19
Rose sat beside Eli in the waiting room of the fertility specialist’s office, holding his hand so tightly that he was pretty sure she was cutting off circulation to two of his fingers.
He did not mention it.
If squeezing his hand helped her breathe, she could keep the fingers.
He would learn to play guitar with the other ones.
The office was softer than he expected. Pale walls, comfortable chairs, framed prints of flowers, the quiet sound of a water feature somewhere near the reception desk. Everything about the place seemed designed to calm people down.
It was not working.
At least not on him.
Rose kept her eyes fixed on a framed poster across the room, reading the words over and over though Eli doubted she was taking any of them in.
Her face was calm, but he knew her. He knew the little crease between her brows.
The way her thumb rubbed over the side of his hand.
The way she kept swallowing like her throat had forgotten how to cooperate.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
She looked at him. “Are you?”
“No.”
That startled a tiny laugh out of her.
Good.
He would take tiny.
“You could have lied,” she whispered.
“I’m trying not to start lying in medical buildings. Feels like bad luck.”
Her mouth curved, but it faded quickly. “What if they find something?”
“Then we know what we’re dealing with.”
“What if they don’t?”
“Then we know that too.”
“You make it sound simple.”
“It’s not simple.” He lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles. “But it is us. That part is simple.”
Her eyes shone.
Before she could answer, a nurse stepped into the waiting room and called Rose’s name.
Eli stood with her.
Rose did not let go of his hand until they were inside an exam room, seated side by side in front of a desk while the doctor reviewed a chart on a tablet.
Dr. Hall was a woman in her late forties, maybe early fifties, with short dark hair, warm brown skin, and eyes that missed very little. She had the kind of calm directness Eli appreciated immediately. Not cold. Not sugarcoated. Just steady.
She smiled at both of them. “Rose and Eli Marlowe?”
“That’s us,” Eli said.
Rose nodded.
“I’m Dr. Hall. I know coming in for fertility testing can feel intimidating, so before we get into anything else, I want to say this clearly. This appointment is not about blame. It is not about failure. It is not about assuming something is wrong with either one of you.”
Rose’s shoulders loosened a fraction.
Eli noticed.
Dr. Hall continued, “What we’re doing is gathering information. That’s all. Once we have results, we can talk about what they mean and what options make sense.”
Rose nodded again. “Okay.”
The doctor turned the tablet slightly, not showing them anything specific, just grounding the conversation.
“The basic workup looks at both partners. For you, Rose, we’ll do blood work to check hormone levels, ovarian reserve markers, thyroid function, and a few other things that can affect ovulation and pregnancy.
We’ll also schedule imaging so we can look at the uterus and ovaries and make sure there aren’t structural issues contributing to the delay. ”
Rose’s hand found Eli’s again.
He took it.
Dr. Hall looked at Eli. “For you, Eli, we’ll do a semen analysis.
That tells us count, movement, shape, volume, and a few other details.
Sometimes the issue is on one side, sometimes the other, sometimes both, and sometimes all the numbers come back looking perfectly normal and we still need to discuss timing, age, stress, and unexplained infertility. ”
“So,” Eli said, “there’s a chance nothing’s wrong?”
“Absolutely,” Dr. Hall said. “And I want both of you to hear that. Trouble conceiving does not automatically mean someone’s body is broken. There are many possible explanations, and not all of them are frightening.”
Rose blinked fast. “I think I needed to hear that.”
“That’s why I say it early.” Dr. Hall’s expression softened. “A lot of couples come in already grieving a diagnosis they don’t even have yet.”
Rose looked down.
Eli’s chest tightened.
That was exactly what she had been doing. Quietly. Secretly. Punishing herself in corners, in bathrooms, in the silent space after another negative test.
He squeezed her hand.
Dr. Hall went on. “Some possibilities include irregular ovulation, blocked tubes, endometriosis, fibroids, lower sperm count or motility, hormonal imbalance, timing issues, or sometimes simply time and stress playing a role. Some things are treated with medication. Some with procedures. Some with assisted reproduction. Some just require better tracking and patience.”
Eli gave a short breath. “Patience is not her strongest gift.”
Rose looked at him. “Excuse me?”
Dr. Hall smiled.
Eli leaned back. “I said what I said.”
“I have patience.”
“With people,” he said. “Not with waiting.”
Rose’s lips twitched. “That’s rude.”
“That’s marriage.”
Dr. Hall’s smile widened. “A little humor is allowed in here.”
“Good,” Eli said. “That’s my main skill.”
Rose looked at the doctor. “Sadly, it is.”
He put a hand over his heart. “Wounded.”
Dr. Hall laughed softly, then grew gentle again. “You both seem like you’re trying to protect each other. That’s good. Just make sure you also talk honestly. Fertility testing can bring up fear, shame, resentment, guilt, and grief even before we know anything. Don’t let silence carry all of that.”
Rose’s eyes shifted to Eli.
He nodded once.
They would talk.
Even when it hurt.
Especially then.
The doctor explained the next steps, which tests would be done that day, what would be scheduled, and when results might come in. She did not rush them. She let Rose ask questions. She answered Eli’s too, including the ones he tried to make sound casual.
No, the semen analysis was not a judgment of his manhood.
Yes, nervousness was common.
No, one unusual result did not always mean disaster.
Yes, the lab understood that providing a sample in a clinical office was awkward.
That last one did not make Eli feel better.
Eventually, Dr. Hall stood. “A nurse will take Rose to start blood work and collection. Eli, another nurse will take you to a private room for your sample. Once we have everything, we’ll schedule the follow-up and go from there.”
Rose stood slowly.
Eli stood with her and kissed her forehead before the nurse even entered.
Rose closed her eyes for one second. “I love you.”
“I love you more.”
“This is not the place to start that argument.”
“I can win anywhere.”
She smiled, but her fingers clung to his for an extra breath.
Then the nurse arrived and Rose was guided down one hallway while Eli was taken down another.
That was when his humor abandoned him.
The nurse who led him to the collection room was kind and professional, which somehow made everything worse. She gave him instructions in a calm voice, handed him a labeled sterile container, confirmed the process, and pointed out a call button in case he had questions.
He prayed with great sincerity that he would not have questions.
“This room locks from the inside,” she said. “Take your time. When you’re done, place the sample in the pass-through cabinet here and press the button. Someone from the lab will collect it.”
“Great,” Eli said.
His voice sounded like it belonged to a man being sent into battle with a paper cup.
The nurse gave him a sympathetic smile. “It feels strange for most people. You’re not alone.”
“That’s comforting and horrifying.”
She laughed softly. “Take your time.”
Then she left.
The door clicked shut.
Eli locked it.
He turned and looked around.
There was a chair. A small sink. A shelf with magazines. A screen on the wall. A few buttons on a remote control. Everything was clean, discreet, and somehow aggressively awkward.
“Well,” he muttered, “this is romantic.”
He set the container down, then picked it back up because setting it down made him nervous for reasons he did not care to examine.
He tried not to think about the fact that somewhere in the building, his wife was having blood drawn and answering questions about her body while he was standing in a private room, expected to perform on schedule.
His body, which had never had much trouble being enthusiastic around Rose, took one look at the clinical lighting and decided it had joined a monastery.
Eli stared at the magazines.
No.
Absolutely not.
He picked one up, flipped it open, grimaced, and closed it again.
“Nope.”
He looked at the screen.
The remote sat nearby.
He picked it up.
Put it down.
Picked it up again.
“Lord, forgive me for whatever this is.”
He pressed a button.
The screen came to life.
Five seconds later, he turned it off.
“Nope again.”
He sat in the chair and rubbed both hands over his face.
This should not have been difficult. He was a grown man. A married man. A man who had written songs about desire, sung them on stage, taken his wife home afterward, and made good on every lyric he had any business singing.
But this room?
This sterile, quiet, politely equipped room?
Nothing.
His mind kept drifting to Rose sitting in another room with fear in her eyes, trying to be brave.
Rose blaming herself. Rose saying she felt like she was failing him.
Rose with her laugh, her temper, her stubborn chin, her beautiful voice, her soft hands, her body curled against his at night like she had finally stopped running from the world.
Eli closed his eyes.
Not the magazines.
Not the screen.
Her.
Rose in his kitchen the night he came home and found her there, smiling like she had been waiting for him all her life.
Rose on stage, head tipped back, voice wrapping around his guitar until he forgot where the song ended and she began.
Rose in bed beside him, hair wild against the pillow, whispering his name in a voice that belonged only to him.
Rose laughing when he said something ridiculous.
Rose crying over a test and trying to hide it.
Rose choosing him again and again, even when fear told her to guard herself.
His chest softened first.
Then the rest of him remembered.
Not the room.
Not the pressure.
Rose.
His wife.
The woman he loved.
The woman he wanted whether they made a baby or not.
The woman who had already made him a family by loving him.
A few minutes later, he placed the sealed container in the pass-through cabinet, pressed the button like he had been instructed, washed his hands, and leaned over the sink with a deep breath.
“Well,” he said to his reflection, “that was the least sexy successful experience of your life.”
He almost laughed.
Almost.
Then he unlocked the door.
A nurse met him in the hall and told him Rose was nearly finished. Eli followed her back toward a small waiting area, where he sat with his elbows on his knees and tried not to think too hard.
The whole thing felt strangely vulnerable.
Not funny now.
Not really.
His body had become part of the question. His numbers, his health, his ability to help create the child Rose wanted so much she was terrified to hope too loudly.
He had told her this was not blame.
He meant it.
But meaning it did not keep fear from pacing around inside him.
A few minutes later, Rose appeared at the end of the hall with a small bandage on her arm and a tired smile on her face.
Eli stood immediately.
She walked straight into him.
He wrapped both arms around her.
“Done?” he asked.
“For today.”
“Good.”
She pulled back just enough to look up at him. “You okay?”
He gave her a crooked smile. “I have had better afternoons.”
Her eyes softened with understanding and a hint of humor. “Poor baby.”
“I suffered.”
“I’m sure you did.”
“There were magazines.”
She pressed her lips together.
“And videos,” he added.
Her shoulders started shaking.
“Do not laugh at my trauma, woman.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m being supportive.”
“You’re vibrating.”
That broke her.
She laughed into his chest, and Eli held her tighter, grateful for the sound even if it came at his expense.
When she finally looked up, her eyes were damp but brighter.
He brushed his thumb along her cheek. “Whatever they find, we handle it together.”
Her smile faded into something tender. “Together.”
“Always.”
She nodded.
He kissed her once, soft and public and completely decent, because fertility clinics probably had rules about people getting too enthusiastic near the front desk.
Then he took her hand.
They scheduled the follow-up, thanked Dr. Hall’s staff, and walked out into the parking lot side by side.
The world outside looked annoyingly normal.
Cars moving. Sun shining. People going about their day as if Eli and Rose had not just handed pieces of their hope to a laboratory and been told to wait.
At the truck, Rose stopped before getting in.
“Eli?”
“Yeah?”
“If it’s me…”
He turned fully toward her. “Don’t.”
“But if it is?”
“Then it’s us.”
Her lips parted.
He stepped closer. “If it’s you, it’s us. If it’s me, it’s us. If it’s both, it’s us. If it’s neither and they shrug and tell us bodies are mysterious, it’s still us.”
Tears filled her eyes.
“I’m scared,” she whispered.
“I know.”
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
She gave a shaky breath. “Thank God.”
He smiled faintly. “That I’m scared?”
“That I’m not alone in it.”
Eli pulled her into his arms again, right there beside the truck.
“You are never alone in it,” he said against her hair. “Not for one second.”
Rose held on to him.
And for a little while, in the middle of all their questions, they stood together with no answers at all.
But together was enough to get them to the next step.