Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Juliette
A Few Weeks Later
I crossed my legs, uncrossed them, and crossed them again, my foot tapping an anxious rhythm on the linoleum floor. The doctor’s office waiting room smelled like a strange mix of lavender air freshener and disinfectant, and the magazines on the table were at least a year old.
Across from me, Gabrielle sat with her arms draped casually over the back of the chair, watching me with that infuriating twin-sister grin.
“You’re going to wear a hole in the floor, Jules,” she teased, tipping her head toward my jittering foot. “Or at least burn through the heel of that shoe.”
I forced a tight smile and tried to still my leg. “I’m fine.”
Gabrielle raised an eyebrow. “Uh-huh. Sure.”
I stared down at my hands, twisting the thin silver ring on my index finger. The silence stretched between us, heavy and uncomfortable, until I blurted, “Do you think I’d be a good mom?”
Gabrielle’s face softened, though a wicked little glint still sparked in her eyes. “Oh, you’d be terrifying.”
I barked out a surprised laugh. “Gee, thanks.”
She smirked. “No, seriously—you’d be amazing. But let’s be real. You’d have color-coded calendars, meal preps, bedtime checklists, and probably a tiny art collection curated for the nursery by the time the poor kid was six months old.”
I rolled my eyes but felt the tight knot in my chest loosen just a little. “So… you’re saying I’m neurotic but well-meaning?”
“Exactly.” Gabrielle reached over and squeezed my hand. “But you’ve got the biggest heart, Jules. You’d love that baby like no one else. Don’t doubt that.”
I looked away, blinking fast. “Yeah, well… even if I wanted it, it’s not like it’s that simple.”
Gabrielle’s thumb brushed over my knuckles. “If you’re thinking about all this, about a future, about Damian…” She trailed off, letting the silence finish the sentence.
I stiffened. “It’s not—Damian and I—” I shook my head. “He asks, okay? He’s asked. About the tests. About IVF. But he’s never said anything more. He’s supportive on paper, but… I don’t know.”
Gabrielle’s expression turned gentle, all the teasing gone. “Maybe you don’t know because you won’t let him show you.”
My throat tightened. “Gabby…”
“I know, I know.” She leaned back, lifting her hands in surrender. “I’m just saying — you’re not the only one scared of this, Jules. And maybe it’s time you two stop dancing around it.”
Before I could find an answer—any answer—the nurse’s voice called from the hallway. “Juliette Vandenburg?”
I shot Gabrielle a quick, nervous look. She just smiled and reached for my hand. “Let’s go see what’s next.”
The air inside the consultation room felt different—heavier, quieter, like the walls were bracing themselves for whatever came next.
I slid onto the edge of the chair, the paper crinkling beneath me, the antiseptic scent of the room sharp in the back of my throat.
Gabrielle sat down beside me, her hand slipping into mine without a word.
Dr. Klein came in moments later, her white coat crisp, her expression practiced. She smiled—soft but professional—and greeted us by name. I tried to focus on the sound of her voice, the gentle rhythm of it, but all I could hear was the wild fluttering of my own heartbeat.
“Juliette, thank you for your patience,” she began, settling onto her stool across from us. She folded her hands, and I noticed how calm they looked—not a tremor, not a flicker of hesitation. I wondered if she’d practiced that, the art of still hands.
“I’ve had the chance to review all your test results,” she continued, glancing briefly at the folder in front of her.
“And I want to start by saying you’ve done everything right so far.
You were proactive, you got the testing done early, and that gives us the best possible information moving forward. ”
Beside me, Gabrielle’s fingers tightened slightly around mine. I swallowed hard, my mouth suddenly dry.
The doctor’s voice softened just a touch.
“As you know, we were looking closely at ovarian reserve, tubal function, and general reproductive health. And unfortunately, Juliette, the tests confirmed what we were concerned about.” She paused—not long, but long enough for the words to land like a stone in my stomach.
“You have diminished ovarian reserve. That means the quantity and quality of your eggs are lower than expected for your age. The ovaries aren’t producing as many healthy, viable eggs, and over time, that reduces the chances of natural conception.
And could eventually reduce the chance of you carrying a baby.
It’s one of the most common reasons women struggle to get pregnant as they get older, and it can make it much harder for fertilization to happen the conventional way, even with regular cycles. ”
I felt the air rush out of my chest, like someone had pulled a string and let the whole balloon collapse. My fingers clenched instinctively, nails digging into Gabrielle’s hand. She didn’t flinch. She just held on tighter.
The doctor kept talking, the words blurring slightly at the edges. I caught fragments—“not your fault… common among women with your profile…. not the end of the road.” My mind spun, skidding over all of it like a stone skipping across water.
“I know this is difficult news,” the doctor said gently. “But there’s also very good news here. Your uterus and general reproductive health are excellent. You’re an ideal candidate for in vitro fertilization.”
I blinked. The words felt foreign, like they belonged to someone else’s story, someone else’s body. Gabrielle let out a shaky breath beside me, her thumb brushing against my skin in slow, grounding circles.
“With IVF, we bypass the natural process by stimulating the ovaries to produce multiple eggs, retrieving them, and fertilizing them in a lab before transferring the embryo to the uterus. Given your results, we have every reason to believe you’d respond very well to treatment just like your twin has. ”
I nodded faintly, though I wasn’t sure if I was nodding in understanding or just to keep from falling apart. My mind was already spinning ahead, stumbling over words like “donor” and “timelines,” even as the doctor reassured me that my chances were good.
For a moment, the room went very still. I became acutely aware of everything: the faint buzz of the overhead light, the cool edge of the exam table against my leg, the soft, almost imperceptible hitch in Gabrielle’s breathing.
I turned my head slightly toward her, and when our eyes met, it was like looking into a mirror that knew exactly what I was feeling. Her own history, her own heartbreak — it was all there in the way she squeezed my hand, in the way her eyes softened.
“We’ll get through this,” she murmured. “Whatever you want to do, Jules—we’ll get through it.”
I swallowed hard, willing myself not to cry, not here, not yet. But something inside me cracked anyway, a small fracture I couldn’t quite contain. My throat burned with all the words I wasn’t sure how to say.
I turned back to the doctor, managing a shaky breath. “Can you… walk me through the next steps?”
The doctor gave a small, encouraging smile. “Of course. We’ll take it one step at a time.”
One step at a time. I let the words settle, tasting them carefully.
For the first time in weeks, maybe longer, the tight, suffocating knot in my chest loosened just a little.
The late afternoon sunlight spilled across the sidewalk as we stepped out of the doctor’s office, and for a second, I just stood there, eyes closed, letting the cool air hit my face.
It smelled faintly of car exhaust and blooming jasmine from the landscaping, but it was sharp and real, and right now, I needed that.
Gabrielle shifted beside me, looping her arm through mine. “So,” she said softly, “on a scale of one to ‘burn it all down,’ where are we landing today?”
I huffed out something that might have been a laugh or just a breath that had nowhere else to go. “Somewhere in the middle,” I murmured. “Like… smoldering ashes, maybe.”
She squeezed my arm, leaning her head lightly against my shoulder as we walked toward the parking lot. “I’m proud of you, Jules. I know you’re probably too stubborn to hear it, but I am.”
My phone buzzed inside my purse—a sharp vibration that cut right through my fog. Without thinking, I pulled it out and glanced at the screen.
Damian: Thinking about you. How did it go?
My thumb hovered over the screen, heart stuttering in my chest. I stared at the message like it was written in a foreign language, something I couldn’t quite translate.
Gabrielle tilted her head to peek. “You going to tell him,” she murmured, “or are you going to keep pretending you’ve got this all under control?”
I let out a shaky breath, thumb grazing the edge of the screen—then I clicked it off and slid the phone back into my purse.
“Jules,” Gabrielle said quietly, “you don’t have to do this alone.”
I gave a weak smile, more out of habit than conviction. “Maybe I do.”
We reached her car, and Gabrielle spun to face me, her expression gentler now, the teasing edge softening into something closer to worry.
“Look,” she said, brushing a lock of hair from my face, “if you decide things with Damian aren’t going to work out—if you want to go this alone—I will be your emotional support animal. ”
That pulled a real laugh from me, sharp and surprised. “What, you’re going to get one of those little service vests and follow me around airports?”
She grinned. “Absolutely. I’ll wear a patch. ‘Certified Support Twin.’ I’ll bark at anyone who looks at you sideways.”
I shook my head, eyes burning, but the absurdity of it lightened my heart. “You’re ridiculous.”
Gabrielle’s smile softened. “Yeah, but you love me for it.”
I swallowed hard, glancing toward the horizon, where the sun was already dipping low. “It’s just… different, Gabby. You have Anthony. You have your person. I don’t know what Damian is to me right now.”
Gabrielle’s voice dropped to something quieter, more serious. “Your situation is different, yeah. But that doesn’t mean you have to shut him out. Let him in, Jules. Or at least give him the chance.”
I exhaled slowly, the weight of the conversation pressing against my ribs. “I’m scared,” I admitted before I could stop myself. The words tasted strange in my mouth—raw and unpolished. “I’m scared to need something from him he can’t give me.”
Gabrielle reached for my hand, her fingers cool and sure. “Then let’s figure it out together. Whatever you choose—Damian or no Damian, baby or no baby—you’re not doing it by yourself.”
For a beat, the two of us just stood there, the quiet hum of traffic filling the spaces between our words.
I gave her hand a squeeze, drawing in a breath that tasted a little less like fear and a little more like resolve. “Okay,” I whispered. “Okay.”
We started walking again, arm in arm, Gabrielle’s head bumping gently against my shoulder. My phone stayed silent, Damian’s message still waiting—a conversation I knew I couldn’t avoid forever.
But for this one moment, I let it wait.