The Ground Rules: Undone (Book 3)

By Roya Carmen

The Ground Rules were impossible to follow. It was hard not to become completely consumed by the beautiful and enigmatic Weston Hanson. The heart of a romantic was not fit for this kind of exchange. So, when it ended, I was shattered, but it was all for the better…or so we thought. 

The Ground Rules were rewritten, and then bent. 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.

And now, there are no Rules. We are undone.

Lust… infatuation…blinds you. It can tear everything apart. But sometimes, life needs to be completely torn apart before it can be mended – not just cracked at the edges, but utterly shattered, before you can truly see the mess you’ve become.

I love them both, but I can’t have them both. While one pulls me in, the other pushes me away. And when both eventually open their hearts, I must make the hardest decision of my life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Omnific Publishing
• Release date: Feb 23, 2016
• ISBN: 9781623422394

Book preview

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 nothings.

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.

She loves it, I remind Chloe. It makes her feel special. She’s proud to be your little sis.

Ugh, is all Chloe says before she scurries off, a book in hand.

What she doesn’t realize is how lucky she is. What I wouldn’t have given to have a sister, a built-in BFF. I’m so happy I found Gwen. She’s my best-friend-forever, my confidante. So why can’t I tell her about this? I know she’ll be shocked and most certainly not impressed with me. But still…

I sigh as I pack a few pairs of shorts and t-shirts, a pair of wedges, a summer dress and a cover-up.

I need to tell her. I’m sure she’ll understand. It was an accident…a twist of fate. Maybe she could share some of her wisdom, tell me what I should do.

I wince as I imagine confiding in her. Of course, she’ll ask what the hell I was thinking, ask me if I have completely lost my mind. Her voice will be loud and her arms will most likely flail. And I’ll most likely be sobbing.

On second thought, I decide as I stuff my toiletries bag in the already too-stuffed luggage…maybe I just won’t tell her quite yet.

My spirits lift as soon as I spot the gorgeous blue clapboard beach house in the distance. It seems so long since we were all here together.

As we turn into the driveway, the girls squeal in unison. We’re here!

Gwen runs out to greet us as soon as we turn off the engine. She looks comfy in super-short jeans cut-offs and a light blue V-neck tee. She looks so relaxed, not a care in the world. How I wish I could be her right now.

She goes in for a hug as soon as I’m out of the car. How was the drive?

Great, I tell her and shoot Greg a smile. He’s giving Gabe a hand with the luggage.

Gwen steals a hug or two from Claire and Chloe. You are both getting so big, she tells them, and so beautiful.

As soon as I step into the cozy beach house, I almost forget all my problems. I drop my over-stuffed beach bag on the striped entry rug, and take in the light and airy shabby-chic interior. It’s chock-full of old painted furniture; armoires, a coffee table, and chairs which are so charmingly rustic and quaint. They look like they’ve been picked at a flea-market sale on the side of the road for a steal. But I know for a fact that she spent a small fortune on each and every one of those pieces at various posh décor stores.

This takes me back to Hawaii, but I feel so much more laid-back than I did then. I could actually relax here. As beautiful as Weston and Bridget’s place in Hawaii was, I felt myself tense as soon as I walked in. With its sleek lines, high-end streamlined modern pieces, and wide open spaces with million dollar views, it was very intimidating — much like Weston and Bridget can sometimes be.

Gwen urges us in and we plop down on the plush white linen covered sofas. I suck in a deep breath of beach air as I sit back and take in the ceiling with its large beams and gigantic wrought iron light fixture. I am so happy to be here.

She smiles. Would you guys like a drink? she asks, ever the charming hostess. How about a beer for you, Gabe?

Gabe stretches his long legs out on the old, dilapidated rustic (ironically super expensive) coffee table. Sure. He catches my eye for a second. He looks really good in his beige linen pants and thin white tee. His shirt stretches across his shoulders and the tattoo on his arm peeks through, just ever-so-slightly.

I bite my bottom lip, thinking it’s been way too long.

Gwen hands lemonades all around, to me and the girls. And Gabe has one of Greg’s fancy-ass imported beers.

Cheers, Gwen exclaims, throwing her glass of lemonade up into the air.

And we all join in, smiles on our faces. Cheers. Cheers. Cheers.

We spend most of the day at the beach. The girls have a blast, swimming in the waves of Lake Michigan, building sand castles, and sun bathing. I can already see their olive skin getting darker and I slather SPF 60 on my light freckled skin. Gabe certainly has his fun too as he twirls the girls up in the air over the waves. The squeals of their laughter almost drown out the conversation between Gwen and me. We don’t talk about much, mind you — just the usual — what we’ve been up to, the new cute dress she bought (which she tells me she’ll show me later), the new movies playing. And all I want is to tell her I’m having a baby…Weston’s baby. And I’m going literally insane. I desperately want to ask her what to do.

But I put on a brave smile and listen, and nod at all the right places. I hope I’m doing a great job. I hope no one can tell something’s seriously up with me.

I explore the waters for a spell, hidden in my black tankini. I’m not showing yet, thank God. But still, I can’t help but feel like they can all see. Gabe grabs me by the hips and throws me in. He’s got a good throw because I go flying off in the air. There’s really no dilly-dallying with him around — you just go straight in the water, whether you want to or not. The water is freezing, but it feels great. For a few seconds, I can almost forget.

We have a feast for dinner. Greg’s a good cook. Gwen has sure scored with this guy. Greg is a good man and she’s very lucky to have him. When I first met the two of them, I was surprised. I expected a gorgeous trophy-husband — the tall, dark and handsome type. And Greg’s not quite that. But I also thought they were the cutest couple on the planet. They’re very close — always hugging and giving each other pecks on the cheek. There doesn’t seem to be much drama between them like there is between Gabe and I. Gwen never has any stories, never shows up at work heartbroken over a silly fight, never has juicy ‘kiss and make up’ stories. No, those are more my thing. I’m not sure if their marriage is as passionate as ours — because she never talks about the sex, which is odd, because Gwen talks about everything, especially sex. A beautiful, sophisticated woman like Gwen could probably have any man she wanted, and she chose wisely indeed. Sometimes, having a gorgeous husband only leads to trouble. And I’m most definitely the perfect example of that. If Bridget hadn’t liked the looks of Gabe so much, we wouldn’t find ourselves in the situation we’re in today.

I take a seat on one of the white linen covered chairs at the rustic round table. Be super careful, girls, I warn Chloe and Claire. I don’t want a drop on these nice white chairs. It seems like an odd choice for dining table chairs, but it does add to the whole look — the heavenly light and airy rustic beach house vibe. Gwen and Greg set the platters of grilled chicken skewers, corn on the cob, strawberry salad, and grilled peppers on the table.

Wow. Thank you so much guys, I tell them. I feel like I’m at a five-star resort.

Gwen laughs. Just wait ‘til you see the bill.

Gabe smiles as he helps himself to an enormous amount of food.

I hope you’ve made a lot, I tell Greg. Gabe can pack it in.

Greg helps himself to some salad. Oh, there’s plenty, he says with a wide smile.

Gabe shoots me a quick wink.

And I’m completely taken aback when my stomach does a tiny flip.

The guys are still playing cards. My lids are heavy as Gwen tells me, yet again, about her mother-in-law — she has a lot of stories. Whenever I hear her horror stories, I’m glad my own in-laws are relatively normal, nice people. We don’t see them too often, but when we do, everything’s cool.

But I know they’re about to hate me. When the truth comes out, everyone will know I’ve been with another man. They’ll know what a tramp I’ve become, that I’ve turned into my mother, controlled by lust. They’ll know I’ve turned my back on my husband and my girls. They’ll hate me. Everyone will hate me. And I deserve to be hated.

It’s still bright out, the sunset beautiful. But I just can’t seem to stay awake.

Gwen stops mid-sentence, and tells me I look exhausted.

I’m sorry, I apologize. I’ve been really tired lately.

No problem, sweetie. She eyes me with a curious look. It’s only about nine o’clock.

I should probably get the girls and myself to bed.

She sets her fruity drink down on the coffee table. Sure. We’ll chat tomorrow.

Sounds good.

I tuck the girls into the two