Bonus Scene #2
I sit in my car outside the clinic with the engine still running, staring at the brick building like it personally offended me. The pregnancy test is in my handbag, wrapped in toilet paper like it's something shameful.
Two pink lines.
Faint.
But they're there. I almost don't want to believe it but I can't lie to myself.
I'm pregnant. I think.
My phone vibrates and I look down, vaguely seeing a message from Asher. I turn the phone away.
Turn the engine off.
If I drive away, I can pretend nothing happened.
I can pretend I'm dramatic and stupid and that it was all in my head.
But my period is late.
And my body feels... different.
But if I am pregnant - that doesn't just go away.
I walk inside before I can change my mind.
The waiting room smells like antiseptic and lavender air freshener. There's a woman across from me with a toddler climbing over her lap. A man sits beside someone visibly pregnant, his hand resting protectively on her thigh.
I stare at the floor.
I didn't tell anyone I was here. I think I'd have a heart attack if I had to tell my mum but a small part of me wishes I had someone with me.
But Ivy's been busy and I don't have anyone else I want here.
So, I don't tell anyone.
It'll be fine. Whatever it is.
I don't text Ivy.
I can't text Asher.
I won't text Leon.
I don't even let myself think his name properly.
When they call me in, I follow the nurse like I'm walking to my sentencing.
· · ·
The blood test comes first.
Then the ultrasound.
"Just routine," the sonographer says gently, like she can sense the tension radiating off me.
The room is dim. The gel is cold on my stomach. I watch the ceiling instead of the screen.
I don't want to see anything. Don't want to hope.
Or is it disappointment?
I don't know which one would be worse. I don't know how I feel.
The machine hums softly. The sonographer moves the wand slowly, methodically. She doesn't say anything for a long time.
That's when my chest tightens.
Silence is never neutral.
"Is everything okay?" I ask finally, hating how small my voice sounds.
She pauses. Presses a little firmer on one side. I flinch.
"Have you been having pain?" she asks.
"Just . . . cramps," I say. "And spotting."
She nods slowly.
"I'm going to get the doctor to come in."
My stomach drops.
The doctor doesn't look alarmed.
That almost makes it worse.
She pulls up a chair beside the bed and folds her hands together in her lap.
"Charlotte," she says gently, "your blood results show your hormone levels are dropping."
Dropping.
I swallow.
"What does that mean?"
"It looks like this was a chemical pregnancy."
The words land strangely.
Chemical.
Like it wasn't real.
"It implanted," she continues softly, "but it didn't progress."
My ears ring.
For a second, I can't tell if I'm relieved or grieving.
I wasn't trying to get pregnant.
I wasn't ready. I'm not ready.
I'm not even sure I wanted to be a mother-
But the idea that my body tried and failed anyway twists something deep inside me.
"So . . . it's gone?" I ask.
She nods. "Your body is resolving it naturally. You may bleed a little heavier than usual. Some cramping."
Naturally.
Like it's simple. Like it's not a quiet loss I didn't know I had until it was already over.
I stare at my stomach.
It looks normal.
It doesn't look like it held something for a second and then let it slip away.
The doctor hesitates.
"There's something else," she says.
My head lifts slowly.
She turns the screen slightly toward me, pointing to a grainy image I don't understand.
"Your ovarian reserve appears lower than we'd expect for someone your age."
The words don't register.
"I'm sorry?"
She keeps her tone calm. Measured.
"We ran an AMH test alongside your hormone levels. It measures egg reserve. Yours is significantly lower than average."
Significantly.
Lower.
The room feels smaller.
"What does that mean?" I whisper. I'm afraid I already know what she's saying. But maybe I'm wrong.
"It can mean a few things," she says carefully. "Sometimes it's nothing urgent. Sometimes it suggests diminished ovarian reserve. It can impact fertility."
Impact.
I feel like I'm listening to someone else's appointment.
"Are you saying I can't have kids?" The question slips out before I can stop it.
She doesn't answer immediately.
That's the answer.
"I'm saying it may be more difficult," she says finally. "We would need further investigation to know more. Possibly a laparoscopy to assess your tubes. Maybe additional imaging."
Surgery.
Investigation.
More tests.
My body suddenly feels like a broken machine.
"I'm only twenty-two," I say, and I hate how childish it sounds.
"I know," she says gently.
I nod like I understand something.
But I don't.
I don't understand how I can go from maybe pregnant to maybe infertile in the span of fifteen minutes.
I don't understand how I can feel both relief and grief at the same time.
I don't understand why my chest hurts like I lost something I never decided I wanted.
"Is this because of...?" I trail off.
She studies me carefully. "Sometimes it's genetic. Sometimes endometriosis. Sometimes previous infections. Sometimes we don't know."
We don't know.
I nod again.
I nod like I'm taking notes.
I nod like this is manageable.
Inside, something is cracking.
It's just another reminder that my body seems to fail me at every turn. Ice skating, and now this. I can't even do the one thing I'm meant to do, right.
· · ·
I sit in my car afterward with the engine off and the windows up.
The clinic door opens and closes as other women come and go.
I stare at my reflection in the rearview mirror.
I look the same.
Nothing about me screams broken.
But I feel hollow.
Like someone scooped something out of me and left the shell intact.
My phone sits in the cup holder.
Ivy's name is at the top of my messages.
For years, she's been the one I tell everything.
Every stupid thought.
Every bad date.
Every fear.
My thumb hovers over her name.
What would I even say?
Hey. I might not be able to have kids.
Hey. I was pregnant for a second and now I'm not.
Hey. I don't even know if I'm sad or relieved but I feel like my body betrayed me.
Hey. It was your brothers and now it's nothing.
I twist the phone in my hand before debating sending a message, asking if she wants to meet up at the rink later.
Mums working and Asher is coming home from an away game tonight so the house will be empty and maybe that's what I need, some silence.
I'll go to the rink after the team gets back. To clear my head. Let the cold and silence anchor me and tomorrow I'll speak to Ivy.
I lock my phone. Don't message her.
Because if I say it out loud, it becomes real.
And if it becomes real, I have to carry it.
And I don't know if I can.
Leon's name flashes through my mind.
I shove it away.
He doesn't know.
He can't know.
Not when I don't even know what this means yet.
Not when I don't know if I'm grieving something or escaping something.
Not when I don't know if I'm broken.
I press my palm flat against my stomach without thinking.
I sit there until the sun shifts in the sky and the clinic doors close.
Then I start the engine.
And I drive home alone.
· · ·
The arena lights glow against the night when I pull into the parking lot.
I don't sit in the car long, needing to distract myself with more than just my own reflection and thoughts.
If I sit, I'll think.
If I think, I'll spiral.
So, I go inside.
The doors slam shut behind me with a heavy echo that ricochets through the near-empty space.
The sound startles me enough that I finally look up.
For a second I don't immediately register what I'm looking at. The visual confusing me for a second.
But then it all comes into focus.
Asher pulling away from a kiss.
Pulling away . . . from Ivy.
My best-friends hands are still fisted in the front of my brother shirt. His mouth is still close to hers. Close enough that it's obvious what just happened.
What I just walked in on. For a moment I think they'll look up, see I've seen them and then tell me it's not what I think.
I honestly don't know what I think.
They separate quickly - laughing, breathless then dart toward the hallway that leads to the locker rooms like they're hiding from someone.
Hiding.
The arena hums softly around me.
I just stand there.
The cold doesn't register.
The ice gleams under the lights.
What did I just see?
My mind starts filling in the blanks before I can stop it.
Asher is the one helping her.
Asher is the one she's been distracted by.
Why hasn't she told me?
How long have they been sneaking -
I cut the thought off before it finishes.
Before it can turn into something ugly.
I'm still staring at the spot they were standing, almost like I can will them back into existence so I can ask them what is happening, what this means. Why they haven't said anything.
And suddenly I feel like I'm standing in the wrong place. At the wrong time. In someone else's moment.
They didn't see me.
They don't know I'm here.
I don't call out.
I don't move toward them.
I turn around.
The doors slam again when I push through them, the sound even louder this time.
I don't look back.
I get in my car.
I drive home.
Silent.
And I don't cry.
Because if I cry, I might have to admit that I lost something today.
And I don't even know what it was.
I don't know if I'm sad that I feel like I'm losing my best friend - to my brother of all people - or if I'm sad that I feel like everything in my life is crumbling.
And there's nothing I can do about it.
And, I decide, right then not to ask.