Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Stevie
It starts quietly; it always does. One missed period that doesn’t mean anything. One twinge low in my stomach that could be nothing or everything. One morning where I wake up before my alarm with my heart racing and that familiar, dangerous whisper curling through my chest.
What if?
I lie there staring at the ceiling, counting backward in my head.
Days.
Dates.
Symptoms.
I tell myself I’m better now. That counselling helped. That Angel and I are stronger. That I won’t do this again.
I lie to myself. Because by lunchtime, I’ve already checked my app three times. By dinner, I’ve rearranged my supplements like the order might matter. By midnight, I’m back in the bathroom with the door locked, staring at my reflection like I’m daring my body to betray me again.
The mirror light is harsh. It makes everything look clinical.
Exposed. I look tired but also hopeful and terrified.
I take my temperature. Just this once, I tell myself, I only want to see.
The thermometer beeps. I stare at the number.
Higher than yesterday. Hope sinks its teeth into me so fast it steals the air from my lungs.
My hands start to shake, and my brain starts racing.
Implantation dip.
Elevated baseline.
Luteal phase consistency.
I hate how fluent I am in this language. I don’t tell Angel. Not yet, just in case. So, I keep it tucked tight in my chest and let it grow sharp and dangerous and bright.
The next morning, I cancel plans. Skip breakfast. Drink water like it’s holy. Google symptoms until my eyes ache. Tender breasts. Fatigue. Cramping. Early signs of pregnancy, the internet whispers back at me like a secret.
I stand in front of the mirror and press a hand to my stomach. It feels exactly the same as it did yesterday. And also, completely different.
“Please,” I whisper. “Please.”
I don’t even know who I’m asking anymore.
God.
My body.
The universe.
Anything and everything.
Angel notices, of course he does because he always does.
“You’re back on the apps,” he says that evening, not accusing.
I flinch anyway. “I’m just checking.”
“You said you didn’t want to disappear into it again.”
“I’m not disappearing,” I snap. “I’m paying attention.”
He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. That’s the tell. The one he does when he’s trying to stay calm.
"Stevie…"
“I just need a few days,” I cut in. “Just to see.”
“See what?”
“If it worked,” I say, voice rising despite myself. “If we worked.”
His jaw tightens.
“That’s not what that means,” he says carefully. “Counselling wasn’t a guarantee.”
“I know that.”
“Then why does it feel like you’re right back where you were?”
Because I am, I felt steadier for a minute, and that steadiness made room for hope.
“You don’t get it,” I say, heat flooding my chest. “I can feel something’s different.”
“That don’t mean…”
“I know my body!” I shout.
The words hang there, heavy and brittle. Angel exhales slowly, like he’s trying not to lose his temper.
“I’m just sayin’… we said we’d slow down.”
“And now you want me to stop again?” My voice cracks. “Is that it?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you meant.”
He looks at me then, really looks. Not angry. Just worn thin. Like a man who’s been holding his breath for months and is finally running out of air.
“Stevie,” he says, voice rough, “having kids isn’t everything.”
Something inside me goes very still. I stare at him, heart pounding, ears ringing.
“What did you just say?”
He stiffens, realizing too late.
“That’s not...”
“Isn’t everything?" I repeat, my voice flat. “You think I don’t know that?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“But it’s what you said.”
Silence crashes between us, sharp and unforgiving. It feels like a physical thing. Like a door slamming somewhere deep inside me.
“I’ve buried parts of myself trying to make this happen,” I whisper. “I’ve lost pieces of me you’ll never have to lose. And you think I don’t know it’s not everything?”
His face crumples. “Stevie—”
“I know it’s not everything,” I snap. “But it’s everything to me right now.”
Tears spill over, hot, and furious.
“You get to walk away from this,” I continue. “You get to say it doesn’t define us. But it defines me. My body. My worth. Every room I walk into where there’s a kid and someone asks when we’re next.”
“That’s not fair,” he says quietly.
“I’m not asking for fair!” I scream. “I’m asking you not to minimize the one thing I can’t stop wanting.”
He opens his mouth and closes it again. And that hurts worse than anything he could’ve said. Silence means he doesn’t know how to fix it. And I don’t want him to fix it. I want him to understand it.
I lock myself in the bathroom again and sink to the floor, back against the tub, phone clutched in my hand. The app is open. Charts glowing. Numbers staring back at me like proof and punishment all at once.
I scroll through my history. All the dips, spikes, and months that ended the same way. I take another test even though it’s too early and I know better. Even though I promised myself I wouldn’t.
I stare at the stick like it might change its mind if I look hard enough. Negative. Of course it is. I let out a broken laugh, verging on almost hysterical. Then press my forehead to my knees.
Having kids isn’t everything. Maybe not to him.
But right now? It’s the only thing standing between me and the version of myself I don’t recognize anymore.
The woman who let it go stops trying and has to figure out who she is without this dream.
I don’t know who that is. And that terrifies me more than another negative test ever could.
I don’t hear Angel knocking on the bathroom door or him saying my name. I just sit there, shaking, realizing the scariest truth of all: healing didn’t erase the wound. It just taught me how easy it is to reopen.
When I finally unlock the door, the house is quiet. Angel’s in the living room. Sitting on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees with his hands clasped tight. He looks up when I step out; his eyes are red.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says quietly.
“I know.”
But knowing doesn’t undo it or erase the way it sliced through something already fragile. He stands slowly, like he’s approaching something that might shatter.
“I’m scared too,” he says. “Of this eatin’ you alive again.”
“It already has,” I whisper.
He flinches. “I don’t want to lose you to it.”
“You won’t,” I say automatically.
But the truth is, I don’t know. I can feel the old obsession breathing under my skin. I don’t know which one I’m stronger against anymore.