Chapter 9 Sage
SAGE
Pregnancy, it turns out, is mostly waiting.
Waiting for appointments. Waiting for symptoms. Waiting for your body to decide what bizarre new trick it’s going to pull this week.
Some days it’s nausea. Other days it’s exhaustion.
Today, it’s the strange sensation that my entire life is balancing on a decision I already made but haven’t fully processed yet.
The decision, in this case, that I’m doing this alone.
Not completely alone, obviously. Leigh exists, and Leigh is the human equivalent of a safety net. If emotional crises were an Olympic sport, she would have a medal cabinet. But there’s a difference between having support and having the father of your child involved.
And he is very much not involved.
Leigh is currently sitting at my kitchen table, surrounded by laptops and notebooks like she’s building a small tech empire instead of helping her pregnant best friend keep her life from collapsing. “So,” she says, glancing up from the screen. “Have you thought any more about telling Connor?”
I don’t even look up from the toast I’m aggressively buttering. “No.”
She watches me for a second. “You didn’t even pretend to consider it.”
“Why should I?”
Leigh leans back in the chair and studies me in that quiet way she does when she thinks I’m about to say something stubborn. Her tone goes uncharacteristically gentle. “He should know.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s the father.”
“That possibility didn’t seem particularly important to him when we were dating. I’m sure it wouldn’t now either.”
Leigh winces slightly at that.
“He was a bad boyfriend,” I continue, wiping butter crumbs off my fingers. “Me being pregnant isn’t going to magically turn him into a good one.”
“That’s not necessarily—”
“I’m not chasing a man who acts like I don’t exist, Leigh.” The words come out sharper than I intend, but the sentiment stands.
Connor had a very specific way of treating me when we were together. The kind that makes you feel like an accessory to someone else’s life instead of a participant in it.
Pregnancy would not improve that dynamic. If anything, it would make it worse. Even if he were the father, I wouldn’t let him near my baby. He’d use them as content and nothing more.
Leigh sighs softly. “I just don’t want you doing everything alone.”
“I’m not alone.” I gesture toward her with the knife. “You’re here.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“No,” I admit. “But you’re more than enough. You’re a handful.”
She grins proudly. “I have a reputation to uphold.”
“I’ll say.”
“But if you ever change your mind,” she adds, “we can track him down.”
I snort. “I don’t need a bounty hunter.”
“You’re pregnant,” she points out. “Technically, that’s a group project.”
“Not this one.”
Leigh watches me for a moment longer before nodding slowly. “Alright. Then we focus on you.”
The next day, I’m stuck in a waiting room that smells like hand sanitizer and quiet anxiety. I hate noticing all the smells I’ve never noticed before. But apparently, the blueberry pays attention to everything.
I sit in one of those slightly-too-small chairs flipping through a magazine I’m not actually reading, trying not to spiral while a daytime talk show plays on mute in the corner.
There’s a heavily pregnant woman across from me eating crackers, and for a second, I consider asking her if this ever starts to feel normal.
Then the nurse calls my name.
I stand, smooth down my shirt out of habit, and follow her down the hallway. The appointment itself starts like every other one so far—blood pressure, weight, a few routine questions about symptoms. I answer automatically, the same way I do when clients ask how many reps they have left.
“Any dizziness?” she asks.
“Not really.”
“Headaches?”
“Sometimes,” I admit.
She gives me a small, knowing smile and makes a note on the tablet. A minute later, she wraps the cuff around my arm again and watches the numbers with a little more focus this time. “Hm.”
That is not a sound you want from a medical professional.
“What?”
“Your blood pressure is a little elevated,” she says carefully. “Nothing alarming, but we’ll have the doctor take a look.”
A little elevated.
I latch onto the phrase like it’s something manageable. I’m healthy. I work out for a living. I eat better than most people, current toast obsession aside. Elevated is not a word that should apply to me.
The doctor comes in a few minutes later, chart in hand, and gives me a warm but slightly more serious smile than usual. “How have you been feeling?”
“Fine,” I say automatically. “A little nauseous. Tired. But I figured that’s normal.”
“It is,” she agrees. “But your blood pressure is higher than we’d like to see this early.”
I blink at her. “That doesn’t make sense.”
She sits on the stool across from me, calm and unbothered in a way that feels very intentional. “It actually does. Pregnancy can trigger something called gestational hypertension.”
“I’m in better shape than most of the population,” I point out, because apparently I’ve decided this is the hill I’m going to die on.
“And that’s great,” she says, completely unfazed. “But pregnancy changes how your body regulates everything. Blood pressure included. If you weren’t as healthy as you are, it would likely be worse by now.”
I stare at her for a second, trying to reconcile that with the version of my body I’ve spent years building and understanding. “So what does that mean?”
“It means we keep an eye on it. And make a few adjustments to reduce anything that could raise it further.”
“Like what?”
She gives me a look that already tells me I’m not going to like the answer. “High-intensity workouts. Heavy lifting. Anything that spikes your heart rate too aggressively.”
I let out a short laugh that isn’t funny at all. “That’s my job.”
“I understand that,” she says gently. “But right now, your priority has to be keeping both you and the baby safe.”
I lean back against the exam table, staring at the ceiling. “So what am I supposed to do? Sit still for the next six months?”
“Not at all,” she says. “You can still stay active. I’d recommend shifting toward lower-impact exercise—yoga, walking, mobility work, anything that keeps you moving without putting too much strain on your cardiovascular system.”
Yoga. I close my eyes for a second. “That’s… not exactly my brand.”
Her expression softens slightly. “Then maybe it’s time to expand your brand.”
I let out a long breath, the reality of what she’s saying settling over me in a slow, uncomfortable wave. She’s not wrong. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.
The diagnosis doesn’t make sense.
That’s the thought that keeps circling. It doesn’t make sense.
I’ve built my entire life around being healthy.
Strong. In control of my body. I know how it works.
I know how to push it, how to recover, how to keep it running at a level most people never reach.
And now my doctor is telling me that none of that matters because pregnancy just… overrides everything.
Cool. Love that.
Gestational hypertension. Even the name sounds annoying.
After I get home and cool off with a room temperature shower—the only thing that doesn’t make me nauseated at the moment—I decide to chill in my cottage with an exercise mat and a chamomile tea.
My phone buzzes, dragging me out of my thoughts.
I glance down and see Leigh’s name lighting up the screen.
I answer and put her on speaker so I can stretch. “Hey.”
“How did it go?” she asks immediately.
“Define ‘go.’”
“You’re stalling. What’s wrong? Do you want me to come over?”
I take a breath. “My blood pressure’s high.”
“I’m coming over.” She hangs up before I can even tell her not to bother.
As soon as she knocks, I open with, “Not, like, emergency high. Just elevated. Apparently, pregnancy can trigger something called gestational hypertension.”
Leigh is quiet for a second, which is never a great sign. “And what does that mean for you?”
“It means I’m not allowed to do my job the way I normally do it.”
“Meaning?” She sets up her laptop on my kitchen table.
“No high-intensity workouts. No heavy lifting. Basically, nothing that spikes my heart rate too much.”
Another pause. “That’s… your entire job.”
“Yeah.” I let out a short, humorless laugh. “She wants me doing yoga.”
Leigh makes a noise that sounds like she’s trying not to laugh and failing. “You hate yoga.”
“I do hate yoga.”
“You’re very bad at it.”
“I am not bad at yoga,” I snap automatically.
“You tried to out-plank a yoga instructor.”
“And I did.”
“And your abs were so smoked that you couldn’t train anyone for two days after that.” She laughs outright now, and despite everything, it pulls a reluctant smile out of me. “You walked around here all bent over like you were auditioning for a reboot of Golden Girls.”
“This is a real problem, Leigh. I don’t know how I’m supposed to work like this. My clients expect a certain level of training. My whole thing is strength.”
“And now your whole thing is adapting,” she says.
“That feels like a nice way of saying I’m screwed.”
“It’s a nice way of saying you’re going to pivot,” she corrects.
“I don’t want to pivot,” I admit. “
“I know. But you also don’t want to ignore your doctor and end up dealing with something worse.”
That, unfortunately, is true.
She gets that look she gets when she’s being sneaky. “I have something to show you.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It’s not,” she promises. “Just… trust me.”
I hesitate for a second. “Okay. What now?” Because at this point, I’m pretty sure my life is about to change again. And apparently, I don’t get a say in the timing.
She spins her laptop around, so I push myself upright and glance at the screen.
Another website.
For a second, my brain doesn’t fully process what I’m seeing. It looks similar to the fitness site she built, but the layout is softer. Calmer. Less… aggressive. Soft colors, simple design, a focus on breathing, movement, and something that looks suspiciously like meditation content.
“What is this?”
“A backup plan.”
I blink at her. “You built a backup plan?”
“I build a lot of things when I’m stressed,” she says casually. “This one just happens to be useful.”
I scroll slowly, taking it in. There are sections for guided breathing, low-impact movement, recovery routines, stress management. It’s not just thrown together either. It’s thoughtful. “How did you… Did you think something was going to go wrong?”
“Sage, come on. You know I love a good contingency plan. Hell, it’s why I date multiple people at a time.”
I keep scrolling, my initial resistance slowly giving way to something else. Something that feels a lot like relief, even if I don’t want to admit it out loud. “This is… actually really good.”
Leigh smiles a little. “You’re pregnant. Things can change quickly. I didn’t want you stuck if they did, and I needed it to look like a good fallback plan if you needed one.”
For a moment, I just look at her.
Because that’s the thing about Leigh. She doesn’t just react to problems. She gets ahead of them in a way that makes everything feel a little less overwhelming.
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
She shrugs like it’s nothing. “You’re not losing your career, Sage. You’re just… shifting lanes.”
“I hate shifting lanes.”
“I know. That’s why you get in the lane you need five miles before you’re turning. Even when someone is driving too slow ahead of you.” Her lips thin to a flat line.
“I like knowing where I’m going before I get there. Sue me.” I glance back at the screen, at the clean layout and the calm tone of everything she built.
Meditation. Breathing. Low-impact strength.
It’s not what I pictured for myself. But it’s not nothing.
“People would actually use this,” I admit.
“People will love this,” she corrects.
I huff out a small breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “Maybe this isn’t the end of the world.”
Leigh leans back against the couch, watching me with that quiet confidence she always seems to have. “Hardly.”
And for the first time since I left the doctor’s office, I almost believe she could be right.