Travis hasn't seen or heard from Charlotte (aside from a single text message) in three days, and he's spent the whole time with his stomach tied in knots. He keeps hearin' her in his head: I deserve a goddamned choice in when and how somethin' like this happens, and you didn't give it to me. The last thing on his mind that morning had been hurtin' her, but it seemed that was exactly what he'd done. And in spectacular fashion. He hurt her, and she made it pretty clear he violated her, and that's just not somethin' he can live without rectifyin'.
He didn't figure the first bouquet would get him far – not with her as spittin' mad as she was when she left his place on Wednesday, but he'd hoped maybe the second one would get him somewhere, or at the very least the third. A phone call, a nasty email, some kind of communication. But he's gotten nothin' but silence, and it's eatin' him up inside.
So here he is, at noon on a Saturday, clutching a vase full of roses (she hates roses, he knows this – but these aren't your run-of-the-mill long-stem reds, so he hopes she'll be charmed by 'em) and lifting his hand to ring the doorbell at Violet's place.
He half expects to get no answer at all, but then the door swings open and Violet's standing there. She looks him up and down, smirks, and he knows just by the expression on her face that she knows what happened between them. He's feelin' too guilty to be embarrassed, though.
"Y'know, I have to say," she starts, before he manages to get his words together. "My house has never been prettier than the last few days. Sunflowers in the dining room, tulips in my bedroom, daisies in the bathroom, and now roses. I bet they'd look great in the kitchen."
Travis frowns. "The tulips are in your room?"
"Well, they were in her office until yesterday, but she didn't want them to die over the weekend, so she brought them home."
Well, that's something, he thinks. If she was still furious with him, you'd think she'd just let 'em wither. "Is she here?"
"She is," Violet nods carefully, before adding, "But she's sick. She has, and I quote, 'cramps so bad she thinks her guts are turning inside out.'"
Travis winces. Charlotte has a tendency toward debilitating cramps – or did, anyway, up until her early twenties when she finally got the right meds from her doctor. If he knows her, she'll be curled up in bed with a heating pad, pale and shaky, and generally miserable. He's thinkin' maybe now isn't the best time to grovel, and he should just leave the flowers and go, when Violet says, "If I were you, I'd use the fact that right now she probably can't kick me down the stairs the minute she sees me to my advantage." She steps back and holds a hand out to invite him in. "Her bedroom's upstairs. Second door on the right."
"I know," he says absently as he steps inside, and he doesn't miss the way she smiles knowingly. "She's still kick-me-down-the-stairs mad, huh?"
"She's hurt," Violet tells him. "But I think she might be just about ready to hear you out."
"Well, that's somethin', at least," Travis says, before he steels himself and heads upstairs. Charlotte's walking out of the bathroom just as he's walking down the hallway, and when she lifts her eyes and sees him, his heart aches. She looks like hell, pale and hunched a little, one hand pressed to her belly, her body swallowed up in baggy sweats and a thin tank top. She's already scowling, and the expression just deepens when she sees him.
"Violet let me up," he tells her, shifting his grip on the flowers in his hands.
"Remind me not to thank her for that," Charlotte mutters, and she even sounds pained. He has the overwhelming urge to just coddle her all better, but tamps it down. He's pretty sure that ain't happenin'. Charlotte keeps headin' for her bedroom, telling him, "I'm still mad at you."
"And I deserve it," he says, following her. She doesn't shut the door in his face, which he thinks is a pretty good sign, so he follows her in.
"You're damn right you do."
Travis stands there a little awkwardly as she climbs into the bed, props herself against the pillows and drags a heating pad into her lap. She winces, shuts her eyes and swallows hard, and he knows it's the so-bad-they-make-you-nauseous kind of cramps. Without thinkin', he moves to the bed, sets the roses down next to the glass of water on her nightstand and sits on the edge of the mattress. He threads her fingers with his and squeezes, and her grip tightens hard for a minute and then eases up.
She blows out a breath, squints her eyes open to look at him. "I don't have it in me to argue with you today."
"Then, let's not argue," he tells her. "Just hear me out."
Charlotte settles back further into her pillows and nods. "Fine. Talk."
"Junebug..." She winces again, and he just hates seein' her like this. "You look like hell."
"I feel like hell. Haven't had cramps this bad in years."
"Wasn't the birth control supposed to fix that?"
"I was. It does." She presses the heating pad harder against her belly. "Or did, anyway. My doctor changed my pill last month, and this one apparently doesn't work for shit."
"Why don't I rub your back?" he suggests. He doesn't figure she'll say yes, but it's worth a shot.
"Why don't you say your piece first," she challenges with a raise of her brow, and Travis figures that's fair.
"Alright. I just thought you might-"
"Travis."
"Right." Apology, or nothin'. He reaches for the flowers again, and hands them to her. She sets them in her lap and holds 'em just tight enough for them not to topple over. "I got you these."
"I hate roses."
"You hate 'em, 'cause they're boring," he reminds, pointing at the bouquet. "These aren't boring. They're all bright pink, and yellow, and orange, and there's little – see? – little hearts there in the vase." That single brow creeps up again. He's not makin' any progress. "They're bright and cheerful."
"I'm not bright and cheerful," she tells him.
"No, but you brighten my-"
"Don't," she cuts him off, moving the vase back to the nightstand none to gently, heavy glass hitting wood with a loud thunk. "Don't you dare give me that tired, sad, horrible line that was about to come outta your mouth."
Travis shuts his mouth presses his lips between his teeth for a second and tries again. She's not a big fan of charm when she's mad – he's not even sure why he tried that one. Graspin' at straws. "They're pretty, and they made me think of you, but the flowers don't matter, Lola. What matters is that you hear me out."
"So talk," she tells him. "I'm sittin' here wincin' through cramps so I can hear what you have to say, and so far you haven't said much of anything worth hearin'."
"I'm sorry," he says, reaching for her hand again. She lets him thread their fingers, but leaves her hand limp in his. "I know I hurt you, bad, and I'm sorry. But I want you to know that what happened, what we did... I didn't mean to make it about somethin' other than us. I was just tryin' to-"
"Don't," she warns him, and Travis sighs. He's never gonna get through this if she keeps interruptin' him. "Don't you piss on my leg and tell me it's rainin', Travis. You knew exactly what you were doin', and it wasn't just about you and me."
He takes a breath, lets it out. This isn't goin' well. "I never meant to hurt you," he tells her again.
"Now that one I actually believe."
Well, thank God. "It's just, I love you."
"Yeah, I got the card," she says, with just enough added bitterness that he hesitates for a second before replying.
"Good."
"Good? Good that the first time you say you love me is on a card and not to my face?" She crosses her arms, scowls at him, and he thinks Crap. He hadn't really thought of it that way. He'd just been so desperate for her to talk to him, desperate for her to know that he cared about her, that she was important to him, that this could (God, he hoped) all be worked out. He figured an "I love you" couldn't hurt matters any, and if he'd been at all unsure about the depth of his feelings for her, the threat of losing her had wiped any and all doubts away.
"I was startin' to think you might never talk to me again," he told her, "And I wanted to make sure you knew."
"Then you call me up-"
"You wouldn't have answered."
"Or you show up-"
"I did – I am. I'm here."
"But you don't write somethin' like that on a card, Travis. It cheapens it."
"Guess I've been cheapenin' a lot of things lately," he mutters, wishing he could figure out the right thing to say to her. He's usually so good at navigating Charlotte, but for some reason when he's hurt her – really hurt her – he ends up feelin' like he ain't got the sense he was born with.
"Don't be a sadsack," she huffs, shaking her head at him. "But yes, you have."
"Look, Lola..." He squeezes her hand a little more tightly; she doesn't give him anything in return. "I just got you back in my life. And then you tell me this other guy – who doesn't treat you well-"
"And you do?"
"That's not the point. This other guy comes back, and he wants you again, and you've been sayin' for weeks that all you want is to either stop feelin' so bad or get back with him. I..." He's the one shakin' his head now, shrugging his shoulders. "I panicked, okay? I thought if we got more serious, you wouldn't go waltzin' off to Cooper."
"So you decided to just grope me in my sleep a little?"
"No," he drawls slowly. "I decided to wake you up with kisses. Thought I could romance you a bit, get you sweet on me again."
"And the hand up my shirt?"
"You weren't wakin' too fast. Thought it'd rouse you a bit quicker." He scratches the back of his head with his free hand, grimaces a little. "But you were out like a light. Took longer than I thought it would, and then you were so into it, I figured it was fine. I thought if you woke up and you didn't want what was happenin', you'd say no. I'd've stopped if you'd said no. I hope you'd know that."
He'd been tryin' to decide what was worse the last few days – her thinkin' he was the kind of guy who would push past her limits, who would force her, or the fact that it seemed he's actually lived up to the suspicion. He'd been with a good number of women in his days, but he respected them all enough to make sure he wasn't ever taking advantage. The last person he ever imagined he'd cross that line with was Charlotte.
"I would've said no," she tells him, and he swears he feels her fingers pulse against his hand, but it's so brief and so light he can't be sure. "But the thing is, Travis, I didn't have a problem with what we did. I wanted you, you wanted me. It felt good. I can't say I didn't want it, or that I regretted it. Not until I was standin' in that bathroom covered in hickeys and realizin' why you did it. Because it was about somethin' other than us, Trav. It was about you markin' me all up, so anyone who saw me – and by anyone we both know I mean Cooper – would know that there was someone takin' up space in my bed at night. Here I was, thinkin' it was a bit foolish, maybe, to go there again after all this time, but... we both knew it was comin' eventually. With our history, and the tension, the makin' out we couldn't seem to keep ourselves from doin'... the sex was inevitable, but the jealousy? The possessiveness? Those aren't, and those, quite frankly, hurt."
"I'm sorry." Travis has the decency to look at guilty as he feels. She's right, he thinks. She's right, and he ought to have eased up after he noticed he'd left that first hickey, but well... he did want Cooper to see 'em and think she was spoken for. He'd been careful not to make 'em too dark – just enough to be noticeable if you were takin' a good look at someone – but he'd be lying if he tried to tell her he hadn't marked her on purpose, for exactly the reason she was thinkin' he did.
"Good," she says, drawing his attention back. "You oughta be. One of the things I always loved about you – about us – was that when we were together like that, you had this way of makin' me feel like I was the only person in the world, the only thing that mattered. The only thing on your mind. And maybe it's silly for me to be thinkin' it'd still be like that all these years later, but... I did. I thought that. And realizin' that while I was in bed with you – one hundred percent, totally with you – you were thinkin' about someone else... it was like bein' kicked in the gut, Trav. You're the good guy. You're the one who treats me well, the one who thinks I deserve the damned moon. But you weren't with me. Not really. Your head was off somewhere else, with the guy I'd already told you I had turned down."
"For now."
"Yes, for now, Travis. Because you're leavin' in six weeks."
Closer to five now, he thinks, and he's tempted to tell her he can stay. That he won't leave, and she can kiss Cooper Freedman's sorry ass goodbye, but he doesn't figure that'll gain him any points right now, so he just keeps quiet.
"And for the love of all that's good and holy, Travis, I am a doctor. More than that, I'm chief of staff at a hospital. I'm the top of the totem pole in that building; people are supposed to respect me. I have to deal with patients – unhappy, angry, grieving patients and their families – day in and day out. I can't show up at work with a neck full of hickeys, like a horny teenager after prom night. What in the hell were you thinkin'?"
He hadn't thought of that – it literally had never crossed his mind that the hickeys would make her look a fool. Embarrass her. Hurt her credibility. Shit. He's not sure he knows anyone who prides themselves more on the work they do than Charlotte King, and he went and made her look bad. No wonder she didn't talk to him for three days straight – the hickeys alone would probably be reason enough, knowing her.
"Shit, Lola," he sighs. "I'm sorry – I didn't think."
"No, of course you didn't. If you'd been thinkin', we wouldn't be sittin' here. You'd be layin' with me, rubbin' my back and makin' me feel good." She's tearing up all of a sudden, and it's such a quick turn of emotion that he's almost startled by it – until he remembers she's in pain, and hormonal, and a few tears are probably par for the course. "But instead, we are sittin' here, talkin' about your bad behavior, and – goddamnit!" She wipes furiously at tears, presses the heels of her hands hard against her eyes.
"Shh, Lola," he murmurs, reaching up and wrapping his hands gently around her wrists, pulling them down until he can look into those wet green eyes. "It's alright. You're hurtin' – in more ways than one, I know. But I really am sorry. And I swear – I promise you – if you give me another chance, if we can just go back to seein' where things go, spendin' time together and doin' what comes naturally, I will be on my best behavior. I will tamp down the jealousy, and I swear to you, I won't lay so much as a hand on any of your private parts without your express permission. I promise, okay?"
She nods, tugs her arms from his grip and wipes at the last of her tears – her eyes are dry already. "Fine. But only because I've spent so damned long bein' mad at you – six years and now this. And I'm just tired of it. I'm tired of bein' mad at you, Travis. I'm sick of it. I'm tired of you givin' me reasons to be mad. So, fine – you stop givin' me reasons to be pissed off and hurt, and we can try again."
"I'll stop," he swears, feeling that knot of dread he's been carryin' around for days begin to loosen some. "I promise. Now, let me rub your back? Please?"
She hesitates long enough that he thinks she'll say no again, but then she surprises him by rolling onto her belly, heating pad tucked safely beneath her. "Okay. You remember how I like it?"
"Yes, ma'am," he murmurs, shifting slightly and then pressing his thumbs on either side of the base of her spine, dragging them up, slow and steady to the middle of her back. She lets out a little grunt of approval, and he does it again. He keeps it up for twenty minutes straight, straying to her shoulders now and again, but keeping most of his focus on her lower back to counteract the aches in her belly.
She doesn't speak again, and he thinks she's dozing lightly, forehead still creased with discomfort, but then she cranes her neck to scowl at him. "It still hurts like a bitch," she tells him, and Travis wishes there was more he could do.
"I can keep rubbin' as long as you need."
She studies him for a minute, chews her lip and deepens the furrow in her brow. And then she rolls over and slides the heating pad away. Travis settles his hand on her belly, where's she's so warm he can't help but wonder how close she was to burnin' herself. "There's somethin' else that sometimes helps – pretty much always helps, actually."
"Okay. Anything – what can I do?"
She bites that lip again, then settles her hand over his and guides it down over her sweats until he's cupping her crotch lightly. Well. That's certainly... unexpected.
"...Lola?"
"Orgasms. Muscles contract, oxytocin goes swimmin' all through your veins. It eases the cramps."
"Okay..."As far as home remedies go, he's not gonna complain about this one, but... "Didn't I just get the silent treatment for three days on account of my doin' this?"
"No, you got the silent treatment for doin' it without askin' and for the wrong reasons," she corrects. "Now, I'm askin', and I'd say pain reduction is a damned good reason." She fixes him with a little pout and those pretty green eyes, and he has enough sense to know he's being manipulated with that face, but doesn't care. He's also not sure why she thinks he might need convincing. "At this point, either you have to do it, or I've gotta kick you out so I can take care of it myself. And truth be told, I'm beat, and achy, and just want to lie here and be tended to for a bit."
"Can't argue with that," he mutters, pressing his hand a little more snugly against the curve of her body. "Are you sure?"
"Mmhmm," she murmurs, letting her eyes drop shut. "Build it up slow. Might take a while, startin' cold like this."
"I've got time," he assures her, climbing onto the bed with her, and stretching out alongside her before slipping his hand beneath her sweats but over the soft cotton of her underwear. She shifts a little, turns her face until her nose is brushing against him, and raises one knee, then drops it against his hip to open her legs a little wider.
Travis does just as she asked, starts slow and easy, watches the way her breath starts to deepen eventually, teeth catching her bottom lip. He murmurs for her to look at him, and she does, opening those pretty eyes and he can't look away – can't let her look away either – as his hand continues working steadily against her.
He brings her up once, watches her gasp and moan, and doesn't stop until she comes a second time. She tries to reach for him, murmurs something about returning the favor as a thank-you, but he pushes her hand away, assures her he can wait, and tells her to shut her eyes, just feel, get some rest.
He waits until she's snoozing heavily before slipping out of the bed and sneaking into the bathroom to take care of himself. All in all, he thinks, this could've gone a whole lot worse.