s definitely smitten.

“And I’m not seeing Dr. Kumar. We just had lunch.” I don’t know why I felt I had to throw that information out there. I haven’t told anyone at work that I’m pregnant. They all think I’m still recovering from pneumonia, so nobody questions my woozy moments or quick escapes to the bathroom during meetings.

Dr. Kumar has been a perfect gentleman. He didn’t call to ask me out until I was discharged and technically no longer his patient. We went to lunch last week a couple of times, and he’s asked me to dinner, but I’m not interested in anything other than friendship. I’m not over Major. I don’t think I’ll ever be over Major, and now that he’s here, I see weeks and weeks of recovery time in my future. After seeing him for fewer than five minutes today, there’s not a molecule in my body that isn’t craving him. And it’s not just physical. I genuinely like him. We got along well, he was easy to talk to, and we had things in common. I saw the possibility of a future with him—until that phone call, that is. I shouldn’t put so much importance on one phone call, but the way he told that person he loved them pierced my skittish heart.

“It didn’t look like he was only interested in a friendly lunch. That doctor likes you, Violet. A lot.”

Shit, if a quiet, introverted Marie is picking up the vibe that Dr. Kumar has a thing for me, then he probably does. I continue to deny it because I’m mildly attracted to him too. It’s nothing close to what I feel for Major, but if I wanted more, Dr. Kumar would give it to me. He took care of me. He helped me through a tough time and made me feel special when I really needed it. Not to mention, he’s kind and generous and a total head turner.

Major ruined me. He hollowed out my heart and left it desolate. Dr. Kumar is as close to perfect as I’ll ever get, but I’ll never let him get close to me, and I don’t want perfect. I want Major.

“I’ve got a lot of things going on right now. I’m not looking to start a relationship, no matter how great the guy,” I say. What a lie.

“My grandmother always said that’s when the best ones come along. She always told me to relax and I’d find a man. Hardly.” She snorts. “I’m fifty-five years old, and I can’t even decide if I like men or women better. You’re crazy. You have two gorgeous guys interested in you, and you don’t want either of them. All the men my age are either married or divorced assholes. Oh, and don’t forget the ones who never married because they’re assholes. Consider yourself lucky.” She fusses with her napkin again, spreading it out on her lap.

“You don’t give yourself enough credit, Marie. You’re beautiful and smart and kind. Your grandma was right. I think you don’t put yourself out there enough. Go out with friends for drinks, go to parties or barbeques, whatever. Just surround yourself with good people. It’ll happen.” I reach out and touch her shoulder. It has to suck, being an introvert searching for love in your fifties. “Let’s eat lunch and stop worrying about men. Since when are they more important than a triple-decker turkey club with bacon anyway?”

“Since never,” she says, lifting one corner of her mouth in a mischievous smile. Marie’s cool. I’m going to help her find a man. All middle aged men can’t be married or assholes . . . can they?

I don’t know, but I have bigger problems to deal with today. Major ones.