The Ground Rules: Undone Read online

  The Ground Rules: Undone, Copyright © Roya Carmen, 2016

  All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S.

  Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.

  Omnific Publishing

  2355 Westwood Blvd, Suite 506

  Los Angeles, CA 90064

  www.omnificpublishing.com

  First Omnific eBook edition, February 2016

  First Omnific trade paperback edition, February 2016

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  Carmen, Roya.

  The Ground Rules: Undone / Roya Carmen – 1st ed.

  ISBN: 978-1-623422-39-4

  1. Marriage — Fiction. 2. Erotica — Fiction.

  3. Chicago — Fiction. 4. Swinging — Fiction. I. Title

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Cover Design by Micha Stone and Amy Brokaw

  Printed in the United States of America

  To all my wonderful readers,

  with all my appreciation.

  PREFACE

  The rules were written. But they were impossible to follow. We risked everything, despite knowing the consequences. We did try to write an end to our story but we couldn’t let go of each other. We were destined to fail.

  The rules were rewritten, bent, and eventually abandoned. We lied to ourselves. We told ourselves we could handle this. Not a single one of us realized just how big this was...just how devastating it could become.

  Lust… infatuation…blinds you. It can disguise you, and turn you into someone you thought you’d never be. It can tear everything apart.

  But sometimes, your life needs to be completely torn apart before it can be mended — not just cracked at the edges, but utterly shattered, before you can really see…truly see the mess you’ve become.

  If you’re lucky, you’ll be strong enough to heal and someone will be by your side to help you. And if you’re truly blessed, you will find the right path to follow, and you will no longer be broken.

  CHAPTER ONE

  …what have I done?

  I’m racing down the highway in my Mini Cooper. I’m bopping along to my favorite song on the radio, free as can be. Life is good. I don’t see it coming when an eighteen wheeler T-bones me and sends me flying into the clouds. I’m thrown repeatedly, and my head feels like it’s not attached to my body. I’m falling…

  I wake up in a sweat before I hit the ground. The nightmare makes sense. It’s exactly how I felt when Dr. Fisher uttered the words ‘you’re pregnant’. I was completely blindsided.

  But I should have seen it coming. When you break the rules repeatedly, so brazenly, you can’t very well expect there to be no repercussions. I thought I had defied the odds, that I had gotten out of this mess scot-free — no one hurt. I could finally move on with my life, and I was ready to do just that.

  Now I must deal with the consequences of my actions. This was my mistake, not Gabe’s. He doesn’t deserve this. He hasn’t done anything wrong. I will bear the burden of this for now. I will keep this secret to myself. I know I can’t hold on to it forever. But for now… I just can’t bring myself to break his heart.

  He doesn’t need to know…yet.

  The room seems to close in on me. I stare blankly at the tropical fish swimming along the decorative border lining the small intimate room. “How did this happen?” I know this is a stupid, stupid question as soon as I ask it. But part of me still can’t believe I’m pregnant, given all the facts.

  Dr. Fisher smiles. It is a soft smile, the kind of smile a mother gives her child when he’s just scraped a knee — everything’s going to be okay.

  But this isn’t a scrape on my knee. I want to scream. This is a life growing inside me. Sure, it’s the size of a peanut right now. But that doesn’t mean it won’t be a huge, immense part of my life — of all our lives.

  I fiddle with the keychain attached to the strap of my purse — a miniature Volkswagen Beetle. I’ve had it forever. The girls used to love playing with it when they were small. Those days seem so long ago now; diapers, potty training, sippy cups, building blocks, puzzles on the floor.

  I can’t do this again.

  My girls are finally independent. They still need their mother of course, but gone are the days of twenty-four-seven care. I never thought I’d ever be doing this again.

  I bite back a tear, and tell myself to settle down. “I don’t understand…”

  Dr. Fisher stares down at the stack of printouts in her hands. “Well, first off, as you may know, condoms are about ninety-two percent effective, and that’s if they are used properly.”

  I’m brought back to all the times Weston and I have skipped the condom. The first time was pure craziness — we got lost in the heat of the moment. And after that, we just weren’t quite as careful anymore. I justified to myself that since I was on the pill, and we were all monogamous and clean, it wasn’t the end of the world. But it was so wrong. Every time we were careless, I knew it was wrong.

  And New York was just sinful. Wrapped up in Weston’s arms, I wasn’t thinking straight. I had been so good up until then, keeping my emotions in check, always using condoms, never crossing the line. But I was weak that night in New York — the night we made love. I’ve thought about this incessantly since Dr. Fisher’s phone call. It had to be that night. It was him who had wanted to go bare. He had wanted nothing to separate us.

  I had tried to pull away. I should have insisted. But I had wanted it too.

  “At your recent physical, you mentioned you’d had unprotected sex,” Dr. Fisher carries on, “so I decided to test for pregnancy, just in case.”

  I can’t quite look at her. I feel so ashamed.

  “But I never thought…” she goes on. I finally venture a look up at her. She fixes her gaze on me, curious. “The pill is almost one-hundred percent effective when taken properly and consistently.” There’s an edge to her voice suddenly. She seems very confused, and not too impressed with me.

  Yes, obviously something went wrong, I want to tell her.

  “Well,” I say with a heavy heart. “Weston and I did have unprotected sex a few times, but I still don’t understand. I always took the pill religiously. At the same time, every single night. I was always very good about that.”

  She swallows and studies me for a beat. “Have you been sick at all in recent weeks?”

  Yes.

  I think back to that horrible stomach flu I had — my reluctant new kinship with the toilet, the neon colored sports drinks, green Jell-O, trashy magazines, and Gabe’s constant attempts to shove soup down my throat.

  I think Dr. Fisher sees the color drain from my face. “If you had any kind of serious illness,” she tells me, her tone even and measured, “involving vomiting or diarrhea, the pill would not have been properly absorbed into your system. A second method of contraception should have been used in the weeks following.”

  Yes, if only we had followed the rules.

  “But I didn’t know that,” I cry. I have never felt so utterly stupid. I had never stopped once to think about this. It makes so much sense. But I was way too caught up in my infatuation for Weston, and the conflicts I had with Gabe, and work, to even think at all.

  Dr. Fisher shakes her head, ever so slightly. “I remember now, you mentioned at your last appointment that you had the stomach flu and weren’t quite feeling back to normal yet.”

 
“Yes. I had a bug. That’s what went wrong.” I wince, thinking about the last few weeks. “I don’t understand, Dr. Fisher… I swear I had my period a little while ago.”

  She nods. “Was it very light?”

  I think back for a second. “Yes, it was only a bit of spotting for a day or two, but I didn’t think too much of it. My periods are always light when I’m on the pill.”

  Her head practically bounces as she nods again. “Yes, what you’ve experienced is most likely spotting caused by light implantation. It’s very common, up to twenty percent of women experience it.”

  Something else I didn’t know — you can bleed when you’re pregnant. I don’t say a word and we both drift into silence.

  I should have known I was pregnant. I haven’t felt like myself in weeks. But I chalked it up to the mess I was living…and the heartbreak.

  She stares down at her papers again, seemingly distracted with the list of numbers on the sheets.

  I suddenly perk up. Maybe the baby’s not Weston’s. It could be Gabe’s. I am so desperate for this, I’m willing to believe anything.

  I sit up straight. “Could the baby be my husband’s? Is there any chance?” I ask her, my voice pleading for her to tell me it’s a possibility.

  She winces. “That’s highly unlikely. As I recall, your husband’s vasectomy results were confirmed, weren’t they?”

  I slouch back in my chair. “Yes,” I say, the word barely a whisper. And I let go. I give up holding back the tears. I sob into my hands, not knowing what else to do.

  I don’t dare look at Dr. Fisher, whom, I’m convinced thinks I’m a capital T- tramp.

  “Mirella,” she says, her voice soft. “You will be fine. Your baby will be fine. You’re still young and healthy and a new life is always something to celebrate, no matter the circumstances.”

  She hands me a tissue and I venture a look up at her. “Is the baby healthy? I’m still taking the pill. Will this affect the baby?” I realize part of me wants this child — wants this child to be healthy. He or she is part of Weston and I, and I want to hold on to that, no matter what happens between us. I want this new life to grow inside of me, thrive, and become the great person he or she is destined to be. I want this child to be just like Weston; with exceptional intelligence, striking beauty and an innate softness, maybe even a rogue lock of hair which will never be tamed.

  Dr. Fisher sits up straighter. “Yes, the baby should be fine. There is no past indication of problems in this kind of situation. With extended use, it can cause problems, but in this case, it should be fine. You’ll obviously stop taking the pill if you haven’t already done so, and start taking prenatal supplements.”

  I nod but don’t say a word.

  She sucks in a breath. “And of course,” she adds, her words slow and heavy. “If you really don’t want this child, you also have options. We can discuss these if you wish.”

  I shake my head as my heart sinks at the thought of ending this life. But despite how much part of me wants this child, I know I really need to consider everyone else. This child will not only affect my life, but so many others as well. I want to talk to Gabe about this, but I fear he’ll want me to get an abortion. I just don’t know if I could ever do that. But then what? Gabe and I will separate? And what happens to the girls?

  And Weston. He should know. But what about his family? His children?

  I bury my forehead in my hands, pulling at my hair. “I don’t know what to do.”

  Dr. Fisher leans in and puts a hand on my shoulder. “I wish I had all the answers for you, Mirella. I really do.”

  I look up at her, feeling completely shattered. “Me too.”

  Nothing has changed at home. Everything is the same. I still cook dinner every night and put the girls to bed at around eight-thirty. They always beg me to stay up a little later. Please…

  Gabe still wakes up at the same time every morning, still leaves the toilet seat up and occasional beard shavings in the sink. He still has cream cheese and jam on a whole wheat bagel and a protein shake for breakfast.

  Claire still makes her bed and lines up her stuffed animals against her pillow in the same exact order. Her stuffed orange kitty Carrot sits on the left, her Madeline doll sits on the right, and Bitzy, her stuffed monkey, her favorite, sits in the middle, cozily sandwiched between his two friends.

  Chloe still reads a good ten minutes before coming down for breakfast, and still brushes her teeth for exactly two minutes with her electric pink elephant timer toothbrush.

  Everything is the same. Yet, everything has changed.

  This secret of mine is destroying me, little by little. I’ve been dealing with it by keeping busy, obsessively cleaning the house — it’s spotless, not a single thing out of place. I’ve organized the girls’ toys, the entry hall closet, and the kitchen cupboards.

  Our life is so peaceful, perfect…looking in from the outside. But inside, I’m a brutal mess. I want to tell Gabe. I want to tell Weston. I want to tell Gwen. I want to confide in someone and free myself from this heavy burden and truck-load of remorse. I know I should really tell Gabe, but I’m not ready to face his reaction. I know this is wrong, but I just don’t want to hurt him — although I know I already have. I don’t want to mess up what we have. What we’ve built together…it’s perfect. And this secret will smear our lives beyond recognition. Once he knows about the baby, nothing will ever be the same.

  So I’ve been waiting. Waiting for God to intervene. I’m at about seven or eight weeks now. I don’t feel too different. My breasts feel tender, and I’m occasionally a little nauseous and extremely tired. I’m also so emotional — but that probably has a little something to do with my life being a complete and utter mess. I’ve had a miscarriage in the past, and two full-term births. The way I see it, the chances of losing this baby are about thirty-three percent — possibly even higher since I’m older now. No one needs to get hurt. I can quietly lose the baby and no one needs to know there ever was a baby.

  I’ve been exhausted, going to bed early, just about thirty minutes or so after I tuck in the girls. I think I’ve been heading to bed partly because I don’t want to be awake, obsessing over all this, and partly because I want to avoid Gabe. We haven’t made love since I found out. I just don’t feel right being close to him when another man’s child is growing inside me.

  He has certainly been trying though. He slides down the strap of my tank top and kisses my shoulder, slips his hand up my thigh, under the covers, kisses the back of my neck and asks me if I’m in the mood to fuck. And every single time, I make an excuse — too tired, too busy, not feeling well, the girls. Surprisingly, he’s been taking it all in stride, asking me once or twice if I’ve been feeling okay. I nod and turn away or scurry off, not able to face him. I hate doing this to him.

  It’s not that I haven’t wanted him. I want him. I want to be touched. Despite my exhaustion, I’ve been restless in bed at night. My thoughts usually drift to Weston, to the last time I saw him, in that pastry and coffee shop — his hand grasping my thigh, sliding under the silky fabric of my pencil skirt. When he’d said he could take me into the washroom and fuck me senseless, part of me had wanted it.

  In the hidden corners of my mind, I always take the scene to where it never went. I whisper ‘yes’ in his ear. And he takes me in there, locks the door and hoists me on the edge of the pedestal sink, his face pressed against mine, my head pushed against the filthy mirror. He hikes up my skirt around my waist. He doesn’t gently slip my panties off — he rips them off. My hands grip the edge of the sink tightly as he pounds into me — so hard, the sink clanks against the wall. There’s no fear, no guilt, no inhibition, just pure pleasure. That’s the great thing about fantasies.

  It’s always the same fantasy — the same little naughty film playing in my head. I don’t know why it’s so dark, so raw. I’m not daydreaming about kisses in the park, his hand on my belly, on our growing child, his mouth against my ear, whispering sweet nothin
gs.

  No…it’s all about this raw, sexual desire. Maybe it’s always been about that. When I let myself fall into these fantasies, I get restless — I want to touch myself. But I don’t. I don’t because I don’t deserve any pleasure. All I deserve is the pain and torment I’ve been living with.

  CHAPTER TWO

  This could break us.

  II pull out a large brown suitcase from the storage room, drag it upstairs, and plop it on top of Chloe’s bed. This trip will do us good, I remind myself as I unzip the luggage.

  Claire runs over and hands me her stuffed monkey. “Don’t forget Bitzy.”

  I smile at her. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” Definitely wouldn’t dream of it, because if we forgot her ‘best friend’, we’d probably have to turn around and come back home. I carefully press the girls’ dresses against the bottom of the luggage, and smooth out the folds. This Fourth of July trip has been planned for quite a while, and I think it’s perfect timing. It seems Gwen and I have been talking about it for ages. Her beach house is ‘totally awesome’ as Chloe likes to say.

  My cell sings and I drop a pile of clothing on top of the bed and dash downstairs. When I finally reach it, frustration washes over me as I recognize my dentist’s number. I decide to let it go to voice mail. I know it’s stupid, I know I’ve said my goodbyes to Weston and I’ve asked him to leave me alone. And he’s respected my wishes. I should be happy, shouldn’t I? But I want him to chase me again. I want him to reach out. I want to hear his voice, to feel his presence. Part of me wants to have a chance, an excuse to tell him about our baby.

  Claire saunters in, a navy and white polka-dot bathing suit in her hand. “Here, Mommy. I couldn’t find Chloe’s. It’s really important that we find it.”

  “Of course,” I tell her. “I’ll look for it.”

  I smile when I catch the huge eye-roll on Chloe’s face. Claire is still into wearing matching outfits with her big sister. She gets a big thrill out of it, but Chloe…not so much.