Chapter 37
Chapter Thirty Seven
Olivia
Anna pulls the curtain and smiles like she’s done this a thousand times. “I’m Anna. I’ll get you set up.” She picks up my clipboard, scans the form, clicks her pen. “Okay, Olivia… any history of anemia?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Fainted with blood draws before?”
“No.”
“Good. Have you eaten today?”
I nod. “Toast and an apple a couple of hours ago.”
“Perfect.” She checks a box. “Any alcohol in the last twenty-four hours?”
“No.”
“Any issues with blood sugar? Dizziness, shakes?”
“Just nerves.” I try a small smile. “Family stuff.”
“Understood.” She keeps her tone neutral and kind. “Medications?”
“Daily multivitamin. Occasional ibuprofen.”
She notes it. Low conversation buzzes around her, and there’s the steady beep of a scale nearby. She loops a blood pressure cuff around my arm. “We’ll get a baseline,” she says, and hits the button. The cuff tightens. I stare at the chart on the opposite wall and breathe.
“One-ten over seventy,” she says. “You run low?”
“Usually,” I say.
“Good hydration helps. Any recent tattoos, piercings, dental work?”
“No.”
She flips to the next page. “And last menstrual period?”
I open my mouth to answer automatically and stop. I run backward through the calendar pinned in my head: opening weekend chaos, the week before that, the gala, the rehearsal dinner tasting, late nights. I try to tag a date, and it slips. A month and a half ago? Maybe more.
Anna glances up. “If you’re not sure, we can estimate. Rough week?”
“Rough couple of weeks,” I say.
She waits, pen poised. “Ballpark?”
“A month and a half,” I say, hearing how thin it sounds. I swallow. “Maybe longer.”
She nods once, still calm. “Any chance you could be pregnant? We screen out donors if there’s a possibility.”
I let out a laugh that’s more air than sound. “No,” I say, then hear myself and feel my chest go tight. The laugh dies. I count back again. My mouth goes dry.
Anna pauses, pen above the paper. “Is there?”
The world narrows to her face and the form and the blood pressure cuff still warm against my skin.
Somewhere across the room, I can hear a chair creak, a nurse asking someone to squeeze a stress ball.
I try to picture a calendar page, and all I see are his hands braced on either side of my head while he thrusts into me, empties into me.
I drag in a breath that doesn’t feel like enough.
“Olivia?” Anna prompts quietly. “Is there a chance you could be pregnant?”
I nod, barely. The realization settles on my chest like a weight.
“Yeah,” I whisper.
I sit in a small room now, four chairs, a poster about hydration on the wall, a sink that drips every few seconds. Someone handed me a plastic cup, pointed to a bathroom, and told me to wait here for the results. They took my clipboard and said they’d be right back.
My hands won’t stay still. I lace my fingers, unclasp them, smooth my skirt, then stop because I’m making noise. I keep my eyes on the door because if I look anywhere else, my brain starts running in circles I can’t slow.
Before they walked me out, I looked for Roberto. He had a cuff on his arm, a tube running to a half-full bag. He was watching the nurse adjust the line. He didn’t see me leave. Good. Or bad. I don’t know.
What does he think now? That I left the building? That I just left him behind? Will he go hunting for me?
What am I going to tell him?
I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth to steady my breathing. The timeline is a mess in my head. The day in the elevator, so long ago now. The night in my office. The night of the ball. And it wasn’t just once for some of those nights either.
I’m on the pill. Even without a condom, it should be a pretty slim chance.
My phone is in my pocket. I don’t take it out. I could text Caterina and say I got redirected. I could text Roberto and say I’m fine. I don’t know what “fine” means in this room.
Think through the basics. If it’s negative, I’ll stand up, donate, walk back upstairs, sit in a plastic chair, and keep my eyes on the ICU doors like everyone else. If it’s positive… my stomach flips. Then what? Tell him? Tell no one?
The longest month of my life has been the last forty-eight hours.
That’s what it feels like.
I think about last night—his kitchen, my hands on his shirt, the way his voice went hard and then soft again. The door slamming as I left. I can still hear it. If I’m pregnant, I have to talk to him. He has a right to know.
I rub my thumb over the ridge of my knuckle. I can’t picture his face when I say the words. I can, but I don’t know which version is real: the careful lawyer who will ask for facts and timelines, or the man who carried me to bed and held me until morning. Maybe both. Maybe he’s always been both.
A cart rattles past in the hall. Footsteps stop, move on. I watch the handle even though it doesn’t turn. I tell myself to make a plan that isn’t just panic.
If it’s positive, I’ll ask for a printout and the name of an OB. I’ll text my own doctor for an appointment. I’ll tell Caterina I need to step outside for air so I can think. I won’t say anything in front of the whole family. Not here. Not with her uncle Antonio in the ICU down the hall.
What about the comp codes? The warehouse? The word that stuck in my throat last night—mafia. I don’t know how any of that fits with the word pregnancy. I don’t know how to put those in the same sentence without feeling sick again. I put a palm on my belly like I can quiet it from the outside.
I hear a polite knock two doors down and a low conversation. My heel starts bouncing, and I force it flat to the floor. I try to count backward from a hundred. I lose my place and start again. The sink drips. The clock on the wall ticks one second at a time, driving me crazy.
Is he wondering where I am? Probably. He notices everything. He’ll finish the donation, stand up, look around. He’ll ask a nurse. He’ll be told I got rerouted for screening. He’ll draw the right conclusion in two steps because he’s smart and the timing is what it is.
The handle turns. I sit up straighter and wipe my palms on my knees, ready to hear a yes or a no, even if I don’t know what I want the answer to be.
A nurse steps in with a folder held to her chest. Mid-thirties, tired eyes, professional smile.
“Olivia?” she says.
“Yes.” My voice comes out thin and hollow.
She sits across from me and sets the folder on her knee. “I’m Carrie. I reviewed your screening and the rapid urine test.”
My fingers knit together hard. “Okay.”
“The result is positive.” She says it simply and quickly. Rip the bandage off, I guess. “That means this quick test detected HCG. These tests are very good, but we still recommend confirmation with a quantitative blood test and a follow-up with your OB/GYN.”
Positive.
Her mouth keeps moving; I try to keep up.
“Because of that, you won’t be able to donate today. That’s standard—pregnancy is an automatic deferral for your safety. No cause for alarm. Do you have a doctor you can call?”
I nod slowly. “Yes.”
“I can print your result for your records and give you a list of OBs affiliated with the hospital, if that’s helpful.”
“Please,” I say. The word feels like it belongs to someone else.
She slides two papers from the folder, checks my name at the top, and passes them across. A pink highlighter line marks “positive.” Behind it is a one-page sheet: Next steps, prenatal vitamins, who to call. I stare at the lines until they stop swimming.
“Do you feel dizzy? Nauseated?” she asks, clinical and kind.
“No. I’m okay.” My palm is flat against my thigh to keep it from shaking.
“All right. I’ll note the deferral in the donor system. If you’d like the serum test while you’re here, we can draw it now and send it to the lab. Results would route to your doctor.”
“In this building?” I ask.
“Down the hall,” she says. “But with everything going on upstairs, you may prefer to call your doctor and schedule for later. It’s your call.”
I nod again. Upstairs. ICU. A family in plastic chairs, counting minutes. “I’ll call my doctor,” I say.
“Good,” she says, standing. “Take your time here if you need a minute. When you’re ready, you can exit down the corridor without going back through the donor bay. If anyone asks, just tell them you were deferred for screening.”
Deferred. The word feels mercifully vague.
“Thank you,” I say.
She touches the top of the folder, the closest thing to a reassuring pat without putting a hand on me, and slips out.
The room is quiet again except for the drip in the sink. I put the papers in my bag, zip the pocket, then unzip it to look one more time because seeing the letters makes it more real somehow than hearing it.
Positive.
I press my knuckles to my mouth and breathe until the sting in my eyes backs off. Not now. Not in a hospital hallway with his family a floor up.
Is Roberto already back upstairs? Or is he standing in the donor room, a square of gauze on his arm, scanning the room for me?
I stand. My legs threaten to give, but they manage to hold me.
I straighten my blouse and smooth my hair with a quick pass of my hand.
The mirror over the sink shows a woman I barely recognize—pale, eyes a little too bright.
I splash water on my wrists, pat them dry with a thin paper towel, and gather myself, prepared to walk to the waiting room without giving myself away.
The side corridor is empty. I follow the exit signs and come out near the elevators, not the donor desk. The doors ping and open. I step in and watch the numbers climb.
On three, the hall hum returns—phones, wheels, low voices. I tuck the papers deeper into my bag and pull my sleeve down more securely, so no one notices the lack of gauze, and walk back toward the surgical waiting area.
I see them before they see me—Caterina leaning into Bianca’s shoulder, Luca in quiet conversation with Elena, Vito on the phone near the window. Roberto stands a few feet away from the cluster, gaze on the ICU doors like he can will them to open.
I stop just short of the chairs and pull in a breath that doesn’t wobble.
One thing at a time. Upstairs first. Antonio first. I will not make a scene in the middle of this hall. I will not say anything I can’t unsay.
Caterina spots me and pushes up, relief loosening her face. “There you are,” she says. “Everything okay?”
“I needed more screening,” I say, keeping my tone easy. “Everything’s fine.”
“I’m glad,” she says. She squeezes my hand.
It’s a lie. Everything isn’t fine.
I nod and let her lead me back to the row of chairs. Across the room, Roberto’s eyes lift. They find me. They hold for a beat. There’s a question in them, and I answer with the smallest shake of my head—later. Please.
He gives the slightest nod and looks back to the doors.
I sit. I put both feet on the floor. I take the bottle of water Bianca nudges into my hand and twist the cap. My heart is loud in my ears. I drink. I keep my breathing steady. I watch the hallway with everyone else and wait for the next piece of news.