Samuel
The office smells faintly sweet. Something floral. Like someone plugged in an air freshener and forgot about it.
The walls are a soft, muted yellow. Framed photos of babies line the hallway outside with thank-you cards, birth announcements, and smiling newborns swaddled in pastel blankets.
Raven noticed them as soon as we walked in.
She smiled, and I told myself that was a good sign.
They drew blood yesterday to check her hCG levels. The nurse on the phone told her that sometimes home tests don’t pick them up in early pregnancy. I read that, too. False negatives happen.
And this morning, they did an ultrasound before the appointment. The tech didn’t say much, but I didn’t think anything of it. They’re not allowed to.
So now, we’re sitting in two cushioned chairs across from the doctor’s desk. Diplomas on the wall. A bookshelf. A ceramic mother-and-baby figurine near the window.
This is a place where people get good news. That’s what I keep telling myself.
Raven sits beside me, fingers woven together in her lap. Calm. Expectant. She still believes something is happening.
Honestly? So do I.
There’s a soft knock on the door. A second later, the doctor steps in with a laptop under his arm and shuts the door behind him.
He smiles. Measured. “Thanks for waiting,” he says as he sits.
Raven nods. “Of course.”
He glances at the screen. “I want to go over your bloodwork and the ultrasound.”
Bloodwork. Good.
“That was for the hormone level, right?” Raven asks. “Because sometimes the home tests miss it.”
The doctor looks up. "We checked your hCG level. It isn't elevated."
"But it can take time to rise," I say. "If we miscalculated..."
Raven looks at me, and I know she's thinking the same thing.
The doctor nods once. "That can happen in a very early pregnancy. But your hCG level isn't consistent with pregnancy."
My stomach sinks. Then why are we here?
“Before we talk about the ultrasound,” he says carefully, “I want to ask a few more questions.”
He looks at Raven. "You mentioned nausea."
"Yes."
"Have you noticed any bloating?"
"A little."
"Feeling full sooner than usual?"
She nods. "Yeah."
"Any pelvic pressure or discomfort?"
"Sometimes."
He taps the screen before turning the tablet toward us. "This is your left ovary."
I lean forward, trying to make sense of the grainy black-and-white image.
He points to a dark area near the center of the screen
"It's what we call a complex adnexal mass," he says. "Unlike a simple cyst that's filled with fluid, this has areas that appear solid as well."
Raven shifts beside me, and I reach for her hand without taking my eyes off the screen.
"There's also some free fluid in your pelvis," he continues. "By itself, that doesn't always mean something serious, but taken together with this finding, I'd like it evaluated further."
I stare at the image. It still doesn't look like anything to me. Just shades of black and gray.
"Evaluated how?"
"I'd like you to see a gynecologic oncologist."
Raven turns toward him. "An oncologist?"
"They specialize in ovarian masses like this," he explains. "Many of the patients they see do not have cancer. They're simply the physicians best equipped to determine exactly what this is and decide if it needs to be removed."
I let out a slow breath. "So it's a mass, but you don't know what kind."
"That’s right,” he says. "We'll need more information before we can answer that."
"What happens now?" I ask.
"I'll put in the referral today. They'll likely want additional imaging and a few more blood tests before deciding on the next step. I'd like you seen as soon as possible."
Raven’s quiet for a long moment.
"But I felt pregnant," she says softly.
His expression softens. "Some ovarian masses can cause symptoms that overlap with early pregnancy," he says. "Nausea. Bloating. Feeling full sooner than usual. Even changes in the abdomen."
The room feels smaller now.
Not because he's raised his voice.
Because he hasn't.
The hallway outside the office feels too bright. Too normal. A nurse at the front desk is laughing with someone on the phone. A woman flips through a pregnancy magazine near the window.
Raven walks beside me as if nothing has changed. Like we didn’t just step into a different version of our lives.
The floral scent follows us out.
I hate it.
We don’t speak in the parking lot. I reach for her hand automatically, but she doesn’t look at me.
“Let’s ride,” she says.
It’s not a suggestion.
It’s a need.
“We should go home,” I start.
“Sam.” She finally looks at me.
There’s something in her eyes I’ve never seen before.
Not fear or panic. Urgency.
“Please.”
That word does it. I don’t argue again.
She climbs onto the back of the bike and wraps her arms around my waist tighter than usual.
I start the engine, the vibration running through us both.
Usually, she shifts, adjusts, and settles in. Today she just holds on.
We pull out of the parking lot, but I don’t go toward home. I don’t know where I’m going. Just away.
The road opens in front of us. Raven doesn’t move. Her fingers are locked into my jacket. Halfway down the stretch past the ridge, I feel it.
The tremor.
At first, I think it’s the road.
But it’s not. It’s her.
Her body shakes once. Then again. She doesn’t make a sound.
Not a sob.
Not a breath.
She just presses herself harder into my back. And I feel the wet warmth through my shirt where her face rests.
I tighten my grip on the handlebars and force myself to focus on the road. It's the only thing I can control right now. The next curve comes, and I lean into it. Raven follows without thinking, her arms tightening around my waist as another quiet sob shudders through her.
I wish I could carry this for her.
Instead, all I can do is get us home.