19. Charlotte
19
CHARLOTTE
LAS VEGAS, NEVADA — EARLY DECEMBER
“Y ou look like Vegas has been kicking your ass, and you haven’t even competed yet.” Travis leans against the gate to the stall I just finished getting Rooney ready in beside Wilder. He looks gorgeous, with thick black ribbons in his mane and wrapping his tail braid. Wilder also wears black to match us, but my shirt has vibrant, Kelly green flowers embroidered along the shoulders and down the buttons. “That green matches the color of your skin.”
“No wonder you can’t keep a girl for longer than a night,” I fire back, taking a deep breath. My stomach has been upset for a few days, the nausea coming and going. Wilder has been concerned, but when I reminded him how he felt during his first finals rodeo, he just cracked open another ginger ale and rubbed my feet. The nerves are something else, though they’re manageable. Even if I’ve never experienced them badly enough to puke every day for almost a week, I know they’ll pass as soon as I finish racing.
Wilder laughs and shoves his best friend’s shoulder. Travis immediately retaliates, and the two of them devolve into childish play-fighting. Hats are knocked onto the dusty floor as headlocks get deployed, and I roll my eyes at their ridiculous display. I pull Rooney’s bit, bringing his head down to my level.
“You’re the only thing with a dick around here who has any sense. And that makes me love you,” I whisper-shout. Wilder pulls up fast, Travis’ last shove knocking him into the stall door and forcing a curse from his lips.
“Fuck.” He rubs at the spot on his ass where he hit the door, scooping up his hat and brushing off the dirt before looking at me. “I know you didn’t just tell that horse you love him more than me.”
“Lord, save me from stupid, silly boys,” I say, but I can’t help the laughter that bubbles up when Rooney nuzzles against my neck and Wilder gently wraps me up from the other side. His happiness bleeds through his touch.
Despite how sick I’ve been since arriving in town, I was able to celebrate with him when he won the bronc riding event last night. The shiny silver buckle is almost comically large where it sits at his waist, but I’m so proud of him that I would never dream of telling him to take it off. Even if it’s supposed to be more ornamental than practical.
“Ignoring this asshole, you do look a little peaked.” Wilder’s words are full of concern, and he presses the back of his hand against my cheek and forehead. I give him a tight smile, the latest wave of nausea having passed during the boys’ friendly scuffle.
“I’m good.” I latch onto his wrist, pressing a quick kiss to his palm. He doesn’t look convinced, so I give him what I can to reassure him. “I’ll go to the medical tent as soon as this is through, okay? But nothing is going to stop me from racing.”
Wilder nods and steps back to let me finish getting ready. Travis clasps him on the shoulder, giving me a kind smile. “Nerves are a real bitch, Charlotte. But it could also just be Vegas. All that recirculated air and questionable food,” he offers, to me or Wilder, I’m not sure, but I appreciate his support. “As long as you feel like you can ride, a twitchy stomach ain’t shit to be concerned over.”
“I think you’re right,” I acknowledge. The scrambled eggs I attempted to eat this morning at the hotel did smell so strongly that I had to set them across the table from me. “I’m more than ready to ride. This is everything I’ve worked for.”
“You’re going to kick ass, baby.” Wilder beams at me. “We’ll have matching belt buckles by the end of the night.”
“Don’t jinx me!”
“It’s not bad luck to tell the truth,” Wilder replies, ever the confident cowboy.
“Well, if—and it’s a big if —that turns out to be true, I’m not wearing it.”
I give him a pointed look. Travis does his best to stifle his laugh while Wilder looks affronted.
The three of us walk Rooney to the staging area. They’ll have to leave me here and make their way to a spot in the stands to watch the competition. With each step, I sink deeper into a calm mental space: visualizing the layout of the barrels, flexing my hands with the grips I’ll need, and counting the seconds each turn will take.
I barely notice the hustle and bustle here, but Wilder takes my elbow to gently bring me back to where we are. His face is full of pride, excitement, and joy when he looks at me. The swooping sensation in my stomach has nothing to do with the illness or nerves I’ve been fighting; it’s connected straight to the love I feel for this man. The way he looks at me fills my heart with a kind of warmth I’ve never felt before. It makes me feel cherished and capable. Two sensations I haven’t had much experience with from other people.
“You’ve got this,” Wilder says to me, pulling me in close to a hug I’ll have a hard time walking away from. He’s solid and strong against me, and I believe him. “Rooney’s in the best shape he’s ever been. You’ve been working your ass off. No one has been able to come close to your scores this season. Even my girl Vesper couldn’t touch them. Just know, I’ll be the loudest one in the crowd, but don’t you dare lift your head to look.”
“I’m sure you’ll be positively embarrassing,” I mumble into his chest. It shakes under me as he laughs. I like the way he gives me the perfect amount of distraction and reassurance, and I lean into the offering.
“It’s a shame you won’t see the glitter sign I made, then,” Wilder continues, making me think of the night I met him when signs holding his name populated the crowd. He draws back enough to give me a boyish smile as he holds up a hand to illustrate what the sign looks like. “Ride fast. Stryke true. Charlotte’s as lucky as a horseshoe.”
“I’m so glad you decided to ride murder horses for a living.” I wrinkle my nose at the terrible rhyme and play on my last name. Wilder’s laugh booms loud enough to draw a few looks. Travis comes into view over Wilder’s shoulder, having stepped away to give us a moment.
“We better get out to our seats. Have a great race, Charlotte.” He gives my shoulder a squeeze, then looks at Wilder expectantly.
“Be sure to get checked out when you’re done, okay? I promised I’d help Travis with his prep, but don’t hesitate to come find me if you need me.” Wilder’s eyebrows crinkle a little with his insistence. I nod. “Good ride, Cowgirl.” He leans down to whisper in my ear, pressing a kiss to my cheek.
* * *
I won.
We won.
They’re the only thoughts I have as I trot Rooney back to the stall. He’s practically high-stepping, my emotions rubbing off on him. I can’t stop reaching through his mane and telling him how amazing he is when we get through the crowd.
It was our best race of the season. Hell, it was probably the best race of my whole damn life. Rooney didn’t miss a step, and with his ears back as he ran for the finish line, he looked like he was chasing down the wind. It certainly felt like flying, with the speed we moved at and the rushing sound of cheers from the crowd.
As we get closer to the stall, I swing a leg over to dismount. When my boots hit the dirt, I immediately know I’m going to be sick. I drop Rooney’s lead, knowing my horse won’t go anywhere. I rush to the nearest trashcan and throw up the meager contents of my stomach. There isn’t much, so it’s over easily, but the dry heaves that follow have me gripping the rim and rising to my tiptoes to try and get rid of them. It doesn’t work, and I suffer through several more rounds before my system stops rioting. After wiping the back of my hand across my clammy face, I keep my head down before I get Rooney into his stall as quickly as I can. Wilder was right, I need to get to the medical station because I’ve had enough of this shit.
Considering the nature of the rodeo, I’m surprised to see the medical station is relatively empty. There are a couple of attendees sitting in chairs, sipping bottles of water, likely dealing with too much alcohol consumption if the smell wafting from them is any indication. My stomach churns dangerously, but I breathe through my mouth and press forward until I reach a short woman with a graying bob haircut in jeans and a vibrant green staff vest on. She has a clipboard in her hand and is speaking to another female vest-clad staff member, this brunette closer to my age, perhaps. Both turn to face me as I approach, friendly smiles and slightly concerned pinches in their brows, belying their profession. The similarities are so striking, I think they might be related.
“Well, hey there, darlin’,” the older woman drawls. Her voice is warm, immediately designed to set someone visiting this area of the arena with ease. “What can we do you for?”
“You’re Charlotte Stryker,” the younger woman says, a softer accent and recognition painting her features, her blue eyes wide. I give her a nod, taking off my hat to hold it in my hand. “Congratulations! You didn’t hurt yourself on that ride, did you? I’m Adaline, but everyone calls me Ada. Oh, and this is my mom, Dr. Prescott.”
Ada gestures to the gray-haired woman who smiles. Ada flicks her eyes up and down, assessing me for injury, but I hold up my free hand, halting her search, reaching out to shake the one she’s offered.
“Hi. No, the ride was great. I’m hoping you have something that can settle my stomach. I’ve been dealing with nerves for days, but frankly, I’m tired of puking.” I give a halfhearted laugh and hitch a thumb over my shoulder. “Pretty sure everyone in the staging area got an extra show with my performance over that last trashcan, and I’m sure I’m dehydrated.”
“You poor thing.” Dr. Prescott ushers me behind a cloth partition. “Please, call me Mary.” I give a nod of confirmation. Ada trails behind, taking the clipboard from her mother. “Can you tell me when the symptoms started so we can get you fixed up?”
I glance around. Mary and Ada must be a little bored if they’re both attending to my upset stomach. But I guess I don’t really mind. Usually, the only other women I encounter on the circuit are my competitors or the queens. It’s kind of nice to soak up some estrogen. Ada gestures to the cot that’s set up and waits expectantly.
“I think I first noticed it just before we came to town, so last week?” I think back. “Woke up one morning and just felt terrible. Threw up, and the rest of the day felt fine. Thought that was it. The pattern has followed almost every day, just never at the same time of day. Sometimes it’s just before I go to bed, other times it’s right after I’ve tried to eat lunch.”
Ada takes down some notes and Mary nods at me. “And you’ve never had a reaction like this before? Racing doesn’t get you this worked up?”
“Never,” I confirm. “But this is my first finals, and I don’t think that’s helped. My boyfriend said last year, at his first, he had a hard time keeping it together, too.”
“Wilder McCoy, right?” Ada asks, a sheepish blush deepening the color high on her cheeks. “I’m a huge rodeo fan. I’ve been keeping track of your standings all season—you’re an actual badass. Me? I’m terrified of horses, so I never could work up the nerve to compete in anything, but I follow it pretty closely. It’s why I volunteer with my mom, even if there isn’t much need for a midwife. But I’m a registered nurse, too, so I guess that’s why I’m allowed.”
“Wow,” I tell her, a little overwhelmed in a good way. It’s really nice to know that the cowboys don’t get all the attention. “Can you repeat that the next time Wilder’s standing next to me?”
A group of EMTs wanders through the back of the station as we laugh softly, picking up some bags and giving a wave. Ada smiles back enthusiastically while Mary nods them off idly.
“Heading to the gate,” one of them announces. The bull riders are coming up soon, and just like for the bronc events, the EMTs stage themselves just past the entrance gate. There’s a higher likelihood of injury, and the sport has learned to keep qualified people on hand. I imagine that’s why an actual doctor staffed this station instead of a group of volunteers like at some of the smaller circuits. With the group heading off, I remember how badly I want to finish this up so I can watch Travis compete.
“Anyway,” I continue. “Everything over the counter hasn’t helped much. Except ginger ale. And bagels. I’ve really liked bagels for breakfast, which is weird because I usually eat protein first. But eggs are just….” I give a shiver thinking about them. “What do you think? Is this all in my head and will finally pass now that my event is over? I feel like this is because I’m so exhausted.”
Ada hums, making another couple of notes, but Mary eyes me shrewdly. It’s a little unsettling, but I’m happy she’s listening so closely. She pulls a chair over, sitting across from me before turning to her daughter and reaching for the clipboard.
“Honey, do you mind giving Charlotte and me a minute? You can give those folks still here a packet of acetaminophen and send them on their way. Just make sure to keep track of the inventory you take out and note the time they left in the log.” Mary gives the directions gently. Ada nods at her mom and flashes me another cheerful smile.
“It was great to meet you, Charlotte. Congratulations again,” she says, giving my shoulder a squeeze before she leaves around the partition. The already impersonal space feels even more sterile after her exit, and I try not to let it unnerve me when I give my attention back to Mary.
I can’t place the emotion behind the look she’s giving me, but I can tell she’s concerned. Whether it’s a normal amount or not is another thing I can’t discern. I’ve always been pretty healthy, so I’m not used to being under a doctor’s scrutiny. I stiffen my spine, sitting a little taller.
“You strike me as someone who doesn’t suffer fools gently,” Mary begins wryly. “You’d have to be to live this life.” At my scoff, she continues, “So, please, know that I’m just trying to shoot you straight when I ask you this: when was your last period, Charlotte?”
“Two months ago,” I respond automatically, ignoring the flutter of dread that tries to sink my stomach. “But I have the three-month cycle of birth control pills. I’m still on the active pills right now.”
Mary nods, but I sense she isn’t fully convinced. A feeling confirmed by the next words out of her mouth. “The pill is not one hundred percent effective. And the symptoms you’re describing sound awfully similar to the first trimester of pregnancy.” I open my mouth to protest, but she holds up a hand. “I’m just pointing it out because my medical training prompts the diagnosis when listening to your symptoms. Do you use a backup method of birth control?”
I shift uncomfortably on the stiff cot. It gives a little squeak of protest. I know that Mary is qualified, and it makes sense when I think back at how I’ve felt for the last week, but I can’t believe in the possibility. Or maybe I don’t want to.
“We were.” I clear my throat. “But we’ve been exclusive for months, and we…”
“Okay.” Mary puts a warm hand on my knee. It’s entirely maternal in a way that makes my throat constrict from the care in her touch. “Have you missed any pills? I know the schedule of competing can make life difficult.”
I shake my head. I haven’t missed a single dose. Wilder helped me keep up with them, even when I was up to my eyeballs in fever and discomfort from the ear infection.
I suck in a sharp breath, certain it's my last.
“Oh my God.” My throat is dry. My brain feels like it’s trying to process a million things a second. Mary’s hand gives an encouraging squeeze, and she pulls her chair closer. I take several swallows before I can gather the ability to speak. “I had an ear infection in October. Took a ten-day course of antibiotics. We stopped using condoms at the end of the course.”
Mary gives a nod of understanding. High school health class flashes before my eyes: Mrs. Stevens highlighting the ways the birth control pill efficacy is impacted by medications like antibiotics. Tears spring to my eyes. Salty and harsh when I try to focus on the kind doctor giving me a kind smile in front of me.
“I have a few pregnancy tests in my med bag. Let’s find out, hmm?”