Chapter 24
UNEXPECTED NEWS
SIMONE
The walls are the color of old yogurt—thin, slightly yellow, vaguely biological.
Even the abstract art on the gynecologist’s wall is designed to calm you: big, safe shapes in muted blues and greens, like a children’s playroom for people with premium health insurance.
I sit on the paper-covered table, which crackles and sticks to the backs of my thighs when I shift my weight.
My hands are restless—nails digging into the soft foam of the seat, or drumming arrhythmic code on the crisp paper runner.
There’s a stack of ancient People magazines on the counter, as if reading about the latest celebrity divorce will soften whatever is about to happen in here.
It’s supposed to be routine. Just a check-up, post-surgery.
See if the plumbing is clear, make sure the uterus hasn’t collapsed into a black hole or fused with my small intestine.
Standard stuff for girls who spent their teens being told by every sex-ed teacher and well-meaning foster mom that pregnancy would be a statistical inevitability, followed by the same teachers and foster moms telling me, with matching sorrow, that I’d probably never have a baby at all.
The nurse is new, maybe a recent undergrad herself.
She asks if I’m comfortable, which is hilarious, then offers me a latex-gloved hand to help onto the scale.
I’m a half-pound heavier than last time, but I can’t tell if it’s scar tissue or residual stress eating.
She smiles anyway, as if to congratulate my cells for trying.
She leaves me alone with the wall charts: cross-sections of ovaries, fallopian tubes, a diagram of a fetus at six weeks that looks more alien than mammal.
My phone buzzes in my jeans, folded on the chair in the corner.
I left it there on purpose—no doomscrolling, no distractions.
But I’m already feeling the itch. I wonder if Liam is thinking of me now.
He’s teaching summer session and probably mid-rant about Marianne Moore or the devastating sexual ambiguity of Robert Lowell.
I think about our last night together, his hands tracing the scar on my stomach, the way he whispered that he loved all of me, even the parts that didn’t work right.
I don’t believe in fairy tales, but sometimes I want to.
The clock on the wall ticks too loud, each minute a warning.
When the doctor finally comes in, she’s trailed by a med student who can’t be more than twenty-five.
The doctor is the same one who took out my fibroids, her hair wrapped in a severe bun, her mouth shaped like it’s about to scold someone for eating gluten.
She’s got a tablet in one hand and my chart in the other, and her first question is, “How have you been feeling, Simone?”
I want to say, “Like a puzzle with half the pieces jammed in the wrong places,” but I settle for, “Pretty good, considering.”
She nods and starts in on the usual: bleeding, pain, night sweats, cramps, headaches.
All the things that might mean my insides are staging a mutiny.
I answer, mostly monosyllabic, because it’s hard to admit you’re afraid everything could go sideways again, even when you’re sitting in a room built to catch that kind of fallout.
Then she glances up from the chart, and there’s a new shape to her mouth—less professional, more tentative.
“We got your bloodwork back,” she says, “and there’s something I want to discuss with you before we get to the exam.”
I brace myself. Cancer? Polycystic? Some rare, Instagrammable auto-immune?
She says, “You’re pregnant, Simone.”
The word doesn’t land, not really. It just hovers in the air, a dense little neutron star, warping gravity in its wake.
I blink. “That’s not possible,” I hear myself say, voice two octaves too high. “You said the odds were—”
“Very low,” the doctor finishes, “but not zero. And sometimes, with younger patients, we see a strong rebound in fertility after myomectomy.” She glances at the med student, who nods, like I’m a case study from the world’s most interesting textbook.
I look down at my hands, which are squeezing each other like a lifeline. I feel a bizarre pressure in my chest, not panic, not even fear. Just unreality. A line in a script that isn’t mine.
“How far along?” I ask, eyes fixed on a knot in the floor tile.
“Five, maybe six weeks,” the doctor says. “Very early. We can do a confirmation ultrasound if you want.”
My head swims. I try to do the math, but my brain is a balloon, untethered. Liam. It finally happened. We knew it could, but never let ourselves really believe. But now it’s true! I feel sick, but also incredibly elated too, like I broke some rule and got away with it.
My hand moves to my stomach, almost involuntary. There’s nothing there, not yet, but suddenly I can feel the exact spot, like a splinter under skin.
The doctor is talking, her words soft and careful, but I only hear every third one: “options… health… support… up to you.” She hands me a tissue, and I realize I’m crying, silent and stunned.
I want to ask, What does this mean? But I already know. It means everything is going to change. It means I have to call Liam, and tell him he’s going to be a dad, and then we have a lot of decisions.
The doctor puts a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay?” she asks.
I nod, but it’s a lie. I stunned, over the moon, and elated. I want to sit in this ugly, too-bright room and just let it all sink in.
I gather my clothes, stumble into them, barely noticing the nurse’s careful smile as I leave.
The world outside is blinding—June sun on concrete, birds that sound too loud and too alive.
I walk out of the clinic and into the city, my body moving on autopilot, my mind somewhere three feet above my own head.
I don’t call Liam. I don’t call Andie. I just walk, step after step, until my legs hurt and my heart slows to something like normal.
A pregnant pause, in every sense of the word.
The shock sits in my ribcage like a loaded gun. I know I can’t leave it there forever. But for now, I just let the weight of it settle, as heavy and as real as the sun on my bare arms.
I keep walking, unsure if I’m running away or towards, and for once, I don’t try to figure it out.
Andie’s is waiting for me at the corner table, her hair braided and looped into some kind of Viking crown that only she could make look accidental.
The rest of her is pure Andie: threadbare tee, rainbow shorts, Birkenstocks that have seen so much life they should be entered into evidence.
She’s already halfway through an iced coffee the color of wet cement, and the condensation has formed a lake around the base of the glass.
When she sees me, she lifts both arms, jazz-hands style, and hollers, “Queen McCall! Over here!”
It’s a miracle I don’t collapse on the spot. I weave through the crowd and drop into the seat across from her, the motion jostling the table enough to send her phone skittering towards the sugar caddy. She grins and grabs it, tucking the phone into her lap.
“Simone, your aura is a mess. What gives?”
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. I close it, then open again, like a defective Muppet.
She leans in, her tone dropping to mock serious. “Are you dying?”
I want to say no, but that might actually be easier. I look around the café—no one’s paying attention. I lower my voice anyway. “I’m pregnant,” I whisper, like the word itself might trigger an alarm.
Andie doesn’t react right away. Her eyes go wide, then wider, then impossibly round. She glances at my stomach as if expecting to see the world’s fastest baby bump. Then she snorts and covers her mouth with her hand, stifling a laugh that bursts out anyway.
“No you’re not,” she says, still grinning.
I nod. “It’s real. Just found out this morning.”
She screams. Not a horror-movie shriek, but a full-throated, joyful whoop that bounces off the exposed brick and turns a dozen heads.
I shrivel into my seat, but she’s not embarrassed; she’s vibrating with delight.
She stands, rounds the table, and nearly tackles me in a hug, pinning my arms to my sides.
Her hair smells like coconut and chlorine.
“Oh my god, this is huge,” she says in my ear, squeezing tight. “Are you happy? Are you scared? Are you going to keep it?”
She says it all in one breath, then releases me, hovering inches away with that laser-focus only best friends can muster.
I try to process the questions. “Yes, I’m going to keep it,” I admit. “But I think I’m still in shock.”
Andie plants her hands on my cheeks and looks me dead in the eyes. “It’s okay to be all of the above. I’m here for you no matter what.” Her voice is low, serious, and suddenly I feel the tears threatening again.
I blink hard, fighting them off. “I was going to wait to tell you, but—”
“Fuck that,” Andie says. “You tell your best friend everything, even if it’s ugly or weird or you’re still working out how you feel. That’s the rule.”
I nod, and the knot in my throat loosens a little. I take a sip of her coffee, just to do something with my hands. It tastes like battery acid and bad decisions.
Andie slides back into her chair, curls her legs under her, and fixes me with her therapist face. “Okay. When did this happen? Like, how pregnant are you?”
“Maybe five weeks,” I say. “Could be six, tops. It’s early.”
She beams. “You know who the dad is, right?” She says it with a wry, pointed look.
My face must say it all, because she hoots with laughter. “Shit, Sim, you and Professor Hottie McHotts must have had some fun at the cabin, huh?”
I bury my face in my hands. “Don’t call him that.”
“Why not? He’s objectively hot. And also, he’s your boyfriend, and not your professor anymore. This is like a modern day fairy tale.”
She bounces in her seat, genuinely excited. “Wait, does he know yet? Are you gonna tell him?”