Chapter 2 – Breadsticks and Brazilians

Beth

I walk out of the clinic feeling equal parts confused and… aroused.

Which is not the vibe you want leaving your gynecologist’s office.

The sun is too bright, the air too smugly normal, and I’m standing in the parking lot re-evaluating every life choice that led me here. Was it the nurse’s polite small talk? The paper gown? The fact that my new doctor looks like he could read me bedtime stories in that voice and I’d still find it erotic?

My phone buzzes just as I’m about to spiral. Rachel.

Of course. She has an uncanny sixth sense for my chaos—like a bat that only detects bad decisions.

“Hey, girl, ready for lunch?” she chirps before I can even mutter a hello.

“Yeah, I literally just walked out of the doctor’s office.”

“Oh right, how was the new ‘lady-town’ doc? She ok?”

“Well, she… is a he.”

“A what?!”

“I’ll tell you about it at lunch. Antonio’s in ten?”

“I’ll be there in five.”

Antonio’s smells like garlic, warm bread, and safety. It’s our spot—half Italian restaurant, half therapy office, and fully the reason I can’t button my skinny jeans by Thursday most weeks.

Rachel’s already there when I arrive, sipping a fizzy-looking cocktail and watching the door like she’s got money riding on whether I’ll show up looking post-orgasmic or traumatized.

The second I sit down, she leans in. “Okay. Spill it. Why did this need to carry over into lunch? What happened at the vagina doctor?”

I look around to make sure no one’s eavesdropping. Then I drop my face into my hands.

“Holy fucking shit balls.”

Her eyes light up. “Oh, we’re starting strong today.”

I peek up between my fingers. “My gyno was not a woman.”

Rachel blinks slowly. “Right, so you said. Did he smell bad or something?”

“He was a man. A man. And not just like, some crusty old guy with shaky hands and coffee breath. No. This man was hot. Like… aggressively hot. Salt-and-pepper hair, chiseled jaw, arms that say I lift women recreationally, and eyes that make you confess your sins.”

“Shut. Up.”

“I’m serious. I have never been that attracted to someone so much older than me in my entire life. And then when he was doing the internal exam…” I drop my voice to a whisper. “I think I got a little wet when his fingers were inside me.”

Rachel chokes on her drink.

“Oh my God,” I groan, burying my face again. “I’m so embarrassed. Who gets turned on during a Pap smear?!”

“Okay, first of all, relax. You’re human. Second of all, I’m sure he either didn’t notice or, like, it happens all the time and he just mentally zones out.”

“I seriously doubt he didn’t notice. He was in there.”

She grins, unbothered. “It’s fine. You probably won’t even see him again for another year. By then he’ll be bald or married or less god-tier hot.”

“I hate how reasonable you are.”

Our waiter arrives just in time with a basket of warm bread and zero judgment.

We order our usual—Rachel gets the eggplant parm, I get the chicken piccata—and while we wait, I give her the full breakdown. The eye contact. The voice. The thumb graze over my nipple that I’m trying very hard to classify as an accident.

Rachel reaches for her phone. “What’s his name again?”

“Dr. Stacy Cole.”

“Oh, hell yeah. That’s a hot doctor name.”

She types furiously, then holds her screen up for me to see.

There he is. Smiling on the clinic website, looking devastatingly normal in a white coat. His arms are crossed. His jaw is flexing. He looks like he eats granola, runs marathons, and gives orgasms just by speaking in complete sentences.

“Oh my God,” she breathes. “He’s so hot. I should make an appointment. Just to see what the fuss is about.”

I hurl a breadstick at her head.

She’s still cackling when my phone buzzes. I glance down and immediately sit up straighter.

Tommy.

“Oh shit,” I mutter. “Tommy! I’m such an ass. I was just perving on my gynecologist like I didn’t have a perfectly hot, age-appropriate man who’s actually into me.”

Rachel leans over, shameless. “What’s he saying?”

I read it aloud.

Tommy: Hey, sorry I didn’t text yesterday. Life of a sports agent during football season—Sundays are wild. Sometimes Mondays and Thursdays, too. I’d love to set up our date. Is Wednesday good? I’ll be out of town this weekend and didn’t want to wait until I’m back.

I smile. Okay. This is good. Normal.

Me: Wednesday sounds perfect. I’m free after 6.

Rachel watches me type, then claps her hands like a matchmaking fairy godmother. “See? That’s the universe reminding you not to spiral.”

“I know. I know. I just…” I glance at the ceiling. “My insides are confused.”

“Then let’s go have someone rip out your pubic hair by the root. That always helps.”

By the time we arrive at the waxing salon, I’ve emotionally recovered. Sort of.

Rachel signs us in with her usual flair. “Two Brazilians, please. Pain optional, but we’ll scream anyway.”

The receptionist doesn’t blink. She’s probably heard worse.

We sit side by side in the waiting area, flipping through old magazines and trying not to imagine Dr. Cole’s face while another stranger yells “butterfly position please.”

We’re barely settled into the waiting area when a voice calls from the back.

“Beth Monroe?”

I stand, smoothing my shirt, but Rachel’s already on her feet.

“I’m coming too.”

“Wait—what?” I hiss. “This is not a group activity!”

“Relax. I’ve seen it all before. You think we didn’t compare post-wax trauma that one spring break in Miami?”

I groan, but she’s already breezing past the receptionist like she owns the place.

We’re led into a small, clean room that smells faintly like lavender and impending doom. A smiling woman in purple scrubs turns around from her cart of supplies.

“Hey, Rach!” she grins. “I didn’t know you were bringing a friend.”

“Oh, Kim, this is my bestie, Elizabeth,” Rachel says with a flourish. “She’s got a hot date on Wednesday and—if the stars align—his head’s gonna be between her legs by the end of the night.”

“Rachel!” I gasp, smacking her arm.

Rachel shrugs. “What? You want the whole package smooth and ready, don’t you?”

I cover my face with my hands. “I hate both of you.”

“Don’t worry,” Kim says sweetly. “I’ll take good care of you.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Ten minutes later, I’m lying on a paper-covered table with my feet in butterfly position, wondering if I’ve made a horrible mistake.

Rachel’s standing near the wall, watching like she’s observing a live science demonstration.

“Are you seriously going to stand there and watch this happen?”

She sips her iced coffee and nods. “Yep. It’s weirdly empowering from this angle.”

“Rachel, will you please stop staring at my wax technician like this is some kind of TED Talk?”

She waves me off. “Ain’t no big deal. You can watch her torture my labia next.”

Kim snorts. “She’s not wrong.”

“I’m never doing this again,” I mutter as Kim preps the first strip.

“You say that every time,” Rachel sing-songs.

“Which is precisely why I end up going so long between waxes.”

And then the wax comes off.

“OH MY GOD,” I shriek. “You said this was a LEVEL TWO PAIN, KIM.”

“That was level two,” she replies calmly. “Level three is the thighs.”

Rachel doubles over laughing. “I live for this. And it wouldn’t be so bad if you came every four weeks, not every four months.”

Eventually, after what feels like hours of hot wax and betrayal, Kim finishes with a cheerful “All done!”

I sit up, freshly exfoliated and emotionally raw.

Rachel gives me a slow clap. “Smooth as a dolphin, baby.”

I glare at her. “You’re next. I hope she rips your soul out with your hair.”

She grins. “That’s the plan.”

As I redress and hand Kim my payment, I realize I’m not actually mad. In fact, I feel… kind of amazing. Like I’ve conquered a tiny war. A slightly deranged, very naked war.

And with a sexy sports agent waiting to take me to dinner on Wednesday?

Let’s just say I’m feeling ready for anything.