Chapter Twenty
DARCY
The exhaustion I was feeling a little over a week ago has not improved at all, and neither have the headaches that started a few days back.
When I said yes to dinner with Archer, I really hoped I’d be feeling much better than I currently am.
I’ve dragged myself into work all week, and when Sienna unexpectedly asked me out for a cocktail two nights ago, I passed it up, not even wanting Chinese since the thought of food left me feeling wretched.
I’m sitting at the breakfast bar in my kitchen, thinking over what to do about tonight with Archer, when my phone starts vibrating next to me.
“Hey, Mum,” I say when I answer, head dropped between my shoulders.
“Okay, you don’t sound good. What’s the matter?”
I switch the call to loudspeaker and lean forward, resting a cheek on my granite worktop. “I’m really not sure. All I know is, I feel like shit.”
Mum blows a soft breath down the phone before speaking to someone I assume to be Jon. “How long have you been feeling this way?”
“I guess since the infection.”
“But you finished your course of antibiotics, right?”
“The whole ten days.”
“Hmmm,” she muses. “You should be feeling better by now. Maybe there’s something low grade going on. Why don’t you call the doctor?”
I groan; I hate going to the doctor. For starters, I have an irrational fear of needles, and you can bet they’ll want to take blood. “I really don’t want to.”
“Yes, well, sometimes, we have to do things we don’t want. Take me right now, for instance. I have Jon talking to me about the correct amount of time to heat pasta—from spaghetti to fusilli to lasagna. I don’t particularly want to engage in said conversation, but I’m nodding along agreeably.”
I snort a laugh when I hear Jon grumble something in the background. He’s likely updating the menu at Luigi’s, the Italian restaurant he jointly owns with his best friend and former Scorpions teammate, Zach Evans.
“Go to the doctor, Darcy.”
“I have work.” I try one more time to wriggle out of making an appointment.
“Call him and schedule something in. Tell the receptionist you’ve been feeling unwell for a while. Dr. Hughes will want to see you quickly. He’s never let you, me, Jon, or your brother down when we need him.”
“Okay,” I relent. “I’ll call him when I get to work. Or rather drag myself to work.”
“Now, Darcy,” Mum scolds me like I’m still ten years old. “And let me know what he says, please.”
I pick up the phone and say my goodbyes, immediately scrolling to the contact I need, already feeling like this entire process is a complete waste of everyone’s time.
“Miss Thompson, it’s so great to see you. How are you doing?”
Ever the nice guy, Dr. Hughes—our family doctor—welcomes me with a warm smile.
I slump down on the blue sofa next to his desk, arguably feeling worse than when I spoke with Mum earlier.
“This is probably nothing,” I say on a long sigh, “but I’m just not feeling myself.”
A crease forms between his brows. “The receptionist passed on a few details, but can you be more specific?”
My gaze drops to the tiled white floor. I’m not even wearing my heels today, opting for black pumps since I don’t have the energy to battle even the prettiest Pradas.
“I just feel … off. I’m exhausted all the time, I hate my favorite foods, I’ve got an incessant headache that won’t go away.
Plus, I’ve had some sharp shooting pains here …
” I circle the lower part of my abdomen.
“I’ve felt like this since I recovered from the infection. ”
With a frown, Dr. Hughes spins toward his computer, checking a few details in my medical notes. “You aren’t taking any other medication, and you haven’t started taking any supplements I’m unaware of, correct?”
I shrug a single shoulder. “Nothing. Other than my oral contraceptive pill.”
He nods a couple of times. “Yes, that matches my records.” He pauses for a second, eyes flicking back to me cautiously. “I’d like to run a few tests, if that’s okay.”
I know I look like a petulant teenager. “You’re going to take blood, aren’t you?”
He smiles knowingly, already aware of my phobia. “I’m not going to draw blood, but I do want to take a urine sample to check for infections.” He spins on his chair, wheeling across to a cabinet.
Opening a drawer, he fetches out two sample pots, along with clear bags. “When you were unwell, did you vomit?”
I nod slowly, wondering where the hell he’s going with this.
“Yes, multiple times. I couldn’t stop coughing, which made me retch.
I think the antibiotics messed with my stomach, too, because let’s just say, some days were not pretty in the bathroom …
if you know what I mean. It’s never been like that with antibiotics before, but I guess bodies can react differently. ”
He wheels back across to his desk and marks up the containers with a pen. “Yes, you’re right. And if you haven’t had that particular antibiotic before, especially since you recently moved to the US, then that does track. To be clear though, Darcy, are we talking sickness and diarrhea?”
“Yes. Not pretty.” I snort out a nervous laugh.
He presses his lips together in a thin line. “Can I ask, have you been sexually active in the past few weeks?”
I swallow thickly at the sudden change in conversation. I guess I have doctor-patient confidentiality. “I mean, sort of.”
He pauses on writing. “Can you be more specific?”
I wince with no idea why. “I’ve recently started sleeping with someone. It’s exclusive, and he’s checked regularly since he’s a hockey …” I trail off. Dr. Hughes doesn’t need the finer details.
“Well, that’s good to know, but being totally honest with you, it’s not only STIs I’m concerned about. Although we are testing for those too.”
The headache I was nursing now pounds inside my skull. “Y-you think I might be pregnant, don’t you?”
Dr. Hughes swipes a palm across his mouth, eyeing me carefully. “Were you taking your pill at the same time each day?”
“No—yes—I mean, I don’t really know. I know they’re gone from the packet. I just can’t be sure I took them at the same time each day since I was in and out of sleep.”
He pulls off his glasses and sets them on his desk. “And you were also experiencing vomiting and diarrhea too.”
I don’t need the doctor to finish as I drop my face into my palms. “I’m such an idiot,” I mumble, cold realization hitting me like a tidal wave.
“I barely had sex with my ex-boyfriend, and when we did, it was always with condoms. The pill was just a backup because I’m so scatterbrained.
” I throw out my hands, the bright surgery lighting stinging my eyes.
“I’ve been so far up my ass and so carried away with life—what with moving across the Atlantic, my new job, everything,” I ramble on, knowing none of this changes anything, only making me madder at myself for being so goddamn unreliable.
Not to mention the way I’ve been wrapped up in my fling with Archer.
Oh Jesus, Archer. He’s the father.
“You can be a real fucking ditz sometimes, Darcy,” I scold myself quietly, covering my face with my hands again.
“I think the best thing to do is get the test done and everything set out, and then we can go from there.” Dr. Hughes confirms.
For saying I just found out I’m likely pregnant with Archer Moore’s baby, I’m surprisingly calm. Only three times in the past two minutes have I nearly emptied my stomach onto the pristine floor beneath me.
Dr. Hughes rises from his chair, offering me a comforting smile. It does nothing to quell the rising panic I feel though.
“Why don’t you complete both tests for me?”
Head spinning out, I stand from the sofa and take the sample tubes from him, hands shaking.
I turn on my heel and go to leave the room.
“Darcy?”
I stop at the soft way he says my name, emotions threatening to overwhelm me.
He smiles again, obviously worried that I’m going to lose my shit at any second. “Whatever the results, you always have options. And whatever you decide, you will have all the support you need. So, please try not to worry too much.”
Five minutes later and with two full pee pots in hand, I push back into Dr. Hughes’s office. With my heart beating out of my chest, I feel no calmer. And as I hand the samples over, I shake my head at myself and take a seat back on the dreaded sofa.
Walking both samples across to a side table, Dr. Hughes opens one container and begins the test, then the other and does the same. “Okay, let’s see what we have.”
I fidget with my hands, twisting them around in my lap, when my attention snags on the Saint Laurent tote by my feet. A small smile pulls at my lips, right as a tear hits my cheek.
This was all supposed to be for fun.
“Okay.” Dr. Hughes retakes his seat and swivels toward me, hands clasped in his lap, wearing a smile I don’t need a degree to interpret to know what’s coming. “The first test confirms there aren’t any infections.”
He pauses, and for a second, I think he’s going to reach out and take my hand.
I wish he would.
“The second test,” he continues, “did come back as positive, and you are pregnant, Darcy.”
A second tear runs a track down the opposite cheek and to the edge of my chin before falling onto my white blouse.
I don’t bother to wipe at my eyes. I’m too exhausted, too shocked to move.
I can feel the throb of my pulse as it beats a fast rhythm in my ears, and I can see Dr. Hughes’s mouth moving, but I can’t hear any words.
“Are you okay?” This time, he does reach out and places a firm hand on my shoulder. “You look a little wobbly.”
“I-I didn’t hear anything you just said.” I half laugh, although none of this is funny.
He smiles his usually warm smile. “That’s okay. You have a lot to take in, and I know this has come as a shock to you.”
I half laugh again.
Dr. Hughes stands and walks across to the water cooler, pouring a cup before handing it to me.
I take a couple of sips, the freezing ice water helping to steady my senses.
“Just over a week ago, I had three cocktails. I’m pretty sure I was pregnant then too.”
“Try not to worry about that. Many women don’t realize they are pregnant and have alcohol. I was going to ask if you could give me a firm date of conception.”
I shake my head and put the cup down on the floor by my feet. “It could be one of multiple times. I mean, most likely, it was right after I got better.” I think back to the intimate way Archer spooned me. “But I can’t be a hundred percent sure.”
“Well, we can never be one hundred percent because the pill isn’t infallible, especially when not always taken at the same time each day.”
“Right,” I say, flushing. “Of course.”
“With that in mind, we would calculate your gestation period based on the first day of your last period.” He picks up a pen, hovering it over his notepad. “Can you tell me when that was?”
“September 8 … I think,” I reply.
Dr. Hughes makes a quick calculation. “Okay, well, given today is October 6, that puts you at four weeks, plus four days.”
My eyes practically bug out of my head. “That works out at, like, mid-June, right?”
He nods. “It’s a rough guide, but right now, your estimated due date is June 15. I’ll be referring you to your OB-GYN now, and at eight weeks, you will be invited for your first scan, which will help pin down a more accurate timeline.”
All I can do is stare out of the window situated behind my doctor. None of this feels real.
“Are you okay?” he asks me for a second time.
I brace both elbows on my knees, massaging my temples slowly. The pounding headache I was nursing is now kicking into a full-blown migraine. “I don’t know what to think.”
He sets his pen down and mirrors my position, ducking his head slightly to capture my wandering attention. “I’m going to conclude a pregnancy is not something you personally had in mind at this stage in your life.”
I blow out a harsh breath, picking up my water and taking a sip. “No, it most definitely was not.”
“Okay.” He nods. “Before you took the tests, I told you there are always options available. I think one of the first questions you need to ask is, do you want to keep the pregnancy? Because whichever route you choose, we will be able to support you. This is your body and your decision, Darcy.”
“I had my whole entire life set out in front of me.” Another tear trickles down my cheek, and this time, I swipe it away angrily.
I’m angry at myself for being so careless.
That said, the efficacy of my pill was not at the front of my mind when I was throwing up and racing to the bathroom.
And I’m angry on Archer’s behalf because I know this isn’t what he would want either.
He asked me if we should use condoms, but I declined.
“I need to think it over.” I gulp down the rest of my water, and the doctor takes my empty cup from me, throwing it into the bin next to him. “I need to talk to the dad.”
He rolls his lips together. “And just to clarify, there can only be one father?”
“Yes,” I whisper. “We were hooking up in secret since he’s my brother’s teammate and best friend.”
I don’t miss the raised brow before Dr. Hughes quickly resets his professional demeanor.
“I’m going to send your details across to the OB-GYN and some pregnancy information directly to your email. Were you on your way to work?”
“Yes,” I repeat.
“Well, my best advice is to take the day off and use this time to think over everything we’ve discussed.
Reach out to your family or a friend you can confide in.
The symptoms you are experiencing are perfectly normal for this stage in pregnancy, but if you start to experience any symptoms listed on the information I send to you, then I’d ask you to contact your OB-GYN or head to your nearest emergency room. ”
I nod once, now completely speechless.
“Are you going to be okay, getting home?” he asks softly.
“I got an Uber here. I can get one home.”
“All right.” He picks up my bag, and I take it from him, simultaneously wanting to clutch the damn thing to my chest and toss it out the nearest window.
“Think everything over for me, Darcy,” Dr. Hughes says just as I reach his office door.
I tip my head over my shoulder, looking back at him. The Darcy that walked into this room earlier feels so far removed from the one leaving right now.
Everything has changed. Forever.
“I will,” I reply, voice thick with emotion. “Thank you for your help.”