Chapter 9 #2
Callie’s voice lowers. “You know his dad was an alcoholic. Violent.”
I nod again. I hadn’t known, but I’d suspected. It was in the way Mason moved sometimes—like he was always positioning himself between you and the threat. How he read a room before he spoke, and never touched you unless he was absolutely sure it would be welcome.
“She stayed anyway,” I say.
“She thought she had to.”
“She thought it would be worse to leave.” I shift slightly in my seat. “It’s textbook. The justification loop. Minimize, rationalize, absorb. Because at least she understood the pain she had. The unknown might be worse.”
Callie exhales, not disagreeing.
We drive a few more blocks in silence. Westwood rises around us—glass buildings, clean lines, quiet sidewalks.
“She doesn’t want to sell because it’s hers,” I say, more softly now. “Because surviving something makes you feel like you earned it.”
“Yeah,” Callie says. “And because no one else sees it that way.”
She pulls into the lot and cuts the engine.
The medical plaza is a cluster of clean, modern buildings just off Le Conte. The shared lobby smells like bleach and hand soap. There’s a dentist’s office, a plastic surgeon, a pediatric allergist. Nothing here advertises what I’m here for.
But I don’t, either.
I braved the bathroom again just long enough for a quick shower before we left. Soft black leggings, my most threadbare hoodie—easy choices. Hair pulled back in a loose knot, still damp at the ends. No makeup since yesterday. My mouth’s dry. Hands, cold.
“You sure?” Callie asks, keys in hand, eyes steady on mine.
I nod. “Yeah.”
“I can go in first. Let Dr. Keaton know we’re here.”
“Stay with me.”
Her expression softens. “Of course.”
Inside, the waiting room is quiet. One potted ficus, a salt lamp on the receptionist’s desk, and a stack of unread magazines fanned neatly across a table. The walls are soft green and off-white. Everything looks clean. Contained.
Dr. Andrea Keaton appears before we even sit down. Mid-forties, dark skin, her twists pinned back from her face. Her white coat bears her name in embroidery so crisp it looks freshly stitched. She doesn’t smile right away, but her eyes are kind.
“Andrea,” Callie says, standing.
They hug briefly—familiar, respectful. I recognize it immediately: former teacher or mentor. Someone Callie shadowed once and never forgot.
Andrea turns to me next. “Nina,” she says, holding out a hand. “I wish we were meeting under different circumstances. But I’m very glad you came in.”
Her grip is warm. I hold it a moment longer than I should.
She walks us back to a softly lit exam room and shuts the door. “We’ll take this at your pace. I’ll confirm everything, remove the IUD if you’re ready, and explain how the medication works. Nothing happens without your say-so.”
Callie pulls up a stool near the head of the table as Andrea steps out to grab gloves and paperwork.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur. “You just got home. I shouldn’t have pulled you into this today.”
Callie snorts. “Mason and I were overdue for a break. But we wrapped up the honeymoon in epic fashion.”
I raise an eyebrow.
She shrugs, mock-innocent. “Let’s just say we relived our first time.”
I blink. “Oh no.”
“Oh yes. Business class lavatory. Just like last December. Only this time I wasn’t worried about losing a shoe.”
I almost laugh. Almost. “You’re disgusting.”
“Don’t slut-shame your ride-or-die.”
Andrea comes back in just as I’m trying not to cry again. She lays the paperwork down and snaps on gloves.
“Whenever you’re ready,” she says.
Callie squeezes my hand. I nod. Move to the table. The gown’s cold. The stirrups, colder. I keep my eyes on the ceiling.
Andrea walks me through everything. I don’t hear most of it. I just hold Callie’s hand and breathe.
The removal takes less than a minute. A pinch. A pull. Then it’s gone.
Andrea steps back, discards her gloves, and waits for me to sit up before she says, “You did great.”
She passes me a bottle of water. Then the prescription pad.
“Mifepristone tonight. Misoprostol tomorrow. I’ll give you full instructions, and you can text or call anytime.”
I nod. “Side effects?”
“Bleeding, cramping, nausea. It’ll feel like a bad period. You’ll want to rest, stay hydrated. Ideally someone’s with you.”
Callie nods. She’s not going anywhere.
Andrea tears off the sheet and hands it to me. “You’re not broken, Nina. And you don’t have to do any of this alone.”
That’s what does it. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
My eyes sting. Then blur. I press the back of my wrist to them like that might stop it, but the tears spill anyway—quiet and hot.
Relief I didn’t ask for. Shame I thought I’d buried.
The sudden ache of being seen when I was braced to be alone.
Andrea doesn’t speak. Just rests a hand on my shoulder before stepping out, giving me space.
Callie helps me sit up. Helps me dress. I can’t seem to make my fingers work. She pulls my hoodie over my head like I’m breakable and doesn’t say anything about the fact that I haven’t stopped shaking.
We don’t talk on the way to the car.
We don’t need to.
By the time we pull out of the lot, I’m curled against the window, forehead to the glass. My body feels real again, but my head is far away. I know I’m supposed to be processing something, but I don’t have the room. Not yet.
Callie insists on making food the second we walk in. I don’t fight her.
She disappears into the kitchen, sleeves already pushed up, calling back something about grilled cheese and soup like it’s a prescription.
I murmur a thank you and head for the bedroom.
The bedside lights are dim enough to be comforting.
I sit on the edge of the bed and peel off my shoes one at a time, then crawl under the covers still fully dressed.
The pill is in me now. Swallowed with a mouthful of water in Andrea’s office, just like she said. Mifepristone. The first step. The one that cuts off support to the pregnancy, like shutting down a power grid before the demolition starts.
I try not to think about it in those terms.
I try not to think at all.
My laptop’s still on the nightstand. I sit up and open it, pull up the shared file Mason sent me for the Denver intake team.
The intake file for Flores and Amador stares back at me—names I already know, a bullet-pointed history of violence, risk flags, court stipulations.
Mason’s left a tight summary of their dynamic: dominance patterns, mutual trauma, a cautious interdependence masquerading as strategy.
Normally, this would all stick. But right now, my prefrontal cortex is offline and my amygdala’s driving. Nothing lands. Nothing stays.
I read the same paragraph four times and retain none of it.
The room’s too quiet. Too clean. I close the laptop and set it aside.
My phone’s on the charger. I unplug it and thumb it open, meaning to scroll something stupid. Animal videos. Memes. Anything with movement and no emotional stakes.
I’m halfway through a reel of a cat leaping into a ceiling fan when the text comes through.
WYATT: Shipping the last of your stuff today. You good?
My heart clenches so fast it’s a full-body sensation. Everything inside me tightens, sudden and automatic.
I stare at the message. Don’t open it yet. Just look at the preview hovering at the top of the screen.
God, I miss him.
Not in the abstract. Not in some neat, intellectual sense of loss.
I miss the way he looks at me when I’m trying not to cry.
How he listens when I’m already crying. How he just…
stayed—through the complications, all of it.
I asked him to help me prep for this assignment and he agreed without a single condition, without asking what it would cost him. Without asking what it would cost me.
He packed my entire apartment. Boxed every fragile thing like it was his own. Labeled everything in his careful, tidy handwriting. Sent me tracking updates and took the time to ask if I needed anything else.
He didn’t have to do any of that.
He did it because he cares. Still.
And I haven’t told him. Not about the test. Not about the appointment. Not about the way I fell apart.
I unlock the message. The words don’t change.
I don’t reply.
Instead, my brain does the thing I didn’t want it to do. The thing it always does when I’m tired and lonely and trying not to feel anything at all.
I remember his voice. That low, steady tone he uses when he’s half a breath from falling apart.
I remember Chris’s hand on my hip. Wyatt’s mouth on my throat.
The way their bodies moved around mine—how seamless it was, how inevitable it felt.
Skin against skin. Chris’s laugh, rough and hoarse, when Wyatt shoved him against the headboard.
The way Wyatt kissed him first—no hesitation, no question.
Heat rushes low in my belly.
And then—something clenches.
I tense automatically, one hand sliding across my stomach. It’s not pain, exactly. Just pressure. A slow twist deep in the gut.
Cramps? I breathe through it. Wait.
My stomach growls.
Oh. Right.
I haven’t eaten all day.
Still, the sensation is enough to break the spiral. The heat fades. I pull the blankets tighter around my shoulders and swipe back to Wyatt’s message. Type out four words. Delete them. Type three more. Delete those, too.
Eventually, I land on:
NINA: We need to talk, but tonight’s not a good time. I’ll call in a few days. And thank you. For everything.
I hit send before I can second-guess it.
Then I put the phone face-down on the nightstand.
And wait for the smell of grilled cheese to pull me out of myself.