CHAPTER TWELVE
Leanne
After being sick in Bryce’s presence for the second time—unless we count the time on the phone, which would make it the third time—I’m about ready to call the doctor and demand an appointment. Instead, I walk into the living room to find him on the phone asking someone questions in a clipped tone.
“Why can’t she be seen until ten weeks if she’s this violently sick?” He catches my eye from where he’s pacing in front of the fireplace, one hand raking through his hair while he holds the phone in the other.
I lift an eyebrow in question and he mouths, The doctor, as if his calling one on my behalf is normal, and then continues his line of interrogation.
Does he have an OBGYN on speed dial or something?
“Bryce, I called a doctor…” I interject between his questions. “They said this is normal.”
“It can’t be,” he says gruffly. “How many times have you been sick today?” he asks, then speaks into the phone. “No, I’m talking to Leanne.”
“Bryce, stop. It’s fine.” I want to be more adamant about this, but honestly, I feel so shitty that I can’t garner the energy.
“How many times?” he urges, and I roll my eyes. That’s as much outward exasperation as I can muster.
“I don’t know, seven or eight,” I say with a shrug before leaning down to press my forehead on the cool countertop.
“Jesus,” he says, then into the phone: “Did you hear that? She’s been sick seven or eight times just this morning. I’ve witnessed three of those.” I guess we are counting the time on the phone then.
There’s a fierce protectiveness in the way he speaks, and as much as I know I shouldn’t like it—I should be angry he’s decided to step in and act like a caveman—I actually appreciate it. It’s a kindness. He’s truly worried, like he said.
“She wants to talk to you.”
I look up from the counter to see him extending the phone in my direction. She?
“Bryce, I told you, the doctor said I’ll be fine.”
“Will you just take the damn phone, blondie?” He pushes it toward me, and I press away from the island with a resigned sigh.
“Hello?” I rough out when I grab the phone. It’s not this woman’s fault—whoever she is—that Bryce called her, but I’m irritated now.
“Hi, Leanne?” The woman’s voice is soothing, and in response, my shoulders inch away from my ears.
“I’m Dr. Davenport. I’m an OBGYN here in Bozeman.
I understand you’ve got a doctor already, which is great, but would you answer a few questions for me so I can get that big oaf off your back?
” She laughs lightly and it puts me even more at ease.
She must know Bryce personally if she’s calling him a big oaf, and he’s smiling under his scruffy beard like he heard her too and doesn’t mind.
“Sure. I’m sorry he called you.” I shoot the man in question a glare. He shrugs and crosses his arms over his chest, nonplussed. “I promise, I’m alright.”
“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that.” I can hear her smile through the phone. “How far along are you?”
I swallow thickly. “Six weeks,” I say, pausing before I add, “Since conception.” I glance up at Bryce and he doesn’t show an ounce of discomfort in the face of this conversation. He’s just studying me and listening intently.
“And when was the first day of your last period?” she asks casually.
I look away from Bryce as my cheeks heat. “Um, I honestly don’t really remember. The other doctor’s office asked me that too, but I’ve never been very regular. I think it’s probably been ten weeks.”
“Alright. Well, in pregnancy weeks, you’re likely around eight along, as we add about two weeks to the date of conception. How long have you been feeling sick?”
“Almost a week. That’s why I took the tests. Again, I’m not regular, so not having a period wasn’t a surprise. But I’m rarely under the weather, and to be sick multiple days in a row…” I trail off.
“How many tests did you take?”
“Six,” I admit.
“How often are you getting sick? Are you able to eat or drink anything?”
“It’s been off and on all day every day this week. I had to call out of work—which I never do. It is a bit better in the afternoon, but I’m still terribly nauseated. I’m drinking as much water as I can and have been surviving mostly on bread.”
“Right. Thank you for telling me all that. So, chances are this will get better, but sometimes morning sickness can persist or become severe, and we want to avoid you getting any more dehydrated. I’m going to give you a list of things to get at the store, and I’d really like for you to give me a call in a few days to let me know how you’re feeling.
” I begin to interject, but she’s not finished.
“I know you have another doctor, and you can of course call them as well, but Bryce is… Well, Bryce is a friend and I know he’ll be worried about you, and I don’t mind checking in to make sure everything is okay. ”
The way her voice catches on the word friend has my senses on high alert. What is their connection? I really hope he didn’t sleep with her, considering what I’m about to ask.
“If it’s not a conflict for you, could I make an appointment with your office instead?” It’s rare I connect with someone so quick, and seeing as I randomly selected the other doctor off my insurance website, I’m not particularly attached.
She clears her throat and I hold my breath, preparing for her to say no, but she settles on, “Of course, how about I have them call you to set something up when the office opens on Monday. And if there are any issues this weekend, this is my cell number. You can call me anytime. Okay?”
That seems generous, but I’m not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.
“Okay, thank you.”
“To help with the morning sickness, I want you to pick up a quality prenatal vitamin to take daily, along with Liquid IV or some other form of electrolytes—ideally one with less sugar, since that can further upset your stomach. Bland foods like crackers and bread for easy snacking. I’d also try ginger candies or maybe ginger ale. ”
I catch Bryce’s eye, feeling softer toward him than I ever have. “Bryce already got me a stock of ginger ale and crackers.”
His beard twitches and his big brown eyes hold my stare.
“Of course he did,” she says with a soft chuckle. “If something sounds good to eat, eat it. Don’t worry about what it is right now. Bread is good, but try adding something to it, like peanut butter.”
“Oh come on, did he put you up to this?” I ask with an exasperated huff, but I’m smiling.
“What?” she asks.
“He brought me peanut butter too.”
“Yeah, that doesn’t surprise me either.” There’s an odd wistfulness in her tone that I can’t quite place.
“You could also try eggs with toast and see how that sits. Good protein and fat but relatively easy on the stomach. Honestly, eat whatever you can, and even if you get sick, your body will have absorbed some of the nutrients. Smoothies are also a great option.”
“Okay. Hopefully I’ll feel well enough to go to the store later.”
“I can do it,” Bryce says, walking over and finally breaking his silence. “Just give me a list of everything you need.”
“It’s fine. I’ll need to get out of this house eventually,” I reply, still unsure of our dynamic.
In my ear, Dr. Davenport says, “If you feel up to it, Leanne, that’s great. If not, take advantage of that big burly man’s offer. He could do with some bossing around.” She laughs good-naturedly, and I’m desperate to know what their relationship is.
Bryce is standing close now and speaks loudly when he says, “That’s enough of that, Becca.”
“Becca?” I ask, then realize he’s speaking to Dr. Davenport.
“That’s me,” she says. “Though Bryce is the only one who calls me Becca. I’m Rebecca to everyone else. Anyway, Leanne, have him give you my number and you call me if you need anything. I mean it, day or night. I’m here.”
“Thank you, Dr. Davenport.”
“Rebecca. You can call me Rebecca,” she says, and there’s a softness in her voice, something kind but almost sad. I look up at Bryce’s face and it’s softer too.
I swallow thickly and say, “Thank you, Rebecca.”
Bryce and I hold eye contact until after I hang up, and even when he reaches for his phone, he doesn’t look away.
“Can I—” He moves a step closer and I know what he wants, but moving to hug him now feels like a bridge too far, even if inside I’m screaming that I want to. He’s going to have to ask—and he does. “Can I hug you?”
My body feels tightly wound and stiff, but I nod and let him engulf me in his warmth. He smells good, like cedar and fresh air and something spicy. I probably smell like vomit and sweat, but in his arms, I don’t care.
I know it’s a bad idea, but I twine my arms around his back.
My fingertips find the muscles that line his spine, splaying over them, the same way they did that night in the tent.
I wanted to memorize the planes of his skin, but there wasn’t enough time.
I doubt there will ever be a time for that now.
I don’t know what we are to each other, what we’ll ever be to each other, what this means for us. Is there even an us? But he’s here—he called a doctor for me—so what does that mean? Anything? Nothing?
Instead of asking like I normally would, I sink into his kindness and wonder how we got here, and where we go now.