Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Stevie
There’s a right way to do things, and I know that now. That’s what all the articles say. All the forums. All the women who swore they cracked the code after years of heartbreak and disappointment, and doctors who shrugged like they were out of answers.
Do this.
Don’t do that.
Cut this out.
Add this in.
Track everything.
If you just do it right, your body will fall in line. That’s the lie I’m clinging to. Because the alternative is worse, the alternative is that this is random. Uncontrollable. That my body decides without consulting me. And I refuse to believe that.
I wake before my alarm, heart already racing like I’ve missed something.
The room is still dark. Angel’s breathing deep and steady beside me.
He sleeps on his stomach, one arm thrown over my side of the bed like he’s claiming space even in dreams. I watch him for a second.
He looks peaceful, and he deserves that.
I slip out carefully, easing his arm aside without waking him, and pad into the bathroom with my phone clutched tight in my hand. Same routine. Same ritual.
Thermometer. Under the tongue. Five minutes. Don’t move. Don’t breathe too hard. Don’t fuck it up.
I sit on the edge of the tub, back straight, eyes on the clock app counting down. The house feels too quiet. Every tiny sound is amplified, like the hum of the fridge. Pipes settling. My own pulse in my ears.
The beep sounds too loud when it comes. I wince.
Then stare at the number like it’s going to either save me or damn me.
97.84. Higher than yesterday. Not enough to mean anything yet.
But enough to make my pulse kick. I log it immediately.
The chart updated. Line rising. Hope creeping in like it owns the place.
I brush my teeth while scrolling through graphs, comparing mine to strangers’. Women, I don’t know but somehow trust more than my own body. They talk about luteal phases and progesterone dips like they’re decoding ancient runes. I read every word.
Someone says a temperature rise of 0.4 degrees changed everything for her. Someone else says consistency matters more than spikes. I screenshot both.
Angel knocks once on the door.
“You okay in there?”
“Yeah,” I call back too quickly.
There’s a pause. I can feel it through the wood. Then his footsteps fade. Relief and guilt tangle in my chest. I don’t want to talk. Talking means questions, and questions mean doubt. Doubt means stopping. And I can’t stop.
The kitchen counter is lined with bottles now. I rearrange them every morning like it matters. Folate. Iron. CoQ10. Magnesium. Vitamin D. Something called maca that tastes like dirt and desperation. Evening primrose oil. Zinc. A probiotic that costs more than my first car payment.
They stand there like tiny soldiers waiting for orders. I swallow them with a green smoothie that makes my face twist, but I choke it down anyway.
Angel sits at the table, coffee untouched. He watches me.
“You eatin’ today?” he asks.
“I did,” I say. “This counts.” His jaw tightens.
“That’s not food, Stevie.”
“It’s nutrients.”
“For who?” he snaps, then immediately exhales. “Sorry. I didn’t—”
“It’s fine,” I cut in. “I’ve got a plan.”
That word again. Plan. I don’t miss the way his shoulders slump, but I don’t let myself see it. If I look too closely, I might feel something other than determination. And I don’t have room for that right now.
I don’t go to the clubhouse anymore. Not really.
I make excuses; the truth is, I can’t stand it there.
Everywhere I turn, there’s a reminder of what I don’t have.
Carrie’s easy laugh drifting across the room.
Polly toddling after Beau. RJ tears through the place like a tiny hurricane while Pandora pretends not to smile.
They’re all so careful around me now. Too gentle and quiet. Like I might shatter if someone speaks too loudly. I hate it, the way pity settles on my skin like dust I can’t wash off. Carrie texts me almost every day.
You alive?
Miss you.
Come over. I’ll make tea. No kids, I promise.
I leave them unread. Telling myself I’ll answer later, but later never comes. Because if I go there, I’ll see what I don’t have. And I might stop believing I can change that.
Angel tries again that night. We’re in bed, lights off, his arm draped over me like it always has been. But now it feels heavy. Like an anchor instead of comfort.
“Baby,” he says softly. “We can slow down.”
I stiffen.
“I don’t want to slow down.”
“I mean…" He clears his throat. “We don’t have to do this like it’s a job.”
I turn onto my side, facing away.
“If we don’t try, nothing changes.”
“And if you burn yourself out?” he asks quietly. “What then?”
I don’t answer. Because the truth scares me too much to say out loud. If this doesn’t work… I don’t know who I am without hope. Sex used to be easy. Messy. Laughing. Fingers and mouths and urgency that had nothing to do with calendars or windows or body temperature.
Now it’s scheduled. We have sex because the app says it’s time. I light candles like that’ll make it romantic again. Wear lingerie I used to love. But I can feel the difference. The way Angel watches me, like he’s afraid to touch the wrong place.
The way I keep checking the clock in my head, counting hours, making sure we don’t miss our shot. It’s mechanical. Functional. Necessary. Afterward, he pulls me close. I roll away. Open my phone and log it. Date. Time. Position. Symptoms.
He goes still behind me. I feel it but ignore it. I tell myself it’s temporary. It is necessary. That this is what sacrifice looks like. But some nights, staring at the glow of my phone in the dark, I wonder when love turned into math.
The breaking point comes on a Thursday. I’m in the kitchen measuring chia seeds into yogurt when Angel walks in early. Too early. His expression is tight. Something coiled and dangerous under his skin.
“Carrie stopped me today,” he says.
My stomach drops. “Okay?”
“She’s worried about you.”
I sit straighter. Defensive.
“I’m fine.”
“She says you won’t answer her texts.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“She says you’ve been avoidin’ everyone.”
“I don’t owe anyone my grief,” I snap.
He rubs a hand over his face.
“This isn’t grief, Stevie. This is an obsession.” The word slices deep.
“You don’t get to say that.”
“I do when I’m watchin’ you disappear.”
“I’m trying to save us!” I shout. “Why can’t you see that?”
“Because you’re losin’ yourself,” he fires back. “And I’m losin’ you anyway.”
Silence crashes between us. Heavy and final. I feel it then, the shift, the crack. Like something fragile just splintered.
“I can’t do this,” I whisper. “Not tonight.”
I grab my keys and my jacket, hands shaking.
“Where are you goin’?” he asks.
“I just need space.”
The word tastes like betrayal and relief all at once. He looks like I just punched him. And maybe I did. But if I stay, we’ll say worse.
I walk past him and out the door. The air outside is cold and sharp and honest. I don’t look back. Because if I do, I might break.
And if I break… I won’t have anything left to try with.