Melissa looked down, her silky blond hair (not quite so blond, now that she couldn’t color it) swinging forward. “It probably doesn’t mean much,” she whispered, “but I’m sorry.”
We looked at each other a minute. She really was beautiful, even with the blotchy skin, red eyes and double chin. “Thank you for that,” I said. “Good luck with the rest of your pregnancy. I’ll make sure Wanda sees your notes.” I opened the door, then looked back. “You can do this, Melissa. Give birth. Take care of a baby. You know more than you think.”
And then I left, hoping never to see her in the office again.
Wanda came in a half hour later, her cheeks glowing from exertion, and I updated her on Melissa. “You’re a better woman than I am,” she said. “Second time seeing your husband’s pregnant wife? Carol, let’s find a medal to give Lillie, okay?”
“I’m actually fine with martinis,” I said.
“Carol, schedule drinks this week for the three of us,” Wanda amended, flashing her smile. “Make it dinner. Someone’s birthday is next week.”
“I know, I know,” I said. “Forty-two.”
“What a sexy age,” said Carol. “Forty-two. Enjoy it before you hit menopause, Lillie.”
The rest of the day was fast and busy and satisfying. We’d seen thirteen patients by the end of the day, and Wanda and Carol and I sat in the waiting room for a few minutes, talking about who would need what in the coming week. No babies were due this week or next, so we didn’t expect any late-night calls, which was convenient, because my family was taking me out for an early birthday dinner, since Hannah would be at a wedding planners’ conference on my actual day.
My birthday was one of the traditions Melissa and Brad had broken—we’d always had a big dinner at Vanessa and Charles’s house in Orleans, which made my mother seethe (not that she offered, mind you). It would be the first birthday in twenty years without Brad and his parents, the first birthday dinner Dylan wouldn’t be able to attend, the first birthday without Beatrice. I’d written her a letter last week, missing her a bit. It was nice to be able to tell her that. Maybe Beatrice and I had more of a bond than I’d ever admitted before.
* * *
I went home, showered and put on some makeup, including some red lipstick Beatrice had given me for Christmas. Wow. It was red, all right. She had a point about it . . . I looked rather fabulous, like a 1940s pinup girl. What the heck. I managed a cat’s eye on the third try and put my hair up in a funky twist. I had a white dress with red polka dots somewhere in the back of my closet, and yes, even a pair of black heels. Maybe a black belt? Why not?
When I stepped back and looked at myself in the mirror, I smiled. I’d never be as sleek and sophisticated as Hannah, and I sure would never be as gorgeous as Melissa, but there I was, and I liked me. Maybe I looked a little bit like Minnie Mouse, but she was a fashion icon, was she not?
“Wow,” said Ben when he knocked at my door. His blue eyes drifted slowly down and up, pausing at the V of my dress, and when he met my eyes again, he was a little . . . flushed. “Okay if I mess up your lipstick?” he asked.
“Definitely okay,” I said, and he kissed me, a deep, hot kiss that lit up my insides and made my knees feel deliciously weak. When we disentangled, his mouth was smeared with my signature red.
“Go clean up or my dad will clobber you for kissing his little angel,” I said, laughing as I went back into my room to do the same.
We’d chosen Pepe’s for the coconut cake, and as Ben and I drove up, I realized I hadn’t eaten here since Brad had dumped me the night before graduation. Shit. But you know what? I’d loved Pepe’s long before I loved Bradley Fairchild, and I wasn’t going to let him ruin my favorite restaurant.
Mom, Dad and Hannah were already there, and the ma?tre d’ led us to our table, gabbing and chatting. Given the time of year, it wasn’t that crowded. Only a few other tables were occupied, and—
And there was Chase Freeman, sitting with a young woman. A teenager.
“Lillie, where do you want to sit?” asked Hannah, but once again, I was frozen at the sight of the boy who’d tried to rape me.
“Lillie?” said Ben. Then he saw Chase, too, and I swore he growled.
“Uh . . . I’ll be right there,” I said. I looked at Ben and said, “Go sit down. I’ve got this.”
“I’ll come with you,” he said, his face locked and hard.
“An old classmate,” I said to my family. “I’m gonna say hi.” They sat down, Mom muttering something about my sense of timing.
The table was just two away from ours, but Chase still hadn’t seen me yet. He seemed to be arguing with the girl, and he jumped as I pulled out a chair and sat down. “Hi,” I said. Ben stood next to me, his arms crossed over his chest.
“Jesus! Lillie . . . I—I’m having dinner with my daughter,” Chase said.
“Yes, she looks just like you,” I said. I extended my hand to the girl. “Lillie Silva,” I said. “I went to high school with your father.”
“Nice to meet you,” she said. “Brielle Freeman.”
“Pretty name,” I said. “Oh, you got the coconut cake. My favorite.”
“Lillie,” Chase said, his eyes darting between Ben and me. “I—I— Can you . . . Maybe this isn’t the right—”
“Let her talk,” Ben said, and his voice was Clint Eastwood scary.
“Guess what I do, Brielle?” I asked. “I’m a midwife.”
“Um . . . cool,” she said, clearly confused about why I was here.
“Yeah, it is cool. But you know, I take care of any kind of women’s health issues. How old are you?”
“Sixteen,” she said.
“Uh-huh. Well, is it okay if I give you some information?”
She glanced at her father, who remained mute. “Uh, yeah? Sure, I guess.”
“Brielle, one of the things that girls your age often face is date rape,” I said, and Chase flinched as if I’d stuck him with a hot poker. “It’s unfortunately common. You find yourself at a party, maybe drinking or smoking weed for the first time. Maybe you’re on a date with a guy who seems nice. But then all of a sudden, you might find that he thinks you’re going to have sex with him.”
“Why are you—” she began.
“It’s just part of my job. Educating young people about the risks out there. Consent is something that has to be given. Every time. There should never be any doubt that you are consenting. But a lot of boys don’t want to listen.” My voice was hard. “A lot of them feel entitled to sex. Maybe they’re used to getting what they want. Maybe they’re stronger than you are. You can get into a situation you don’t want to be in very quickly.”
I turned my eyes to Chase, who was staring at his plate, his face burning red. Then I looked back at his daughter, who was silent and listening, her mouth a little open. Ben stood by my side like a piece of granite. “A certain type of boy, Brielle, just assumes he’ll get sex. Some of them might try to force you, or tell you that you want it. But even if you were kissing or groping or whatever, you have every right to stop. Every right. You get to say no. No one has the right to put hands on you when you say no. Right, Chase?”
He looked halfway up but was unable to look at his daughter. “Right,” he managed, his voice strangled.
“And if that boy won’t let you go or gives you a hard time in any way, you punch him in the throat, Brielle. Hard. You call the police. You tell your parents. Because rape is no joking matter. It is a terrifying, life-threatening act of violence.”
“I know,” she said. “I do know.”
“Right, Chase?” I said. “You wouldn’t want anyone to hold your daughter down and tell her she wanted sex when she was trying to get away, would you?”
He didn’t look up, but a tear dropped onto his napkin.
“Chase?” I demanded.
“No,” he whispered. “I would never, ever want that.” Of course he wouldn’t. But Chase was one of those assholes who only cared about something when it happened in his little circle.
I sat back. “Sorry for the lecture, Brielle, but I try to take every opportunity to tell girls about consent. And boys. Boys need to hear it even more. Do you have a brother?”