EMMA
After a blistering round two of riding Thatcher's cock while grabbing the wrought-iron bed frame for dear life, I feel both thoroughly exhausted and utterly embarrassed that his family likely heard me shrieking and screaming. "They're all going to know we were fucking in here," I whisper, hiding under the sheet once the sex-drunk euphoria begins to fade.
"Chezz," he says, tugging my hair, "They already assumed we've been fucking. We're engaged, remember?" I roll my eyes at him. Sex was never supposed to be part of our arrangement. I rub my fists on my temples, trying to figure out how to get back on track to professionalism. If that's even possible. Shit.
I rise from the bed, rummaging around the drawers for some clothes, and almost don't hear Thatcher ask, "What did you mean when you said of course you were on the pill?"
"Hm?"
"The way you said it, like I should know already. It's not like we had a lot of contraception chats when we got fake engaged…"
"Oh," I say, plunking back down beside him on the mattress. "To be fair I was a little distracted by all the orgasms you were handing out at the time." He laughs, pulling my hand to his mouth and kissing my palm. I'm stunned by the gesture, by the gentle feel of his lips beside the scratchier sensation of his beard along my skin. I pause and enjoy what he's doing. So much for not mixing work and pleasure, I guess, I think, before continuing. "The tone was me feeling like I have no choices about being on the pill. There's a correlation between seizure activity and hormone levels in a woman's cycle," I tell him, waiting for him to cringe, but he just looks at me, listening. "So I take a pill that keeps the hormones steady all month long. It helps, along with my other medications."
"I think all that shit is fascinating," he says, standing to put on his swim trunks. "The way they can know what might work to make your brain stop freaking out. Or whatever it's doing."
I nod, and then remember my own question. "While we're talking, can I ask you something?" He looks up from his duffel bag, where he'd been rooting around searching for something. "When did you get tested?"
"Oh," he says, biting his lip and looking out the window. "That was just last week actually."
I frown, assuming he'd gone to the clinic with the intention of sleeping with me this weekend. "So you just thought I'd jump into bed with you? What ever happened to your best behavior, Thatcher?"
He puts his palms up in surrender, saying, "Easy there, Chezz. Testing had nothing to do with you, although I never once let up hope that I'd convince you to sleep with me. Let's be perfectly clear about that." I make to leave the room, but he tugs on my arm. "I got tested because of my father," he says.
Wow, I think, sitting back down. "Ok, tell me more about that."
He flops next to me on the bed. "This whole fucking week, Emma. This whole fucking week has been so crazy. You had a seizure, I saw my fucking father, my agent got me a quarter million dollar project offer and--"
"Holy shit, Thatcher! You didn't say anything!" I slap his chest. "We should celebrate!"
He grabs my wrist mid-smack and pins my hand against his skin, and I can feel his heart racing. He's quiet for a minute, but says, "My father is dying. He won't get sober, so they won't put him on a transplant list. I started talking to the hospital about their living donor program." He looks at me, his grey eyes hard as steel right now. "That's when I got tested. For basically every disease that exists."
"Thatcher," I whisper, struggling to adjust my body so I can reach out to him, offer some sort of comforting gesture. He seems almost startled by that, so I extract my hand from his and pull his head onto my lap, running my fingers through his hair. "That's a hell of a week." He nods, silent, pondering, but relaxes into my touch. I take a deep breath, feeling way out of my element with this. Things have certainly moved beyond our little quid-pro-quo contract. "I think you should tell your brothers you saw your father."
I feel his body stiffen and I can literally feel him constructing an emotional wall between us. "I think you should stay out of my family business, Emma," he says, his voice cold. He rises from the bed and grabs a towel from the top of the dresser. "I'm going wash the sweat and sex off myself and then soak in the hot tub." And, in a few sharp strides, he's gone from the room.
Thatcher avoids me most of the day. Not obviously, but I can tell by his subtle shifts away from me or the way he abruptly tosses in a joke to steer the conversation away from anything related to his family. I don't know why I feel like I should meddle on this issue. I guess I feel partially responsible for him even being in this position. He wouldn't have seen his father at the hospital if I had done what I needed to and slept rather than go to his brother's house. But then he'd never know about his father, a small part of my consciousness reminds me. Surely questions are worse than working through a painful truth.
I bring my concentration back to the room, where everyone is hanging out and talking. Juniper and Ty picked up their marriage license. She starts telling a story about not having had parents and how that affects her when she's giving a health history, whether she's at the courthouse or registering for the Olympic team. I think about the tradeoffs for having parents that were involved in every, single aspect of my life. My mom was always so worried about my health that she never let me do anything. Always chaperoned every trip, said no to every slumber party invite until those faded away, and told me I was too fragile for every single after school activity, saying they'd all either stress me out until I had a seizure or else risk me getting hit in the head, triggering a seizure.
Over dinner of grilled steaks and roasted potatoes with corn on the cob, Tim startles the room by asking me about my medications. "I’m sorry," I tell him, looking up from my food. "Can you ask again?"
He dabs at his mouth with a napkin. "I was wondering who your neurologist is and whether you're participating in any new trials for epilepsy." Everyone stares at him, because Tim has never casually asked me a question. He shrugs. "My college alumni magazine had an article about some new research for seizures."
I nod. "My doctor is Dr. Khalsa and yes. Everything I'm on now has been part of his research, since I started college." I tell them how my big act of defiance against my parents was applying for a room and board scholarship so I could live on campus and finally get out from under their thumb. Once I moved into the dorms, my roommate, Nicole, learned about my epilepsy and dragged me to the student health center. She'd read a case report for one of her intro classes, studying Dr. Khalsa and the business angle of the medications he developed. I look around at all the Stags and Juniper and they're fascinated by what I'm saying. Not concerned or pitying--interested.
It's been so long since I've told anyone about my condition--not since human resources when I got my job. I'm really not used to people who don't flip out and treat me like I'm some fragile flower about to wilt.
So I keep talking, blushing a little bit as I explain that after my seizure at Alice's barbecue, Dr. Khalsa invited me to try a study for medical marijuana. Thatcher perks right up at that. "I forgot about that, Chezz." He waggles his eyebrows at his family. "Now you really know why I'm marrying this girl."
I shake my head. "I can't share with you. That'd be unethical--and illegal. I haven't decided if I'm going to do it, anyway."
Tim nods, contemplating. "I wonder what the ramifications are for medical marijuana use for, say, professional athletes…I mean it's legal in this state for certain conditions…" Alice swats his hand and tells him to stop thinking about work while we're on vacation.
As she rises to clear the table, Tim stands to help her. I meet Thatcher's eye and try to signal that I think he should tell his family. "Tell them," I whisper. "They deserve to know."
Thatcher's gaze turns dark and he shakes his head, his eyes holding me to silence.