Chapter 16 #2
I slide off the stool, legs slightly shaky, and head back to the bathroom like I’m walking into my impending doom.
I disappear into the bathroom and close the door.
The urine sample feels like the most absurd thing in the world. Like my entire life is on fire and I’m standing here peeing into a cup in a luxury bathroom that doesn’t feel like it belongs to me.
I hand the sample to Dr. Ruiz like it’s a bomb, and surprise, surprise, Monty and Cally are staring through the glass doors like sad puppies.
Dr. Ruiz does her whole efficient, competent thing—gloves, strip, timer set like my life isn’t currently hanging off a piece of plastic.
Cally and Monty step in from the terrace like they’ve been waiting for permission to breathe near me again. The sliding door clicks shut behind them and the apartment feels smaller, like all that steel and glass were built for pretty views, and not for three people trying not to fall apart.
“Three minutes,” she says.
Three minutes.
It feels like nothing, an eternity. Three hours at least.
Cally plants his hands on his hips, posture rigid, eyes fixed on me like if he stares hard enough he can bully reality into behaving. He looks ready to buy a hospital and possibly the concept of time.
Monty crosses his arms, gaze angled past my shoulder like he’s forcing himself not to study my face too closely. Like looking at me too directly will make it harder to keep control.
I stare at the marble island.
I count the veins in it like they’re constellations that might tell me what happens next. Dr. Ruiz’s timer goes off. The passing of the seconds is excruciating, probably exhausting, and I can’t breathe as I wait.
The seconds crawl.
My ears catch everything: Cally’s breath going too fast when he thinks I’m not paying attention, the faint rub of Monty’s thumb against his own arm, the click of Dr. Ruiz’s pen, the hum of the refrigerator like it has no idea it’s hosting a crisis.
The timer beeps. It’s a tiny sound that should be harmless.
It isn’t.
Dr. Ruiz picks up the strip and looks at it. Her expression doesn’t shift much. It’s all professional. Contained.
Yet, my heart drops anyway. Anything that she says is going to be life changing. From I think you have to go to the hospital because this might be serious to . . . Congratulations, the next eighteen years of your life are going to be a clusterfuck. Good luck.
“It’s positive,” she says.
My mind blanks like someone yanked the plug.
“Positive?” The word comes out thin, confused, like I don’t speak English anymore.
Cally makes a sound that might be a prayer or a curse. He’s at my side instantly—too fast, too close—his hand landing on my forearm like he’s afraid I’ll vanish. His fingers curl, warm and shaking just enough to tell the truth he’s trying to hide.
Monty doesn’t rush. He closes in with quiet certainty, sliding behind me, one arm wrapping around my middle like a seatbelt. His palm spreads over my stomach like his body has already decided it’s going to protect whatever is happening inside me, whether my brain agrees or not.
I hate how safe it feels.
I hate it because safety with them always comes with consequences.
Dr. Ruiz keeps talking, like she’s guiding us through a storm with a flashlight. “This doesn’t tell us exactly how far along you are. Based on what you told me, it could be roughly six to nine weeks.”
Six to nine weeks.
My mouth opens. Closes.
Cally’s thumb strokes along my arm, as if he’s trying to keep me here.
Dr. Ruiz continues. “Next step is bloodwork tomorrow to confirm your hCG and establish a baseline. Then we’ll refer you to an OB and schedule an ultrasound soon to confirm dates and location.”
Location—like . . . my uterus?
“Location,” I repeat, stupidly.
She nods, reading my face like she’s had this conversation with a hundred women who suddenly feel like the floor is no longer trustworthy. “We need to confirm it’s intrauterine. Most pregnancies are. But with uncertain dates and vomiting, we don’t guess. We check.”
My breath comes out too small.
“I’m going to give you a list of warning signs,” she continues, not understanding that she’s just flipped my entire life.
“If you have severe abdominal pain, one-sided pain, shoulder pain, heavy bleeding, dizziness that feels like you might faint, you should go to the emergency room immediately. Don’t wait. ”
I nod like a robot.
Cally’s hand tightens on my arm like he can’t help it. Monty’s arm stays locked around my waist like he’s built a rule: Vesper doesn’t fall.
“We’ll be monitoring her,” Monty says, voice flat with intent. Then he looks at Dr. Ruiz like he’s negotiating a contract. “How do we help her keep food down? She’s barely eating.”
Dr. Ruiz glances at him, then at me. “Ginger helps some people. Small, frequent meals. Hydration. Vitamin B6 and doxylamine can help with nausea. If she can’t keep fluids down, we intervene sooner. This is not a ‘tough it out’ situation.”
“We can get a nutritionist. A chef. Whatever she needs.”
“Please don’t hire a chef for my uterus,” I manage, because if I don’t joke, I might start screaming.
Neither of them laughs.
That’s when I know I’m in trouble.
I stare at the strip on the counter.
Two lines.
A verdict.
My future.
And then—because my body has a vicious sense of timing—the nausea surges again, fast and mean. I slap a hand over my mouth and bolt for the bathroom.
Behind me, both of them move at the same time—footsteps, curses, urgency.
Dr. Ruiz’s voice cuts through the scramble, firm and controlled. “Only one of you goes with her. The other—bring water. Find a bucket. Now.”
The door swings open, and Monty’s there, instantly. He kneels behind me and gathers my hair back without a word, his other arm banding around my ribs to keep me from tipping forward.
“Breathe,” he murmurs near my ear. “I’ve got you.”
I make a broken noise that might be a laugh. “Congratulations,” I rasp between heaves. “You’re officially best friends with . . . a nightmare.”
“You’re not a nightmare,” he says, voice low, unwavering. “You’re going through something big. I want you to know that you’ll be fine. We’ll make sure of that.”
We’ll be fine sounds like a lie. A bedtime story. Something people say when they need the room to stop spinning.
This isn’t fine.
This is me cracking open in a strange luxury bathroom while the two men I love try to hold me together with their hands and their hope.
I can already see the dominoes. Me leaving. Not even sure where. Me trying to build a life around a tiny person who didn’t ask for any of this. Me pretending I can do it alone because that’s what I do—until I can’t.
I swallow back bile and dread and the hysterical laugh trying to claw its way out of me.
They’re going to tighten their grip. They’re going to call it love. They’re going to mean it.
And I’m going to want it—want them—so badly it scares me. Because wanting them has always come with consequences, and now the consequences have a heartbeat.
This should be the moment we finally grow up from whatever we were. The moment we stop pretending we can keep pulling on the same thread without unraveling everything.
My heart breaks again anyway.
Maybe this is for the best.
We all know it was never meant to be.