Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Vesper
A woman walks in like she’s stepped out of a different universe—mid-thirties, blonde hair twisted into a neat bun, long coat, medical bag slung over her shoulder with the confidence of someone who’s delivered bad news with a smile and a professional, “I’m sorry, but this is my bill.”
Her eyes sweep the room: the glass-and-steel perfection, the river glinting beyond it, the tension so loud it might as well have its own lighting.
Then she looks at me—at my sweatpants, my hollow laugh, my “I’m totally fine” face—and finally at the two NHL-sized problems hovering like bodyguards who forgot the part where bodyguards don’t argue.
“Hi,” she says, calm and smooth. “Vesper Lafontaine?”
“That’s me,” I say. “Welcome to . . . whatever this is.”
Her mouth ticks up, quick, restrained—like she has a sense of humor but bills by the minute. “I’m Dr. Nadia Ruiz. Concierge family medicine and urgent care. I got a summary, but I’d like to hear it from you.”
Cally moves first, because of course he does. “She’s been—”
“She can speak for herself,” Monty cuts in.
I shoot them both a look that should come with a referee whistle.
Dr. Ruiz’s gaze flicks between them, assessing. Not impressed. Not intimidated. Just . . . concerned that my entourage is nosy as fuck. “Do you want them in the room?”
“I want them in the apartment,” I say. “I do not want them within hearing range.”
Monty’s jaw works like he hates every syllable, but he nods once and heads for the sliding doors that lead to the terrace.
Cally lifts both hands like he’s surrendering to the Geneva Convention. “Fine. Balcony. Not listening. Totally normal.”
“Great,” I tell him. “Go be normal. Also, do not kill each other.”
His grin is bright and smug and affectionate in a way that should make me feel safe and instead makes me feel .
. . vulnerable. Like he thinks he gets to be the one who keeps me together.
Also with that smirk that says, “I might push him off, but that’s a risk you’re taking for sending us outside, sweetheart. ”
Once both are outside, Dr. Ruiz gestures toward the kitchen island. “We can sit there.”
I walk over and perch on a stool. She sets her bag down, snaps open her tablet, sanitizes her hands with the efficiency of someone who doesn’t get rattled by famous overbearing athletes.
“Tell me what’s going on,” she says.
I drag in a breath and decide to start with the version that makes me sound like a functioning adult.
“Okay. I’m a journalist. I travel constantly.
I haven’t slept. My dad fainted. My family’s camp is under county inspection and might be shut down right before summer.
I flew from Finland to New York, then to Portland.
I threw up on the side of the road this morning.
And twice after that. So, you know. Very glamorous. Very, ‘I have my life together.’”
“Any fever?”
“No.”
“Diarrhea?”
I blink. “No.”
“Headache?”
“Only when people tell me to rest—” I stop myself, recalibrate. “I mean . . . occasionally.”
“How often?”
“They linger,” I say, trying to keep it casual. “A little pulse-y. Nothing a couple pain relievers can’t handle.”
Dr. Ruiz doesn’t buy my casual. Not even a little.
“Chest pain? Shortness of breath?”
“No.”
“Abdominal pain?”
“Just nausea,” I say. “Like my stomach is holding a grudge against me. Probably for not eating more than once a day.”
She nods, typing. “How long has the nausea been going on?”
I open my mouth with the intention of lying and then realize she will absolutely smell it on me. “A couple of weeks.”
Her fingers pause. “And vomiting?”
“It started today,” I admit. “But I’ve had the feeling longer.”
“Any new medications?”
“No.”
“Supplements?”
“Caffeine,” I say, deadpan.
Her eyes lift. “I’m serious.”
I exhale. “No meds. No supplements. Nothing new.”
She watches me a beat longer, like she’s building a map of my avoidance. “Any chance you could be pregnant?”
My brain doesn’t just pause. It shuts off, like someone killed the power mid-sentence.
Pregnant.
The word “pregnant” lands, and suddenly the room isn’t Monty’s apartment anymore.
It’s my past. It’s my mother’s face before she disappeared behind hospital doors.
It’s my dad trying to be strong while the world changed anyway.
It’s me at eighteen thinking that I could choose my destiny just to find out that it’s impossible.
Happiness isn’t guaranteed and life is always a clusterfuck that you can’t change.
“No,” I say too fast. “No. I mean—probably not.”
“When was your last period?”
My mouth opens, closes, and then I tell her about the Depo shot.
The part where I missed my shot in early December and if we do the math it’s been six months since the last time I got it.
Making it not impossible, but . . . please, let it be something else.
That Nordic virus or . . . something. Dr. Ruiz looks at me and it almost seems like a whole, “Oh, you poor woman. You’re fucked, but I’m going to pretend that this isn’t the end of your world. ”
“To be clear, you’re not current with your injections?”
I stare at her tablet like if I concentrate hard enough I’ll teleport into a different storyline. “As I mentioned, I missed my dose in early December. I was in New Zealand filming. I had an appointment. I rescheduled. Then I didn’t.”
Dr. Ruiz’s face doesn’t change, but her attention tightens. “So it’s been . . .?”
I hate that I’m repeating myself. That quick explanation seemed fruitless. “Six months,” I whisper, and that number tastes like panic.
Dr. Ruiz nods slowly, like she’s walking me down a staircase I don’t want to descend. “Have you had sex in the past six months?”
I laugh—an ugly, nervous thing—because my brain is determined to make everything a joke so I don’t start crying in front of a stranger with a medical degree that might be threatening my future.
Then I catch her glance toward the terrace doors.
“Oh,” I say, because of course. “You think them and me.” My laugh goes louder, wilder. “No. We haven’t. Not since I was eighteen.”
I do not mention the way that summer night still lives in my skin. The one that taught me what it feels like to be held by more than one set of hands at once, cared for and wanted in ways that made me believe love could be big enough to hold the whole truth.
I do not mention that I’ve never stopped missing it—or loving them.
Dr. Ruiz’s expression doesn’t soften, but her voice shifts—firmer. “Ms. Lafontaine, I need you to take this seriously. I understand you’re scared and deflecting, but I need accurate answers.”
My throat gets too small for a second. I swallow it down. “Sorry. It’s just—my dad is sick. The camp is falling apart. I don’t have a project lined up. I’m waiting on approvals and budgets and people deciding if I’m useful enough to pay.”
The words come out harsher than I mean them to. Not at her. At the universe.
“I can’t be sick,” I add, quieter. “I don’t have time—or insurance for it. I pay for the bare minimum.”
“Sometimes the body forces time,” she says, gentle without being pitying. “Sometimes it throws alarms because you’ve been ignoring the early warnings. It might not be a pregnancy, but we need to figure out what’s happening.”
I stare at the countertop. At my hands. At the faint tremor in my fingers that I’ve been pretending is caffeine and not fear.
“End of January,” I admit. “Finland. We used a condom.”
“Who provided it?”
“Him.” I don’t say a name. I don’t have to. “From his wallet.”
Dr. Ruiz nods once. “Wallet storage isn’t ideal. Heat, friction, time. It can compromise it.”
“That’s not reassuring,” I say, because I would like to go back to believing this is a bug. A virus. Something that requires antibiotics and two days in bed, and then I get my life back.
Dr. Ruiz sets her tablet down. “Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. Vitals. A quick exam. And a urine pregnancy test today.”
My stomach rolls, sour and fast, and my mouth waters in the least romantic way possible.
“Cool,” I say. “Love that for me.”
Dr. Ruiz studies my face again.
“Do you feel safe?” she asks.
The question snaps something taut inside me.
I hear Cally’s muffled voice outside, a low murmur—trying to be quiet. I hear Monty’s deeper tone, clipped and controlled, like he’s giving a warning without raising his volume.
Safe?
I look at Dr. Ruiz, and my mouth curves into a smile because sarcasm is my reflex, my armor, my best trick.
“Define safe?” I ask.
And the thing is, I don’t even know if I mean physically. Because emotionally?
With those two?
Safe has never been the point.
Safe has never been what they do to me.
They make me feel held. Wanted. Seen. And terrified, because I know exactly what it costs to want them back.
“I have support, if that’s what you mean.” I glance again at those two who, surprisingly, aren’t fighting. “Emotional, physical, but . . . a baby would mean a life change and I can’t afford that.”
There’s no point in mentioning that the father was a stranger.
We didn’t exchange names . . . or phones.
Nothing. It was a bar at the hotel and a quickie in his bedroom.
What am I supposed to tell a little one?
I was sad, and it felt like a good idea.
Sorry for not exchanging information. All you get is me.
What would I tell a baby?
Please, let it be something else. Not a pregnancy.
“I understand,” she says calmly. “Let’s check your blood pressure.”
She moves through the routine with practiced efficiency: cuff on my arm, thermometer, pulse ox, quick questions about appetite, hydration, dizziness.
My blood pressure is a little low. It’s probably because my body is basically a cautionary tale right now.
“Have you been able to keep fluids down today?” she asks.
“Water,” I say. “And . . . not much.”
Dr. Ruiz pulls a small cup and sealed test strip from her bag. “Okay. Bathroom. You can give me a urine sample.”