4 Chapter 2 Present Day

AINSLEY

At least I'm not counting the days in my head anymore. Counting the minutes, hours, and seconds since Rhett broke my heart. That's progress. Heartache sucks. I've gotten good at pushing through the days, losing myself in work. I'm the poster girl for the phrase Fake it till you make it. But the nights are the worst. I dread the sunset. It only brings another night without the man I love. I miss him. It's hard to decide what I miss the most. His arms around me.

The way his breath sounds when he sleeps. The feel of his body pressed to mine. The way he looks at me. There's not one specific thing. It's the whole Rhett package that I miss. If Rhett were here, he'd make some sex joke about me missing his "package." Yeah, I miss his sex jokes, too. There are two types of people in the world—those that have a thousand unopened email messages on their phone, and those that have to look as soon as the little number pops up. I'm the latter. I also keep my ketchup in the refrigerator and believe cabinet-ketchup people are insane. Another thing: you're either a morning person or night owl. You can't be both. There are people that think with their heads, and those of us that think with our hearts—I'd wager a bet that heart thinkers end up more heartbroken. Then there are the people who believe in happily-ever-afters, and those who don't. I used to believe. Now, not so much. How much heartbreak does it take to get it right? It's like that old Tootsie Pop commercial, where the owl asks how many licks it takes to get to the center. I'd rather know how many heartbreaks it takes until the heart gets it right. Heartache has a life of its own. It comes without you knowing, and you have no idea how long it will last. You can't cure it. You can't will it away. The life expectancy of a woman is about seventy-eight years in the United States. The life expectancy of heartache is unknown. And mine's been hanging around for almost a year now.

My life's taken a dramatic detour since my heart got broken. Rhett. It's been hard. Movies, books, songs—they all paint love as this amazing experience. I know deep down it is. I had it—the butterflies, the tingles, the hopes and dreams that love promises. Had is the operative word. The thing that those songs and movies don't tell you: Love isn't always a good thing. There, I've said it. Love can feel good, but be bad for you—like that donut I ate this morning. Was good at the time, but when it's gone, you just feel blah! Love has left me blah. It's funny. I design wedding dresses for a living. Creating wedding dresses is my passion, the bright spot in my day. A person's wedding day is one of the happiest days of their lives. I love being a part of that. I basically sell the fairytale, but deep down, I wonder if it's all bullshit. I sunk every penny I had into opening my own wedding dress design studio. Keeping busy helps. Distraction is the only thing that keeps me moving. My heart starts remembering Rhett—time to sew. My head floats into a memory—time to sketch. That's why Skye and I are grabbing a drink after work today, I need the distraction. But she's running late. I should've just met her at the bar, because now I'm surrounded by the hope of offspring in the air. I want to have babies, be a mom, but there are no potential fathers in sight. Then again, I am standing in a fertility clinic. Waiting at the nurse's desk for Skye to finish up, I flip through a pamphlet on fertility options. Who knew there were so many ways to conceive? My momma only warned me against one. "Excuse me?" I hear a smooth voice say from behind me. "Can I help you with something?" Dropping the pamphlet to the floor like I was caught looking at a dirty magazine, I stammer, looking up into his smile, "Um . . . No, I'm waiting for Skye." He bends down and picks up the pamphlet, handing it back to me. "She's in with a patient. Can I help you with something?" I search his lab coat, trying to see around his stethoscope, looking for a name. "No, thank you." His head tilts, and he smiles again. He's very nice looking, but I can tell he's much older than me—a touch of gray on his temples. But he's sexy, nonetheless.

"It's perfectly normal to be nervous. Why don't you let me put you in a room?" he says, and I feel his hand go to my back, encouraging me to move. "There's some mistake," I say, stopping and looking back at him. "You're not an egg donor?" he asks, furrowing his brow. An egg donor? Do egg donors have a certain look? And what about me would make him think that? "Uh, no." Red rises to his neck, and he starts fiddling with his stethoscope. "I apologize. We don't get unmarried women in here very often, especially ones that are . . ." He pauses. "I just assumed you were meeting Skye to . . . I apologize for my error." "Hey, Ainsley," Skye says, coming out of a nearby room. "Doctor, everything is fine in room two now."

"Thank you," he says, giving me a little nod and grin. "Ainsley." As soon as he's out of earshot, Skye booty bumps me. "Dr. Hottie has eyes for you." "No, he definitely does not. He thought I was an egg donor," I say. Skye laughs out loud then covers her mouth. "No wonder his face was so red. He's smoking hot, though." "You've already got yourself a hot doctor." "Yeah, but your brother only knows about animal anatomy." Skye nods her head in the hot doctor's direction. "He's an expert in women. Mmm, mmm, mmm." We both start to giggle as we leave and head to a local watering hole a few blocks away. Despite being close to the water, Charleston is hot much of the year. I swear I can almost hear my pale skin sizzle as soon as the sun hits it. "I'm sorry I kept you waiting. Today has been insane," Skye says. "First, this really, really pregnant lady falls into the toilet." "What?" I ask, almost falling over from laughter. Skye always has the funniest stories to tell and her delivery is classic. "I know, right?" Skye laughs. "Poor thing, someone left the toilet seat up, and she fell right in, but she couldn't get back out." "No way." "Yep," Skye says. "That's so not in my job description. Then this crazy lady comes in with some of her boyfriend's sperm she pulled out of a used condom. She tells me she told him she was pregnant even though she wasn't and wants us to use the sperm to get her pregnant for real." "That's crazy." "Yep, you haven't heard the best part," Skye says. "She bought a positive pregnancy test off the internet to convince him." "Someone is selling positive pregnancy tests?" I ask. "Yeah, fifty dollars a pop," Skye says, eyes wide. "I throw that shit away every day. I guess I should be selling them." It's good to be with Skye. She is the trifecta of female support, acting as my sister, friend, and mother when I need one. She opens the door to the bar. It's still early, so the place isn't too crowded, mostly tourists and a few business types, throwing one back after a long day. We grab a seat at the bar. Seems like Skye had a rough day, so I let her order.