Chapter 5
five
. . .
Natalie
The exam room feels smaller with every passing minute, like the walls are quietly inching closer while we pretend not to notice.
I sit on the thin paper that keeps crackling under my thighs, hands clasped in my lap so I don’t fidget with them. The fluorescent light above me hums in a way that makes my already-frayed nerves feel like exposed wires.
This is ridiculous. I’m fine. I stood up too fast. I probably need a sandwich and a nap, not a full medical workup. My dad and Jake are being dramatic, which would be sweet if it wasn’t also mildly suffocating.
Across from me, Jake is leaning against the wall, one ankle crossed over the other, scrolling through his phone.
He looks casual and relaxed. Or at least putting on a very convincing performance.
His still looks annoyingly perfect, even after the walk over here.
His top button is undone and every time he tips his head back to stretch his neck, I can see the long, clean line of his throat.
I remember exactly how that neck feels under my lips. How he sounded when I kissed him there. How his pulse jumped against my mouth.
Stop it.
But there’s something about having him here that makes the room feel less clinical. Less scary. Like as long as he’s standing there, solid and steady and present, nothing too terrible can happen. It’s infuriating how much I don’t hate it.
I drag my gaze away from him and fix it on the poster beside the door. A rainbow gradient background and big, blocky letters: YOUR HEALTH IS YOUR WEALTH. There’s a smiling cartoon heart in the corner, like it personally endorses preventive care.
Across from me, temptation in a suit clears his throat.
“You okay?” Jake asks.
I tear my eyes away from the poster and back to him. His phone is still in his hand, but he’s not looking at it. He’s looking at me. Really looking at me. Eyes soft, forehead slightly creased, like he’s trying to gauge if I’m about to keel over.
“Yeah,” I say. “Just ready to get out of here.”
“I know.” He glances at his screen again. “Won’t be much longer.”
He scrolls, thumb moving in lazy strokes, then pauses. “Says here dizziness can be caused by low blood sugar, dehydration, stress…” His gaze lifts to mine. “Have you been drinking enough water?”
I make a face. “I don’t know. Probably not.”
“That might be it. Combined with not eating enough and the stress of the contract signing.”
The fact that he’s googling my symptoms is annoyingly sweet. “You don’t have to stay, you know,” I tell him. “I’m fine to wait by myself.”
“I know I don’t have to.” He slips his phone into his pocket and gives me his full attention. “I want to.”
Something in my chest does a small, traitorous flip.
My brain immediately hyper-focuses on every detail.
The watch on his wrist—expensive but understated, the kind chosen by a man who knows how much it costs and doesn’t need anyone else to.
The way his fingers tap absently against his thigh when he’s thinking.
Those hands. Strong, capable, steady. I remember those hands on my skin, in my hair, on my hips, holding me down and holding me together and—
The door opens, mercifully cutting off that mental highlight reel.
Dr. Patel steps in with her tablet, smiling. “Okay, good news,” she says. “Blood work looks normal. Your blood sugar’s a little on the lower end, which explains the dizziness. You’ll want to eat more regularly, but that should happen naturally.”
“Naturally?” I repeat.
“Well, yes.” She glances at the tablet again. “Since you’re pregnant, I’m surprised your appetite hasn’t increased already. Most women start eating more as they head into the second trimester.”
The world stops. Everything inside me goes still. Like someone took my entire reality and just hit pause.
“I’m…what?” The words scrape out of my throat, barely there.
Dr. Patel’s smile falters just a fraction. “Pregnant,” she repeats gently.
“Pregnant?” I echo automatically—except the voice that says it isn’t mine. It’s Jake’s. He sounds like he’s been shoved off a cliff and is still waiting to hit the ground. The voice in my head, however, is screaming What the actual fuck on a loop.
Dr. Patel looks between us, then back at her tablet. “Based on your HCG levels, I’d say you’re around twelve weeks,” she continues. “You’re headed into your second trimester.”
Twelve weeks.
My brain is spinning, cataloging, trying to make sense of this. Pregnant. Twelve weeks. How did I not know?
My weight hasn’t changed. My stomach is still flat. There’s no bump. No obvious sign. I teach yoga three times a week. I would have noticed.
Morning sickness? I’ve been nauseous, sure, but I chalked that up to stress and nerves about the deal.
And my period. Oh God, my period. When was the last time I had one?
I try to remember, scrolling back through my mental calendar.
There was that light bleeding in August. I thought it was my period.
It was short, barely there, but I didn’t question it because my cycle has never been reliable.
I’ve been so busy. Pitching. Rewriting. Meeting with Victoria. Celebrating the FlixPix deal. I didn’t even notice I’d missed it. Didn’t think twice about it. How did I not see this?
“That’s not possible,” I say. It comes out flat. Distant. Like someone else is speaking from somewhere very far away.
“I know it can be a shock,” Dr. Patel says. “But the test is very accurate.” She taps something on her screen. “Twelve weeks would put conception around…early July?
The words land like a freight train. Fireworks. Jake’s bed. My dress on his floor. His shirt on my body. The condom wrapper in his hand. I turn to look at him.
Jake is staring at me like he’s watching his entire life get rewritten in real time.
Shock, yes. But underneath that, there’s something else cracking through his expression.
Something fierce and bright and completely unguarded that looks a hell of a lot like hope. And fear. And maybe a little wonder.
I don’t have room for any of that. My emotional capacity is currently maxed out.
“I’ll give you two some privacy,” Dr. Patel says softly.
“Take all the time you need. The front desk can give you a referral to an OB-GYN if you need one.” She sets a pamphlet on the counter—Your First Trimester: What to Expect—complete with a cartoon stork that looks way too cheerful for the moment. Then she slips out of the room.
The silence that follows is deafening. Like being locked in a soundproof booth with only your own heartbeat and every bad decision you’ve ever made.
I stare at the pamphlet. At the pastel colors and the friendly font and the little list of bullet points I refuse to read. This cannot be my life.
“Natalie,” Jake says quietly.
I can’t look at him. I can’t. If I look at him, this becomes real in a way I’m not ready for. I fix my eyes on the wall instead. That stupid heart poster with that sage advice. Whoever wrote that has clearly never had their entire future ambushed in an exam room on a random morning.
“It’s mine,” Jake says.
It’s not a question. It lands in the air between us with heavy certainty. I force myself to turn my head. To meet his eyes. He’s closer now, only a few feet away. He slides his hands in his pockets like he’s physically restraining himself from reaching out. His jaw is tight. His eyes are steady.
“I don’t want to assume anything,” he says, voice careful, measured. “But—”
“It’s yours.” I cut him off, because if I don’t say it now, it’s going to choke me. “There hasn’t been anyone else. Not since you.” I swallow hard. “Not for a while before that, either.”
Something in his face loosens. Just a fraction. His shoulders drop half an inch. That flicker of relief is so obvious I almost want to punch him and hug him at the same time.
“Okay,” he says.
“Okay?” I repeat, half hysterical laugh, half challenge. “That’s it? Just…okay?”
I stare at him, waiting for the rest. Waiting for anger or panic or some sort of Why didn’t you call me? or anything that matches the chaos ricocheting inside my skull.
But he just stands there, looking at me like I’m something precious he’s afraid to touch too quickly. Like if he moves wrong, I might bolt. Which is a great idea.
“I need to get out of here,” I say suddenly. The room tilts when I stand, a slow, unpleasant roll. Jake is beside me in a heartbeat, his hand firm on my elbow.
“Easy,” he says. “Just breathe.”
“I’m fine.”
“I know. But let’s take it slow anyway.”
He keeps his hand on my arm, steadying but not controlling, guiding me out of the exam room and down the hall. The fluorescent lights, the harsh disinfectant smell, the shuffle of nurses—it all blurs at the edges, like someone smeared my life with their thumb.
We pass the front desk, where the receptionist is already pulling some printout off the printer for me. Something about referrals. I nod like I’m absorbing information when really my brain is just repeating pregnant like a skipping record.
Outside, the air hits my face—warm, bright, too clear. The sky is aggressively blue. People are walking dogs, juggling coffee cups, living their lives like the ground hasn’t just shifted three feet to the left.
“I can’t be pregnant,” I say, tipping my head back to stare at the sky, talking to the clouds or the universe or whoever decided now was a good time for chaos.
“I just sold my show. This is everything I’ve worked for.
I’m supposed to start in the writers’ room in December.
I’m supposed to be on set in the spring. And now—”
My voice cracks. I swallow hard, but it doesn’t fix the wobble.
“And now it’s all going to blow up,” I finish, quieter.
“Now we figure it out,” Jake says.