Filthy Doctor(53)

“Yes, yes and yes. I’ve been waiting for you to say this to me.” I laughed nervously as he pulled a ring from his pocket and slipped it on my finger as I started to cry again. It was beautiful with a band covered in diamonds surrounding another rock that was big enough to sparkle but not gaudy. I loved it, and Jack stood and pulled me slowly into his arms as everyone started to clap.

He kissed me softly and whispered that he loved me. He whispered that he always loved me, and I agreed before kissing him again. We pulled away and looked around at the faces staring back at us. Some were shocked, others were smiling, but the most notable faces in the room were my parents as they lifted their glasses in a toast.

“I am going to offer you the job back as well, James. I don’t mind keeping football in the family, but don’t expect any special treatment from me. I still expect the team to win it all this year.” Dad said as we both stared at him. He winked and James looked at me.

“What do you think?”

“What do you think? I get to keep you either way,” I told him as I stared at him.

“I was going to take some time off with you, travel once the baby is here and maybe join a business with my friend. I want to be home with you,” James told me as I smiled at him.

“You’ve taken the team this far already this year, and I’ll be busy with the baby once she’s born. We won’t be traveling anywhere for a while. We can go on a great trip in a few months. Stay for a while,” I urged James as he kissed me.

“I’ll take that offer…Dad.”

Dad groaned, and I pulled James closer for another kiss.

I knew that we could make it. I knew that we had the love for each other as well as our baby.



The End



DADDY’S BEST FRIEND



"It's good to have you home again, Max," said Sam.

Would that I could say the same, she thought. But her modeling career, in as much as she had one, had gone bust, so while her parents thought it was great that she was at home again, the sting of failure was still a bit hard for Maxine Sawyer to stand.

Her mother, a small, lean woman with frizzy hair and 1970s-style aviator glasses, led her upstairs, back to her old room. It felt weird, being treated like a guest even though she already knew where everything was. Her parents hadn't done much to her bedroom--they'd donated or otherwise got rid of all of her old clothes and cleaned out her trove of high school art projects, from the time she'd thought she wanted to be a designer. They'd kept some of her better pieces, though, she was glad to see. But otherwise her room was much as she'd left it when she landed her first modeling contract in Los Angeles--the white lace bedcovers were still there and the walls were still the warm shade of butter-yellow and her old crocheted rug was still next to her bed.

"Wow," Max murmured, as she threw her suitcase on her bed. "This brings back memories."

"Your father and I were hoping that you'd stay, go to college--"

"Mom, not now, okay?" Max said. Her parents had never liked the idea of her being a model. They said it was a career path fueled by drugs and alcohol, one that turned pretty girls into old women before their time. Max could see the truth of that, even as a willful teen, but she was determined to make a living of it all the same.

She did everything right--she worked whatever jobs she could find, her green eyes and blue-black hair landing her opportunities that most models couldn't get. She had a "charming, beguiling look", as the modeling agency that hired her maintained. But after three years, the contracts started drying up. She wondered what it could be--certainly not her weight, which she'd maintained at a steady 112 pounds since the beginning. And her reputation--eager, hard-working, creative, intelligent--was stellar.

"Sorry kid," Gerry had said. That was the Gerry O’Connell, the manager of the All Occasions modeling agency she signed with, when she called to ask him why she had no work. "These things come and go. One moment you're in, the next everybody wants sun-kissed blondes. Right now it's a Brazilian moment—deep tans, tousled salt-sprayed hair. Maybe you'll have better luck in Ireland."

Well, she would have gone to Ireland--she'd thought about it, and even started the visa application, at least until she realized that just filing the papers would cost her $500, and that was $499 more than she could spare. Damn the EU, she'd thought. Only later did she realize that even the cheapest flight to Ireland was easily in the four digits.

So it was on to Plan B, which she would have been okay with if Plan B actually paid anything. In LA, if you couldn't make it as a model then you hacked it as a waitress, worked bit parts as an extra in movies and shows, or you signed up for making porn. Waiting tables was a hellish hustle, which would have been worth it nonetheless until she realized that every diner would have to tip her at least 18%, and she needed at least 30 hours a week, before she could make rent. And given that the management always skimmed a bit off the tips and she could have her hours cut without notice, it became impossible to both pay rent and eat, and while CopaCopa did give the wait staff free meals it was only one meal in a day, and that was barely enough for even a model. She wound up going through Whole Foods, because they at least had free samples, but after the second assistant asked her if she needed any help she realized that it would be suspicious to go to Whole Foods and never buy anything. Working as an extra was mostly about free food and strong coffee. Porn actually did pay, but just the process of getting cast was more humiliating and degrading than she had the stomach for. For some reason her being a virgin was supremely desirable--but when they began talking about lessons on how to give proper blow-jobs suddenly calling her parents and asking to come home didn't seem so bad.

"I'm just glad you're home, sweetie," her mother said, now. "Dinner at six, okay?"

"Thanks," Max said. She wondered how to tell her mother that her diet had changed—when she’d tried to explain what veganism was her mother just nodded blankly (they were using Skype) and asked if organic butter would be all right. She’d sighed and nodded. Her mother would still be cooking luscious meaty casseroles and heavy, creamy soups, accompanied by thick slices of cheesy, buttery bread---and in the meantime, she'd added gluten to the list of food that she didn’t eat, so that was another thing she’d have to explain. Basically, if her mother cooked, it was off-limits.

But as the smell of chicken pot pie wafted into her room, she found herself wondering if maybe eating a full meal for the first time in three years could really be a bad thing. Her parents did mean well, after all, and they'd taken her in again without any "I told you so" or making her feel guilty about not heeding their advice. Maybe college wasn't such a bad idea--as she looked over the pieces of her portfolio that her mother kept she realized that they weren't half-bad--she could get a job somewhere while she worked towards a degree in graphic design, and maybe even design clothes one day that people would fight to model.

Irony was a funny thing, she thought as she put her clothes away. Still, this was a second chance, and she knew that most people didn't get one. And it began with eating her mother's chicken pot pie and telling her parents that she was going to enroll in college.



It’d been a long time since she was back in Maryland. She’d forgotten a lot about it—she’d fallen asleep on the drive home from the airport and therefore missed a lot. But now, in the morning, she woke up in her bedroom which felt bigger than the entire apartment that she’d shared with four other girls, also all models, to the sight of the sun coming over the trees in their backyard—it felt a little like she’d landed on an alien planet, where the hot water worked and there weren’t hair clots the size of her fist in the shower. She pulled on a long shirt/short dress, depending on whether she was wearing leggings with it (it was leggings weather), going for “boho chic”, but she realized that she’d sold all of her turquoise jewelry for the plane fare home. She still had some cheap costume jewelry, though—some dangly feathers, a string of wooden beads—so just plain “boho” it was, then.

As she went down the stairs and into the kitchen and smelled eggs and bacon it was amazing how badly she wanted some, even though she was a vegan (until last night).

“Good morning,” her mother said.

“Hi,” Max said, as she sat down at the table, sheepishly—unable to hide how much she’d missed having eggs and bacon. Her mother gave her a sidelong look and plated out one egg and a strip of bacon, and added an English muffin to it for good measure. “It won’t kill you,” her mother had said the night before, when she’d tried to explain (again) what being gluten-free meant.

“How do you know?” she’d asked. “Did you know that we’ve only been eating wheat for five-thousand years? Before that we were hunters and gatherers—”

“The world didn’t change overnight,” her father had said. “You think they invented plows and tamed oxen and built cities in two days?”

“No—”

“Then we’ve been eating wheat and cows and chickens before then, too,” he said, gruffly. “This is our home, and if you want to stay here then you have to live by our rules.”