Chapter 5 Janie
FIVE
Janie
The swinging door of Kelsey’s Tap smacks shut behind me, and the week’s grind slips off my shoulders like a too-heavy coat. Friday night means neon lights, sticky floors, and Gemma waving me over to our usual booth like we’ve been coming here for years instead of just two months.
Two neon-colored drinks wait on the scarred wooden table, my mouth watering at the sight and the instant calm I know the first sip will bring.
"There she is!" Gemma raises her glass, dark eyes sparkling beneath the string lights hanging overhead. "The woman who survived Dr. Halloran's presentation without falling asleep."
I slide into the booth, my body heavy with relief at finally being off my feet. "I deserve a medal for that. Three hours on infection protocols, and he somehow made superbugs sound like a Hollywood blockbuster."
"Two months down, thirty-four to go. I think that calls for a celebration."
"When you say it like that, it makes it seem like there is no end in sight."
"We’ve got this. These two months have flown by. And tomorrow, the big two-three." Gemma lifts her electric blue cocktail, waiting for me to grab mine. "Double celebration."
I groan, reaching for my drink. "Don't remind me. Twenty-three seems like ancient right now. I swear I've lived five lifetimes since moving here. I hope I can keep up with this pace."
"Please." Gemma rolls her eyes. "Twenty-three is barely potty-trained in hospital years. You should see the gray hairs I'm getting at twenty-nine."
We clink glasses, the sweet-tart liquid burning pleasantly down my throat. The room shifts slightly as I set my glass down, a wave of dizziness washing over me.
"You okay?" Gemma's eyebrows knit together.
"Fine." I blink hard, forcing a smile. "Just stood up too fast after sitting all day."
"Bullshit." Gemma leans forward. "You've looked like warmed-over death all week. Yesterday, you practically sprinted to the bathroom during rounds."
My stomach twists at the memory. "Yeah, I've been feeling like shit. I think it's just stress and lack of sleep. Or maybe that sketchy sushi place we tried."
"That was two weeks ago."
"Then it's the flu." I take another sip, hoping the sugar might settle my stomach. "Everyone at Northwestern is sick."
Gemma narrows her eyes, tapping one manicured nail against her glass. "You're a hypocrite. You tell patients to go to the clinic, but you won't take your own advice?"
"It's not the same—"
"It's exactly the same. You're a healthcare professional with unlimited access to free testing who won't get healthcare."
I sigh, rubbing my temples where a headache threatens. The truth is, I've been exhausted no matter how much I sleep, nauseous at the slightest smell, dizzy when I stand too quickly. But admitting it means acknowledging something might actually be wrong, or that I'm not built for this level of work.
"Fine. I'll go to the hospital clinic tomorrow on my break. Happy?"
"Ecstatic." Gemma raises her glass again. "To Janie, finally using her fancy medical knowledge on herself."
We finish our drinks with a final clink, though mine stays mostly full. My stomach won't tolerate more than a few sips.
"I'm holding you to that promise," Gemma says, her voice gentler now. "No excuses."
The fluorescent light in the hospital makes everything look flat and unreal, like a medical TV show set. Antiseptic stings my nostrils as I perch on the edge of the exam table, paper crinkling beneath my legs. The room is ridiculously cold, but maybe it's just me.
Happy birthday to me. Adult birthdays are so shitty.
I pull my hoodie sleeves down over my hands, balling the fabric into my fists as I scroll mindlessly through Instagram. Photos of classmates celebrating the weekend blur together. None of it matters. I just want them to rule out or confirm if I have the flu, Covid, strep, or whatever, and leave.
The door swings open, and the nurse practitioner walks in, clipboard in hand. Her scrubs are covered in cartoon frogs wearing stethoscopes.
"So, Jane, still experiencing nausea and fatigue? Any body aches, fever?"
"It's Janie. And yes, definitely fatigue for about two to three weeks now. I don't think I've had a fever, but honestly, I haven't checked."
She nods, making notes. "We'll do a flu swab first, then draw some blood for a basic panel. Better to be thorough."
"Great." I lock my phone and shove it in my pocket. "Thorough is good."
The flu swab makes my eyes water, and I wince when she draws blood. She labels the vials carefully, promising to be back soon, leaving me to my thoughts and the steady hum of medical equipment.
I check my messages again. Nothing from home. Nothing from Warren.
It's been over two months. I seriously need to stop checking. Message received loud and clear.
The minutes tick by slowly. I count ceiling tiles, read every poster on the wall twice, and flip through a tattered parenting magazine someone left behind.
The door opens again, and the NP walks in holding a folder against her chest. Something in her expression makes my heart skip.
"Ms. Harrelson." Her voice is softer now. She sits on the rolling stool, eyes steady on mine. "I have your test results."
My mouth goes dry. "That was fast. Do I have the flu?"
She shakes her head. "No. You’re pregnant."
The word lands like a punch. The room tilts, my ears humming as if I’ve been dropped underwater.
"That’s not possible," I whisper, though the lie curdles even as I say it.
Warren. The night before Chicago. No condom. My prescription, lost in the move, me telling myself I’d be fine, that I’d start fresh next month.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
My mouth is suddenly dry, my throat closing. I can’t swallow. I can’t speak. All I want is to bolt from this room and not stop until I hit Palm Beach.
"Based on your last period, I’d put you somewhere between seven and ten weeks along," she continues, her voice muffled, distant, like she's in another room talking to someone else.
"…an ultrasound will give us a clearer picture.
For now, we should talk about options, prenatal vitamins, referrals to an obstetrician… "
I grab my bag, stumbling to my feet.
“I need to go.”
The nurse’s mouth opens, probably to explain the next steps, but the sound blurs in my ears. I can’t sit here while she lists vitamins and follow-ups. I’ll read the pamphlet later. Maybe.
“Ms. Harrelson—”
But I’m already pushing through the door, down the hallway, past the receptionist calling my name. Sunlight blinds me as I burst outside, tears blurring everything into watercolor smears.
My hands shake as I pull out my phone and press Gemma’s contact.
"Hey, birthday girl!" Her voice sounds distant against the roaring in my ears.
"Gemma." My voice breaks. "I need you."
There’s a beat of silence, then Gemma’s tone sharpens. "Where are you?"
"The clinic. But I'm walking to the lounge." My throat works. "Gemma, I—"
"Don’t move. I’ll meet you in the lounge in ten minutes."
The call ends. I stare at the floor until the edges blur. The air is heavy, like the whole hospital lounge is holding its breath with me.
By the time Gemma bursts through the door, my coffee’s cold and my hands won’t stop trembling.
“Janie?” She crosses the room and drops into the chair beside me, eyes scanning my face. “Jesus, you look like you’re about to confess to murder. What happened?”
“I’m…”
Her eyes dart to the numbers, then to me. “You’re what?”
My chest caves. “Pregnant.” The word is barely audible, but once it’s out, there’s no taking it back.
I stare at my coffee cup, the liquid now cold and sour in my stomach. "Eight weeks." The words scrape out, foreign and unreal.
Her brows shoot up. "And you’re sure?"
I nod, vision blurring. "One hundred percent. It was exactly eight weeks ago since I had sex with Warren. The only sex I've had in six months."
"But you're sure you're pregnant?"
"Blood test. I went three weeks without my birth control after the move." My hands shake around the paper cup. "My fellowship’s over, Gemma. Everything I’ve worked for is gone. I can’t do this alone."
"Hey, hey." She slides her hand over mine, cool and steady. "This isn’t the 1800s. Women have careers and babies all the time."
The panic swells. I bury my face in my hands. "I can barely keep up now."
"Which you’ve been doing pregnant," she reminds me, dry as ever. "Explains a lot, actually."
A strangled laugh bubbles up, then collapses. "I’m so screwed. You don’t understand."
"So help me," she says simply.
The words tumble out. "It’s Warren. My brother’s best friend. Practically my brother. Oh my god, Gemma—"
Her eyes sharpen. "Okay. Complicated. But not impossible."
"You don’t get it." My throat tightens until it hurts. "He lived with us. His family blew up in some scandal, they kicked him out, and my parents took him in. He's like a son to them. Like a brother to me. Oh, my god."
"Calm down. Let's think about this."
"Gemma. He’s nine years older and Blake’s best friend. If anyone ever finds out—"
Gemma leans back, lips quirking. "Sounds like a whole season of Dallas. But it's not life-altering. I know it seems scary right now, but everyone will come around."
I bark out a broken laugh, and suddenly we’re both giggling, the kind that edges too close to tears.
But then reality slams back. "It’ll ruin everything. Blake will hate me. My parents will lose it. Warren. He has no one but us. If my family cuts him off, he’s alone."
Gemma squeezes my hand hard. "Baby girl."
The words send another shiver through me.
I shake my head. "We agreed it was a mistake. We haven’t spoken since.
Even my stupid texts, he used to answer me instantly, and we would laugh about stupid shit.
Now he just leaves me on read. He's making it clear where his loyalty lies.
He's going to lose his shit when I tell him. "
Gemma’s gaze softens. "This isn’t just about him anymore."