Page 57 of If Love Had A Manual (Skeptically In Love #2)

Celeste

A warm and groggy haze settles over me, like I’ve been wrapped in a weighted blanket soaked in NyQuil. My body feels heavy, my limbs are uncooperative, and my eyelids are glued shut.

“Listen, Doc, can she...you know...do the deed without pain now? Because our girl hasn't—well, to put it frankly—she hasn’t had sex in a while.”

Oh, Madison, please shut up.

She’s my best friend, the keeper of my secrets, and the one person who I foolishly thought would respect my dignity while I was drugged up and half-conscious.

Apparently not.

“Madison!” Another familiar voice, this one softer but still exasperated. Emmy. The responsible one. The buffer. “Maybe we should wait until Celeste is awake before discussing her sex life with her doctor.”

Madison scoffs. “She’s right here. She won’t mind.” A beat of silence, then, “We’re all just thinking about her kitty.”

My entire soul tries to leave my body.

A low chuckle. Not from Emmy. Not from Madison. But from a third voice I don't recognize. Oh God. That must be—

“Dr. Patel,” Emmy says, the mortification in her tone palpable. “Sorry, she doesn’t know when it’s time to be quiet.”

I groan, both in an attempt to stop this conversation and in protest of my body, which still feels like it’s moving through molasses.

Madison gasps. “Oh, she’s awake!”

Fantastic.

I force my eyes open, blinking against the harsh fluorescent lights of the recovery room. My vision is blurry, and my head is still thick with anesthesia, but I manage to make out the three blurry blobs hovering around my bed.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, sweetheart,” Madison says cheerfully, leaning over me with an unrepentant grin. “I was just getting some important medical information on your behalf.”

“You were talking about my vagina,” I croak, my voice hoarse.

She beams. “Exactly. You’re welcome.”

I let my head loll to the side and meet Emmy’s expression, which is a delightful mix of secondhand embarrassment and please let the earth swallow me whole.

Dr. Patel, a man with dark hair, warm brown skin, and an expression that suggests this is not the first ridiculous post-anesthesia conversation he’s had, crosses his arms. “To answer your friend’s very.

.. enthusiastic question,” he says dryly, “sex after laparoscopic surgery for endometriosis is different for everyone. There’s no guarantee that the pain will be gone, but the surgery should improve things.

However, it will depend on a variety of factors—your recovery, your pain threshold, how much we were able to remove—”

“Sure, sure,” Madison interrupts. “But theoretically, if someone were to—hypothetically, of course—go to town with, let’s say, an extremely well-endowed gentleman, would she be okay?”

I consider rolling out of the bed and onto the floor.

Dr. Patel gives her a patient look. “It’s best to ease back into things at her own comfort level.”

Madison purses her lips. “So, you’re saying start small .”

I groan again, this time with feeling.

Emmy covers her face with both hands.

Dr. Patel, to his credit, remains composed as his gaze flicks back to mine. “I’m saying listen to your body.”

“Got it.” Madison nods sagely. “Test drive before going on the highway.”

“Madison,” I rasp.

“Sorry, sorry. I’m just saying! We need to make sure you’re road-ready.”

Emmy drops her hands from her face. “I hate that analogy. Can we stop talking about Celeste’s vagina now?”

“Yes. I just wanted a definitive answer on whether she could ride—”

“I swear to God, Madison. Shut up,” I croak.

Dr. Patel, likely eager to escape this Grey’s Anatomy outtake, clears his throat.

“Celeste, I’ll check in on you again before discharge, but your surgery went well.

We removed quite a bit of endometriosis, but it’s important to take your recovery seriously.

No strenuous activity for a while. And—” he glances at Madison “—ease into any, ah, extracurricular activities at your own pace.”

Madison salutes him. “Thank you for your service, Doc.”

Emmy shoots him an apologetic look. “I promise we’ll behave.”

Dr. Patel doesn’t look convinced, but he nods politely before walking away, leaving me at the mercy of my so-called friends.

I let my head fall back against the pillow. “You’re both the worst.”

Madison pats my arm. “You’ll thank me later when you get back in the saddle with confidence.”

Emmy sighs. “Can we please stop using car and horse analogies?”

“Fine, but let’s just agree that when Celeste is feeling up to it, she needs to—”

I slap a weak hand over her mouth. “Not. Another. Word.”

Madison licks my palm.

I yelp and yank my hand away.

Emmy shakes her head. “You two are actual children.”

“She started it,” I grumble.

Madison grins, utterly unrepentant. “And I’ll finish it. But first…” She pulls out her phone and starts typing.

I eye her warily. “What are you doing?”

“Texting the group chat. The people need to know.”

I let out a strangled noise. “I hate you.”

“You love me.”

At this rate, I might just slip back into unconsciousness for self-preservation.

Sinking deeper into the pillows, I will my body to cooperate, but anesthesia is a stubborn bastard. My limbs feel heavy, my brain still sluggish, but unfortunately, not sluggish enough to stop me from fully registering what just happened.

My best friends just grilled my surgeon about my sex life while I was unconscious.

The worst part? They weren’t wrong.

It really has been two years since I last had sex.

Not because I didn’t want to, but because every time I tried, it felt like someone was stabbing me from the inside out. And let’s be honest, that kind of kills the mood.

So, eventually, I just…stopped.

Stopped trying. Stopped hoping. Stopped putting myself in the position of disappointing someone else, or worse, disappointing myself.

I glance down at my stomach, the dull ache from the incisions pulsing in time with my heartbeat. Five years. That’s how long I’ve been fighting for a doctor who actually listens and doesn’t dismiss me with, It’s just bad periods or Have you tried birth control?

Like, yes, Barbara, I’ve tried birth control. I’ve tried heating pads, painkillers, yoga, acupuncture, essential oils, dietary changes, and manifesting good vibes. I’ve tried everything, and yet for years, I was still treated like a hysterical woman who just needed to “relax.”

It wasn’t until I switched doctors for the fourth time—after an emergency room visit where I was this close to throwing hands at an intern who suggested it was stress-related—that I finally landed in Dr. Patel’s care.

He listened. He ran the tests. He confirmed what I already knew deep down: It wasn’t normal. It was never normal.

Now, after five years of gaslighting and dismissal, I finally had answers.

The question is, what now?

As much as I want to pretend that the hardest part is over, I know better. The surgery might help. It might not. But either way, I’m still left with the same dilemma:

What if sex still hurts?

Or worse, what if it doesn’t at first, but then, like before, it creeps up again? What if I end up in another relationship where he’s patient at the beginning, swearing up and down that he understands, only for him to resent me later when his needs aren’t being met?

Or another one-night stand where, instead of leaving because he got what he wanted, he leaves because I curled into a ball, clutching my stomach in the worst pain of my life?

I shake the thought away.

Not important right now.

What is important is that I feel like absolute garbage and would very much like some more drugs, please and thank you.

I shift slightly, wincing as the pain sharpens. Emmy notices immediately.

“You okay?” she asks, her brows pinched with concern.

“I’m fine,” I lie. “Just…uncomfortable.”

“Do you want me to call the nurse?”

I consider it, but before I can answer, Madison chimes in. “You know what she needs? Snacks. Hospital snacks are trash. What do we want? Salt and vinegar chips? Chocolate? A celebratory donut?”

“Why are we celebrating?” I mumble.

“Because you survived major surgery.”

“Madison,” Emmy sighs, exasperated. “It’s laparoscopic surgery, not open-heart.”

“Still. A very important organ was worked on today.”

I blink. “My uterus is not an organ.”

Madison waves a dismissive hand. “Semantics.”

I glance at Emmy, who is doing the Lord’s work by rubbing her temples like she’s fighting a migraine.

Madison continues undeterred. “I also think we need a post-surgery itinerary. Celeste’s recovery week should include—”

“A week?” I cut in. “I have to get back to work.”

Emmy glares. “No. You have to rest. You are not jumping into work right away.”

“Yes, tell her,” Madison agrees. “I say we start with a Mamma Mia marathon. That way, if she cries, we can blame it on the hormones. Then we go full comfort mode—trash TV, murder podcasts, and me aggressively forcing her to hydrate.”

I snort despite myself. “Sounds exactly like you.”

She fluffs my pillow like a mother hen on steroids. “I take my best friend duties very seriously.”

“That’s debatable,” I mutter.

Madison grins. “Rude, but fine, since you’re clearly not appreciating my excellent bedside manner, I’ll go track down real snacks while Emmy fusses over you.” She winks and heads toward the door.

The moment she’s gone, Emmy exhales. “I swear to God, she’s the reason I’m going to need blood pressure meds.”

“That’s why we keep her around.”

“That, and she scares away the weak.” Emmy reaches for my hand, her expression softening. “Seriously, how are you feeling? And don’t bullshit me.”

I hesitate before answering, my throat tight. “Relieved,” I admit. “And exhausted. And a little… scared.”

She squeezes my hand. “That’s normal.”

I nod, swallowing past the lump in my throat. “I just really hope this works, you know? Five years of fighting for answers, and now it’s like…what if it doesn’t get better?”

Emmy’s grip tightens. “Then we keep fighting. No matter what, we’ll figure it out.”

Something in my chest unclenches.

“Yeah,” I murmur. “We will.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then, because we can’t have too many emotional moments without ruining them.

“I do have one concern,” Emmy says gravely.

I arch a brow. “Which is?”

“What if we actually do have to de-cobweb your vagina?”

I groan, slapping a hand over my face. “Why are you like this?”

Emmy grins. “Madison is rubbing off on me.”

I shake my head, but I can’t help the small smile tugging at my lips.

If nothing else, at least I have them, and that makes all the difference, even if they’re overly concerned about my vagina.

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