SchuylerDuring the 10-minute drive through Des Moines back to my parents' house, I release my anger. The flood gates open; rivers of hot tears flow down my cheeks. Why is it this way? There should be two waiting rooms, one for obstetrics and another for gynecology. I'm only 23 years old; I'll endure this trauma four times a year for at least thirty years.It's hard continuing my teacher education studies and planning a future that will surround me with children when I can never have my own. My heart aches when I see others living the life I want. It's inevitable––pregnant women and children are everywhere. While at the grocery store, I see mothers shopping with little ones in the cart. When I drive by parks or walking trails, families are everywhere, some with strollers, and some with children on their shoulders.As I near my childhood home, I wipe all evidence of tears from my cheeks and take calming breaths to steady myself. In the driveway, I sit for a few minutes before exiting th
SchuylerExiting the backseat of the taxi, I immediately fall in love with the green vegetation, bright flowers, and the stone facade of our resort. Dallas tips the cab driver before speaking to the bellhops about our luggage. Soon enough, she joins me on the steps leading into the lobby.As we stand in line at the front desk, I scan our surroundings. The windows have no glass to keep nature out. Grand archways lead guests to the front doorway or a walkway toward the beach and guest rooms. There are more open windows than flat wall space in the lobby. Green foliage and bright blue sky extend everywhere I look."Ladies, I have drinks!" A bartender extends the round tray with two glasses of slushy, red beverage topped with a lime wedge and an umbrella.Dallas wastes no time taking the two glasses and passing one to me."Compliments of the men at the bar." The bartender nods in their direction.While we turn to look, the bartender returns to his area. Dallas smiles and waves at the four m
Schuyler"I'm sorry; it's been bugging me." I interrupt their teasing and motion in Dallas's direction to the guys flanking her. "I know your names are Rich and Garret, but I don't know which of you is which."Laughter fills the air. My diversion works. In my periphery, I notice Calvin looking down, a smirk upon his face.The blonde stands and extends his hand to me, his blue eyes meeting mine. "I'm Rich; I'm taller and better looking than Garret.""Dude, you're the same height," Joe jeers from across the group."You'll have to excuse Rich; his golden locks are an attempt to make up for his deficit in the brains department. I'm Garret." The man to Dallas’s left stands, offering me his hand.Dallas can't peel her eyes from him which leads me to believe she's choosing him over Rich. It's for the best. Two blondes would be much too perfect together."Rich-blonde, Garret-brains," I chant repeatedly after shaking Garret’s hand."Hey! I'm more than just my brains," Garret protests, pouting a
SchuylerAs morning light filters through the open curtains, I roll away from it hoping to catch some more sleep. As my left cheek hits the pillow, pain registers in my brain, and my eyes open wide. I sit up. My fingertips find my cheek swollen and warm. I slide from the bed, padding my way to the bathroom down the hall. I note Dallas’s door is no longer open; I assume she made it home.My eyes squint at the bright vanity lights. Leaning toward the mirror, I instantly notice my swollen cheek is bright red. The heat and redness concern me. Wanting another opinion, I knock on Dallas’s door.“What?” she moans.“Dallas, something’s wrong. I need your help.” I try to keep the concern I’m feeling hidden until I get her opinion.At my words, I hear footsteps on the tile floor, then the door flies open.“Shit Schuyler! What did you do?” Dallas asks as she turns my chin for a better look.“I woke up this way,” I answer.She guides me into the bathroom for further examination under the lights.“
SchuylerStepping from my shower, I wrap my hair in a small towel on top of my head and secure another towel under my arms. I’m wiping the moisture from the large vanity mirror with a spare cloth when I hear a knock on the door.“Schuyler, your mother is on the phone,” Calvin calls through the closed door.“Come in,” I call back to him. “Can you put it on speaker on the counter for me?”He complies then leans against the open doorway.“Hi, Mom,” I greet, tightening the towel covering my chest.“Calvin seems like a perfect gentleman,” my mother swoons, unaware he can hear her.As a red blush graces his cheeks, I decide to not inform her she is on speakerphone. Knowing my mother, she’ll have much to say or, better yet, ask about him.“Dallas shared all the details this morning,” Mom continues. “I’m just calling to see what the diagnosis was.”“The doctor believes it’s a bug bite that I’m having an allergic reaction to,” I share, acutely aware that Calvin’s eyes haven’t left my towel-cove
Schuyler“I’m sorry I answered your phone,” Calvin whispers into my ear. “I should have carried it over to you.”I want to let him know I’m not upset with him; I want to apologize for my ass of a brother, but if I speak, I might lose my paper-thin hold on my control. I nod slightly instead. My cheek rubs against his hard, bare pectoral. I feel his racing heartbeat. His heat soothes me. I tighten my arms around his waist, nuzzling my face against his skin.Calvin slides one hand into my hair, holding me tight to him, while his other lightly caresses my back. An alarm bell in my head warns me this is too intimate. It feels good, and right now, I need this. I’ll worry about the signals I might be sending him later.“Are you okay?” Calvin murmurs. “I mean, I know you’re physically okay, but...”I pull in a deep breath. His musky scent mingled with the outdoors nearly distracts me. I blink a few times, clearing the fog he created. I place my hands upon his chest and push back, looking up in
Calvin“What are you looking at?” Schuyler asks, pointing to my phone as we enter her bungalow.“Promise you won’t get mad?” I prompt, hiding my screen from her view.“I’ll try to keep an open mind,” she states, raising her brow.“I created an Instagram account for--” I point to her still swollen cheek. “I posted the pictures I took of ‘Mo.’ The guys added some comments, and believe it or not, @MoDoesMexico now has over 200 followers.”“No way. My bug bite has 200 followers?” She smiles at me before glancing at the feed on my phone. “I should be mad that you created this account.” She gives me a small glare, but it’s half-hearted. She scrolls to the top of the feed, looks at my posted photos in order and all the comments. “How did you guys come up with all of this? You’re creative––you should write fiction or something; you have a genuine talent.”I shake my head. “It all sparked from when I referred to your bite as ‘Mo.’ After that, we fed off each other’s comments. It’s crazy, right?
CalvinThe next day, as we approach the volleyball court, I wonder why Schuyler told us to go ahead without her. She claimed she wanted to finish her current chapter. Now that I think about it, she refrained from joining us in the pool this morning, too. She contentedly read on her lounger, remaining distant.With sides chosen, we volley the ball to warm up. As I monitor the location of the white ball hurling from side to side, I also anxiously watch for Schuyler’s arrival. Something’s up, it bothers her, and I want to help.To my relief, she joins us as we prepare to start the match. Schuyler quickly removes her cover-up and takes an empty spot in the front row. The serve is up, and the match begins.Our team plays with the same enthusiasm as we did last time. We bump, set, and block while we communicate with each other. I admire Schuyler’s long, lean-muscled body in her tiny, navy boy shorts and matching sports bra. She’s distracting. I struggle to follow the ball with her beauty and