Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Vesper
I’ve survived airports, grief, and men who love me like I’m home. Their home. So why does one question make me feel cornered?
Monty’s question hits me hard, and the world keeps going even when my axis has shifted.
The fan hums overhead like it has no idea three lives just got pushed to the edge.
The lights keep bleaching my skin into something ghost-adjacent.
The mirror keeps reflecting me back like I’m a person who has her shit together, which is hilarious.
Then he repeats it—because Monty doesn’t do “maybe.” Monty does confirmation.
“When was your last period, Ves?”
Cally freezes so hard I swear he stops existing for a second. His hand stays near my cheek like he was mid-save and got interrupted by a disaster he can’t body-check.
I stare at Monty in the mirror.
Of course it’s him. Of course it’s the man built out of control and obsession and quiet, ugly devotion who takes my nausea and my jokes and my “it’s fine” routine and peels it down to the one question that doesn’t care how charming I am.
My mouth opens.
Nothing.
Because here’s the fun part: I don’t have an answer. Depo did what Depo does. Four years of it turned my cycle into a myth. A bedtime story. A vague memory of cramps and rage and crying at puppy commercials.
Until . . . I come to a halt because things aren’t the way they should.
Nope. I was in New Zealand in early December.
That’s when my next appointment slid off my calendar.
Then Finland crossed my path and I didn’t even fly home.
Now that I was supposed to get my affairs back in order Portland happened. Dad happened. Life is happening.
Technically, I’m three months past the window everyone pretends is flexible until it’s your body that’s the headline.
I haven’t had a shot since early December.
That should be fine, right? I mean, that there hasn’t been any period.
That’s what I tell myself as my brain drags up the last time I had sex like it’s pulling a file from a locked drawer. It was late January, in Finland.
The first time in over a year.
No one should blame me. I was lonely. I wanted to feel something.
I wanted to be touched like I mattered instead of like I was a problem to solve.
Spoiler alert: I did feel something. Empty and worthless because no matter what it’s always empty touches and yearning that fills my soul when I try to forget them.
Cally’s voice breaks the silence first, soft like he’s trying not to spook me. “Ves . . .?”
I hate how careful he is. I hate that he sounds like he’s already bleeding internally on my behalf.
Monty’s arm stays around my waist. As if he refuses to let me fold in a bathroom that costs more than my car.
“Do you have any idea?” he asks.
“I don’t get periods,” I say, aiming for breezy and landing on brittle. “Depo did me a solid and took that entire monthly disaster off my schedule.”
Cally’s eyes narrow like he’s trying to do math through panic. “Okay . . . but you’re current.”
Monty’s gaze doesn’t move. Blue-gray, direct, too awake. “You’re current,” he repeats, like he’s testing the sentence for cracks. “Right?”
My stomach rolls, sour and fast, and my mouth waters in the least romantic way possible. I would like to unsubscribe from my own biology. This is definitely not the plot twist I ordered when I said I’d like my life to be emotionally compelling.
“I . . .” My voice thins out. “I missed my last dose.”
Suddenly, the room has less oxygen.
Cally’s hand drops to the counter, fingers splayed like he needs the edge to keep his control. Monty’s arm tightens around me, not squeezing but they feel like a claim. Almost.
“Then, when,” Monty says. “When was your last shot?”
I should answer like an adult.
Instead, I do what I always do when I’m terrified. I talk faster, brighter, louder, like volume can rewrite biology.
“I’ve been traveling,” I say, too quick. “Time zones mess with everything. Stress messes with everything. My dad—”
“I’m not judging you,” Monty cuts in, and his voice does something dangerous: it softens. “I’m trying to protect you while figuring out what’s wrong with you.”
Cally makes a small sound—half laugh, half disbelief—like he’s offended Monty thinks he’s the only one allowed to care. “Welcome to the club.”
Monty doesn’t look away from me. “How late are you?”
I swallow, and it feels like my body is resisting even that basic function, like it knows the truth and it’s punishing me for making it say it.
“I’d have to check,” I whisper. “Check my phone to see my appointments.”
That’s a total lie. I know it’s been at least three months since the last shot.
Probably more. If I think about how September is almost half a year away .
. . well, I’m technically fucked. Maybe not.
Maybe it’s just an ulcer. Maybe it’s nerves.
Maybe it’s me. Because these two men are trying to figure out my health without having a medical degree.
Cally’s face shifts—wide-eyed shock to dark to wrecked in the span of a heartbeat, like he’s trying to organize a thousand emotions into one acceptable expression and failing. His gaze flicks to my stomach and back to my eyes, like he’s trying not to look there and cannot help it.
Monty’s hand spreads over my middle. It’s protective. Possessive in a way that should make me furious.
It makes me want to cry.
“No,” I say automatically, because denial is my favorite hobby and I’m very talented at it. “No. It can’t be that. It’s stress. It’s travel. It’s—Finland. I probably caught some weird Nordic germ that hates clusterfucks, timing, and probably personal growth and—”
“Ves.” Cally’s voice drops, pleading. “Baby—” He stops like the word burns him. His eyes flash with panic at what he almost called me. “Ves. Look at me.”
I don’t want to.
Because if I do, I’ll see hope.
And Cally’s hope is a wildfire. It spreads. It takes. It decides it’s entitled to everything.
Monty leans in, mouth close to my ear, and the heat of him is familiar in a way that makes my body remember summer nights and lake air and hands on skin and the three of us pretending we weren’t crossing lines until we were already over them.
“We’re getting a test,” he says. Not a suggestion. A decision. “Now.”
My laugh cracks. “In case you both forgot, I’m not a vending machine you can shake until the answer drops out.”
Cally steps closer anyway, like he’s trying to be my shelter with his whole body. “You’re not alone,” he says. “Not for this. Not for any of it.”
Something inside me gives.
Not all at once. Not neatly.
Just . . . enough that my eyes burn, and my chest feels too full, like my body is trying to hold two men and a future and a father and a failing camp all in the same fragile container.
I came here to save my dad and the camp. I did not come here to become a question mark with new problems.
Monty’s voice goes quiet. “Tell me where you keep your emergency kit.”
“My—what?”
“Your camera bag,” he says, because of course he knows me. He knows where I hide the things I don’t admit I need. “You always have everything in there. I bet there are pregnancy tests too.”
Cally’s mouth quirks, charm cracking through fear for half a second. “She does. It’s like Mary Poppins, but with trauma and electrolytes.”
I want to laugh, scream, and . . . instead, I whisper, “If this is real . . .”
Cally’s breath stutters. Monty’s arm tightens like he’s anchoring me to the present whether I like it or not.
“If it is,” Monty says, “we’ll handle it.”
“And if it’s your Nordic virus,” Cally adds, softer, like he’s trying to soothe the part of me that wants to bolt, “we’ll still handle it.”
Monty’s phone buzzes.
He releases me just enough to check it, eyes scanning the screen, jaw setting with that lone-wolf certainty like he’s already ten steps ahead and dragging us with him.
“Doctor’s here in less than ten,” he says.
Ten minutes—or less.
My stomach rolls again, like it heard the countdown and decided to audition for a third round.
I wash my hands one more time and walk out of the bathroom like nothing happened, because that’s what I do. I keep moving so nothing can catch me.
Cally’s now in the living room, phone in hand, jaw tight like he’s one second away from calling someone and purchasing an entire hospital wing out of spite. Monty stands near the kitchen, eyes tracking me like he’s reading a language I’m pretending I don’t speak.
“It’s stress,” I announce, bright as a warning sign. “Jet lag. And the universe trying to make me humble. Classic combo.”
Cally’s gaze pins me. Monty’s gaze does something worse.
It analyzes, runs statistics, and probably tries to make decisions about my life.
And when the doorbell rings, my body goes perfectly still—because suddenly the scariest part isn’t the test. It’s the possibility that the answer will give them both a reason to stop letting me run. But also, I can’t choose between them, so what’s going to happen now?