Chapter 7 #2
Marcella’s seated in the shade of the porch bench, beaming at her son and granddaughter.
Zoey babbles excitedly the second she spots Callie, tiny arms reaching.
Callie scoops her up, spins her once, presses kisses to her cheeks.
Mason watches from the porch railing, arms folded, love written across every line of his face.
I back out and parallel park at the curb on the other side of the bougainvillea-shrouded fence that blocks their small house from the street.
She says nothing as I slide into her passenger seat, puts the car into drive, and glances over, expression even.
Twenty minutes.
We’ll see if I make it that long.
Callie doesn’t speak right away, and I’m grateful.
She’s driving, but she’s not distracted.
Her hands are steady on the wheel, her posture open—calculated calm.
It’s her doctor persona, but with less condescension and more compassion.
I’ve seen her use it on patients too scared to ask the real question.
It’s the silence she offers in place of pressure.
The kind that says: I’m here when you’re ready.
I swallow hard.
This isn’t new. Callie’s always been like this—steady without being rigid, always measured and intentional. It’s why we work. Why I’ve always trusted her to be the one person who wouldn’t try to fix me.
But it’s different when I’m the one with something to hide.
She waits until we’ve cleared the worst of the traffic. Until I’ve had time to breathe, or fake it. Then she just says, “So.”
I almost laugh. Almost fill the space with bullshit.
Instead, I shake my head.
“I’m late,” I say. Flat. Small.
She doesn’t respond or ask what I mean, because she knows.
She waits.
“I haven’t taken a test yet,” I add, because I need to do something. “I’ve been telling myself it’s just stress. That the IUD is still in. That it’s not possible.”
Callie nods once—acknowledgment, not agreement.
“But I can’t stop feeling like something’s wrong. And I haven’t been able to sleep. And my boobs hurt. And everything smells like metal.”
The words spill faster now. Less thought, more defense. If I say it clinically, maybe it won’t count.
“I threw up this morning. I mean—I gagged. It was just tea, and I didn’t actually puke. But I felt it. Like my body was trying to reject itself.”
Silence again.
That silence—that space—is unbearable.
“I can’t do this,” I say, more sharply than I mean to. “I won’t do this. I can’t be pregnant. I can’t.”
My voice cracks on the last word and I hate it. I hate how small it sounds. How scared.
Callie doesn’t reach for me or interrupt. She just drives, her eyes flicking toward me once, soft and unflinching.
“You don’t have to,” she says.
I flinch.
Because she means it.
She’s not saying it to calm me down or offer some empty reassurance. She means it like a promise. Like a reminder of every boundary I’ve ever set, and how she’s never once pushed against one.
And that breaks something in me. Because I’ve been trying to hold this in for days. Maybe since the minute I left Denver. Since the second I felt the first crack in my armor and realized what it might mean.
It’s not just that I don’t want this.
It’s that I can’t survive it.
“I haven’t even let myself say it out loud,” I whisper. “I’ve just been… avoiding. Moving. Working. Telling myself I’ll deal with it later.”
“You’re dealing with it now,” she says gently.
I nod. Once.
A long beat passes before I add, “I know I need to find an OB. I know the drill. Ultrasound. Confirmation. Logistics.”
Callie’s voice is calm. “I know someone.”
“Of course you do.”
We drive in silence for another stretch.
And then I say the thing that’s been chewing at the base of my spine since I hugged her hello.
“You haven’t asked whose it might be.”
Her eyes stay on the road, but I feel her attention sharpen.
“I figured it was Wyatt,” she says, slow. Careful. “You were both… pretty glowy the morning after the wedding.”
I huff a sound that isn’t quite a laugh. “It was. Kind of.”
She doesn’t push.
“It was also Chris.”
This time she glances at me, brows lifting.
“You—” she starts, then stops. Recalculates. “That night?”
I nod.
She doesn’t ask if it was both at once.
She exhales. “Okay.”
“I know what you’re thinking.”
“No, you don’t.”
I look at her.
“Because I’m not thinking anything,” she says. “I’m listening.”
And just like that, my throat closes up again.
Because she’s been here since we were kids, through every crisis, every stupid decision, every 3 a.m. phone call. And I’m never quite sure I’ve earned this grace, this space. This terrifying relief.
I press my forehead to the cool glass of the window.
Callie’s quiet, but not in a way that leaves me hanging. She’s giving me space to settle under the weight of what I said.
We’re both trained to sit in silence. We know how long it can take for someone to say the thing they’ve been afraid of. She won’t rush me now.
I finally say, “We always used condoms when I was with Wyatt. It wasn’t optional—” I break off. Try again. “But that night, with Chris, with them both. I thought— It was one night, and I thought just once—”
She doesn’t flinch or offer platitudes, only gives a slow nod, barely perceptible.
“I have an IUD,” I add, almost shrill. “I was safe. I am safe.”
“I know.”
“It shouldn’t be possible.”
“It usually isn’t,” she says. “But it can be. Rarely. Depending on the placement.”
I nod, jaw tight.
A few more blocks and she takes a left. The street’s familiar now. My house is coming up, the low-slung box of windows with the giant jacaranda in front.
Callie finally speaks again, voice low. “Do you want me to go in with you?”
“Yes.”
I don’t hesitate. I have no dignity left to protect. I just need someone to witness this with me, so I don’t have to hold the knowing alone.
We pull into my driveway. She parks, kills the engine.
Inside, it’s too bright. The house smells like citrus and new paint and air freshener.
Callie toes off her sandals by the door and follows me down the hall to the bathroom.
I already bought the tests.
Three boxes. Three different brands. Just in case one was faulty. Just in case.
I pull them out of the cabinet. Set them on the sink. My hands shake, but I get through it.
Callie doesn’t hover. She steps back into the hall and pulls the door almost closed, but not all the way.
“I’ll be right here,” she says.
I don’t answer.
I just shut the door.