El precio de amar al enemigo

Beth

I stare at the spreadsheet glowing on my laptop screen, the words Quarterly Campaign Overview blurring into nonsense. The only other light in my apartment is the faint city glow filtering through the curtains and the blinking cursor that mocks me for still working at nine-thirty on a Friday night.

A knock jolts me. Then comes Rachel’s voice—bright, bossy, impossible to ignore.

I groan but can’t help smiling. I save the deck, shove my hair into a knot, and shuffle to the door.

Rachel breezes in like she owns the place, a human caffeine shot in ripped jeans and copper space buns.

Unless I’m in my usual five-inch heels for work, she towers over me at five foot eight. Sometimes I’m jealous of her height. Tall people have it way easier in life.

She drops a bag that smells heavenly onto my counter.

“All right, short stuff, you’ve officially spent too many Friday nights alone with PowerPoint,” she declares. “Tragic. We’re staging an intervention.”

“I have a presentation next week,” I protest. “Some of us like paying rent.”

“Some of us like having lives.” She unpacks the sushi. “When’s the last time you went on an actual date that didn’t involve a delivery driver rating system?”

I think about it. “…Does coffee with my Uber Eats guy count?”

“Only if he stayed for dessert.” She slides a tray toward me and winks. “Eat. Then we’re making you a dating profile.”

I nearly choke on my first bite. “Rachel—”

“Nope. You’ve had three break-up birthdays in a row. It’s time.” She waves her chopsticks like a wand. “Laptop. Couch. Now.”

Just as I open my mouth to protest, she cuts in:

Closing my mouth in defeat, I grab my laptop and head to the couch—because she’s right. She always is.

Cross-legged on my couch, sushi boxes between us, my laptop balanced on a pillow, Rachel types before I can object.

“Username?”

I mumble, “Professional Trainwreck.”

She smirks. “Cute, but let’s sell aspiration, not despair. How about BrunchAndBanter?”

“Kill me now.”

She ignores me. “Bio?”

“I’m a marketing exec with excellent credit and no free time.”

She snorts. “Too honest. How about: Creative strategist who loves good coffee, bad puns, and long lunches I can call networking.”

I sigh but nod. “Fine. At least spell everything right.”

“Photos next.” She’s already digging out her camera. “We need a headshot, a full-body, and one that says I’m fun but not chaotic.”

“You’re describing a unicorn,” I mutter.

“Then let’s catch one. I’ll set up while you go put on those cute little denim shorts you wear to the beach—and that red crop top that shows off your cleavage.”

Fifteen minutes later, my living room looks like a photo studio when I come back in the first outfit.

Rachel rearranges pillows, positions lamps, and orders me to tilt my chin. “Softer smile. Less hostage energy.”

“Remind me why I’m friends with you?”

“Because I bring sushi and truth,” she says, matter-of-fact. “Now go put on that oversized sweater that hangs off your shoulder and the jeans that hug your ass just right—you know the ones.”

Oh, I know the ones.

I groan and get up to change—and feel a pop on my ass that makes me jump.

“Stop groaning,” Rachel says, “or I’ll swat you harder next time.”

When I come back, I glance down at the outfit. “This is actually one of my favorite casual looks.”

“I know. That’s why I picked it. You radiate confidence and comfort when you wear it. It’ll come through in the photos.”

Fifteen minutes later, we wrap up. She shows me the shots. Even I have to admit they’re good—confident, relaxed, like I actually know what I’m doing with my life. It’s unsettling. But I’d expect nothing less from a professional photographer.

“Okay,” Rachel says, uploading them. “Now we wait.”

“Great!” I flash the fakest smile I can summon and roll my eyes. “I’ll refill our wine.”

We don’t wait long. Notifications explode across the screen.

“Ten matches in fifteen minutes!” she cheers from the couch.

“It’s just the algorithm saying welcome to the circus,” I say, handing her a glass. But a little spark lights in my chest.

Rachel scrolls. “Oh, he’s cute. Thomas Grant, thirty, sports agent. Great smile. Looks trustworthy.”

I lean closer.

“Message him,” she urges.

I hover over the keyboard, then type: Depends how big your appetite is.

Thirty seconds later: Big enough for brunch next week? I’d offer for tomorrow but I’m unavailable unfortunately. 

Rachel claps. “He’s bold!”

I laugh and type, Brunch next week sounds great.

An hour and a lot of message exchanging later, Rachel leans back, satisfied. “Mission accomplished. Now—next mission. Tomorrow we get waxed. That way you’re ready in case you want to fuck on the first date!”

“Rachel!”

“New Beth, new beginnings,” she sings. “Get pampered, get confident, maybe get lucky.”

I roll my eyes but can’t hide my grin. “Fine. After my appointment.”

“What appointment?”

“My new OB-GYN, Dr. Stacy Cole. My old doctor retired, so the clinic set me up with her tomorrow morning.”

“Ugh, I hate those visits,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “Still, good for you—responsible adult energy.”

“Exactly what I’m going for,” I say dryly.

“Okay, so just take the whole day off. It’s Friday, plus you’ll need it after being poked, prodded, and ripped smooth. We’ll make it a whole girls’ day.”

By the time she leaves, the city is humming outside, soft rain streaking the windows. I curl on the couch with my phone and reread the short thread with Thomas Grant. It’s ridiculous how one simple chat can make me feel… lighter.

A new notification blinks.

I catch myself smiling at the screen.

———

I didn’t plan to end my week with my legs in stirrups and an existential crisis.

I woke up mildly hungover from a night of overthinking and a bottle of wine that promised emotional support and delivered dehydration instead. My to-do list is simple: Pap smear, lunch with Rachel, wax, quietly question every life decision I’ve ever made. 

The clinic is tucked in one of those corporate strip centers with beige siding and fake landscaping. Inside, it smells like lavender and hand sanitizer. The receptionist is cheerful in that suspicious way people are when they’re about to ruin your day.

“Hi! You must be Beth. Please fill this out. The nurse will call you back shortly.” 

I thank her and retreat with the clipboard, checking off boxes about my sexual history while trying not to think too hard about how the last time someone saw me naked, I was crying into a pint of cookie dough and saying “this isn’t working.”

Ten minutes later, a nurse with a calming voice and orthopedic shoes calls me back, checks my weight (rude), blood pressure (suspiciously high), and asks if I’m still on the same birth control.

I nod and say something charming like, “Yup, same stuff, different uterus.”

She doesn’t laugh.

“Undress fully, cover your lower half with the paper sheet,” she says, handing me a folded paper sheet and a paper gown. “The gown is put on open to the front. The doctor will be in shortly.”

I step into the changing area, undress, and drape the world’s thinnest tissue over my lap like it’s going to protect me from the indignity of a cold speculum and a stranger between my thighs. I sit on the exam table and try not to look like someone who googled “how to seduce your doctor” last night just for fun.

Because obviously she’s a woman. A nice, sensible, practical woman with short nails and mom energy. This is fine. This is normal.

Then the door opens.

And in walks a man.

Not just a man—a man.

Tall. Broad shoulders. Salt-and-pepper hair. Crisp white coat. A jawline that could cut glass and eyes the color of an early morning apology, I mean blue. The color is blue. So very blue. 

He smiles politely and glances down at the chart in his hand. “Good morning. I’m Dr. Stacy Cole.”

I blink. “You’re Stacy?”

He looks up. “I am.”

“Oh.” My voice is two octaves higher than it should be. “I… thought you were going to be a woman.”

His expression doesn’t change. If anything, there’s a flicker of understanding behind his smile. “I get that a lot. I’m happy to reschedule you with our nurse practitioner—she’s just not in the office today.”

He says it so calmly, so non-defensively, that it soothes the static in my head a little.

I glance down at the front slit gown and fashionable sheet covering my lower half. “No, it’s fine. I already committed to the outfit.”

That earns me a real smile. “Fair enough.”

He steps over to the sink, washes his hands, then grabs a pair of gloves and starts explaining what he’ll be doing, each step in detail, like a very attractive human instruction manual.

I nod along and try to act normal, like I’m not about to bare my soul and cervix to a man who looks like he could be cast as “Hot Divorced Professor” in a N*****x drama.

⸻

The exam begins.

His voice is calm. His touch is clinical. His hands are large but gentle. He doesn’t linger, doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t make it weird. He’s thorough and professional and refreshingly unfazed by the fact that I’m currently half-naked and wondering what he smells like outside the office.

“Any tenderness here?” he asks, pressing lightly on my abdomen.

Only in my soul, Dr. Cole. “Nope.”

He checks for lumps. Pressure. Talks me through the Pap smear like it’s just another day at the office no different from any other, and I nod like I’m absorbing useful medical facts while secretly cringing knowing I haven’t shaved in god knows how long.

“You’re doing great,” he says, glancing up briefly.

Sir, you need to stop looking at me in your “compassionate healer” voice because my inner slut is not built for this kind of kindness.

“Now you’re going to feel some uncomfortable pressure as I check your vaginal wall for any physical abnormalities.”

I nod my head and hold my breath as he slides two fingers as deep into my pussy as he can while I try to think about anything other than how sexy this man is. 

After a moment too long it’s over. But here comes that damn speculum. The bane of every woman’s existence. 

“Ok I know this part is the worst so I promise to make it as fast as possible,” Dr. Cole says, “As long as you can be still for me.”

I can be anything you want me to be. “Of course, don’t want that in me any longer than necessary.”

I think I dissociated for a few minutes as that part was over faster than I remember in the past. 

Dr. Cole pats my leg and helps me out of the stirrups and offers his hand to help me sit up. And god damnit if he didn’t just lock eyes with me and stare directly into my soul! 

Moving to my side he says, “We are almost finished. Just a quick breast exam and that’s it.” 

I can feel my nipples hardening in anticipation. Hopefully he doesn’t notice, or if he does then he just thinks it’s cold in here. 

He puts his hand on my shoulder then slides his other hand under the gown and starts feeling all around my breast in small stippling circles. 

Then me moves to the other side of me and checks my other breast. As he finishes and drops his hand, it grazed my hard nipple and I gasp slightly. 

He either didn’t hear it or is purposely ignoring it to avoid any awkwardness and I’m thankful for that. 

When it’s over, he tells me I can get dressed and they will call me with the results of my Pap smear.

I exhale like I just survived war.

I nod. “Thanks for being… really professional. I wasn’t expecting—” I stop myself before I say a silver fox with strong hands and intense eye contact.

“I wasn’t expecting… that level of care,” I finish, weakly.

His brow lifts, just slightly. “Glad to hear it. If anything comes up, just give us a call.”

He hands me the paperwork and that’s it. No lingering glance. No subtle wink. Just pure, infuriating professionalism.

Which, somehow, makes it worse.