Chapter 9 #2
“I don't know if this counts as an emergency.”
He didn't close the distance yet.
“I won't hold it against you if it turns out it’s not.”
The line made me look up. His sea-glass green eyes were locked on mine.
A fresh scrape marked the bridge of his nose, and a day’s worth of stubble darkened his jaw.
For a second, I wanted to ask him about practice, about his ribs, about anything that could drag the world back into a conversation I knew how to hold.
Another cramp stole the breath right out of my throat. It wasn't theatrical. I just had to fold forward slightly and brace a hand against the truck's side panel.
Cole moved then. He laid a broad palm between my shoulder blades, resting it there without pushing.
“Come on,” he said.
The truck interior smelled of damp cedar, athletic tape, and coffee he’d drunk too early in the day. He clicked my seatbelt into place when I fumbled the buckle the first time—asking before reaching across, waiting for my nod. Then he walked around the hood and climbed into the driver’s seat.
He didn't turn on music. He didn't start the engine until my eyes closed.
“Priya’s sending the file,” I said, because something had to fill the cab.
“Good.”
“Diane thinks I should close my email.”
“Also good.”
“Don't tell me everything I say is good.”
Cole looked toward the parking exit.
“It’s not good that you won't let yourself be scared. But it’s fine for Priya and Diane to do their jobs while you go to a doctor’s appointment.”
I regretted speaking. He didn't force me to defend myself.
Seattle rolled past the windshield in streaks of slate gray: a green transit bus rumbling along the avenue, a delivery van idling outside a bakery, the steel arm of a construction crane swinging over brick facades.
Cole drove with one hand at the top of the wheel and the other near the shifter.
When a red light caught us on a steep grade, his hand dropped to his own knee, not toward mine.
“Do you want me to call anyone?” he asked.
“Priya knows.”
“I know. Anyone else?”
I thought of my mother. The way Linda could say *I’m here* and make it sound like a summons to deliver the unabridged history, including the part where my father walked out and she had to spend decades framing it.
I thought of Danny, who’d reply with too many exclamation marks and a promise to catch the first flight from Portland without asking if there was room for him inside my distress.
“No.”
“All right.”
He didn't add *for now*. I was grateful he didn't leave an open door I’d feel obligated to walk through.
On the descent toward First Hill, the cramp surged again. This time my fingers locked around the edge of the seat cushion. Cole clocked the motion and eased his foot off the gas, even though traffic was already crawling.
“I can pull over.”
“No. Keep driving.”
“Want me to talk?”
My nerves were frayed raw. I watched the raindrops the wipers gathered and swept aside.
“No.”
The light turned green. Cole drove on.
The clinic greeted us with the scent of disinfectant masquerading as lavender.
The waiting room aquarium still sat against the far wall, but the plastic castle had coated in tiny bubbles and one of the goldfish was swimming pressed flat against the glass.
I walked up to the check-in desk. Cole hung back one pace behind me, close enough that I could feel the radiating warmth of his body.
The receptionist asked us to wait. I stated my name. Signed the intake screen with handwriting that didn't look like mine. When I sat down, I pulled out my phone on reflex. Four work notifications, one from Priya, and two texts from Cole that belonged to a different life.
Cole set his phone face down on the low table between the chairs.
I laid mine down next to it. The screen lit up again immediately.
Priya: *I’m on it. You don't have to reply. Presentation is handled.*
I stared at the words until the screen went black on auto-lock.
“I don't want them looking at me like that,” I said.
Cole turned his head.
“Like how?”
I tipped my chin toward the aquarium, the reception desk, the corridor where a woman in a yellow coat was resting her hand on someone else's back.
“Like they already know what they’re going to tell me.”
Cole rested his forearms across his thighs. The skin over his knuckles showed faint white calluses and weather cracks.
“I don't know,” he said.
The answer stung more than any reassuring promise could have. I tightened my grip on the strap of my bag.
“Me neither.”
“Then I’m not going to pretend I do.”
The nurse pushed open the hallway door and called my name. Cole stood when I stood, but waited until my eyes met his.
“Come with me,” I said.
He gave a single nod.
* * *
The paper gown scraped the backs of my thighs again.
This time I didn't reach for my watch; I’d left it in my coat pocket along with the ultrasound scans.
The exam room held the same articulated monitor arm and the same framed birch print, though the black branches looked heavier than they had eleven days ago.
Cole took the chair by my shoulder. He didn't reach for my hand until I held it out. The athletic tape on his wrist was rough beneath my fingertips. I clung to that frayed edge while the sonographer explained the protocol.
I knew the procedure. Familiarity didn't make it feel any less invasive.
The cold gel, the low whir of the fan, the discomfort of having nowhere to look except the acoustic ceiling tiles.
On the monitor, the same shades of gray materialized: the sac, a minimal shape my mind recognized before anyone uttered a word.
The sonographer took two measurements. Shifted the probe angle. Shifted it again.
“Can you show me the heartbeat?” I asked.
She didn't take her eyes off the monitor.
“I’m going to have Dr. Mehta come in and review the scans with you.”
The room contracted. Cole curled his fingers around mine, slowly, checking for permission even in the grip. I returned the pressure because I had no other signal to offer.
Dr. Mehta walked in a few minutes later. A blue mask dangled from one ear, a tablet tucked under her arm. She acknowledged the sonographer, checked the screen, and took the controls to adjust a caliper line. Nobody spoke while she worked.
“Kate,” she said finally, and my name in her mouth had none of the administrative tone from the morning of the eighth. “The scans show that the pregnancy has stopped developing. I don't see any cardiac activity.”
The sentence arrived in pieces. *Pregnancy. Stopped. Don't see.*
I looked at the monitor. Waited for the rhythmic pulse Marisol had pinpointed last time. Nothing flickered.
“But there was,” I said.