Chapter 9
The toilet paper came away stained pale pink before I’d even finished reviewing slide seven.
I sat on the toilet in the twenty-second-floor restroom, skirt bunched over my knees, my phone balanced on top of the metal paper dispenser.
On the other side of the stall door, the HVAC hummed its low blower cycle and someone was running the espresso machine.
It was Sunday. The office was nearly empty, making every sound sharper: a door latch clicking shut two hallways over, the crack of ice dropping into a tumbler, the elevator arriving with its muted chime.
I looked at the paper again. The spot didn't spread just because I stared at it. It didn't turn into something else simply because I needed to get back to work.
Friday had marked the end of the two weeks Cole and I gave ourselves in Fremont. On our call that night, he asked if the deadline forced a choice; I told him it only forced us to talk. We’d agreed to wait for the next scan, keep up the nightly check-ins, and make no unilateral decisions.
My first reaction was absurd and efficient: I calculated how much time I could afford to lose before sending out the final deck.
The board met Tuesday morning. Diane wanted the presentation locked tonight so Finance could review the medical interpreter costs on Monday without tearing apart the entire plan.
Slide seven was the post-discharge referral map.
I’d spent forty minutes dragging arrows between partner clinics, discharge coordinators, and community sites until the workflow looked effortless.
Another cramp doubled me over slightly. It wasn't sharp. It was a low, familiar ache entirely out of place, like the start of a period that had no business showing up.
I washed my hands. The water ran freezing.
In the mirror, a bobby pin had worked loose from my low chignon, and a faint red welt marked my throat where the turtleneck sweater rubbed against skin.
I looked tired. I looked like a woman who’d come into the office on a Sunday with a travel mug, a laptop, and the arrogance to think she could master an entire week before it even started.
I unclasped my watch, then clicked it shut.
Then I stepped back into the stall to check again.
There was more blood.
Not a lot. Enough.
I pulled out my phone and scrolled through my call history for the clinic.
My thumb hovered over the glass. Dr. Mehta had told me to call if there was heavy bleeding, severe pain, or a fever.
She’d also said spotting could happen and didn't always mean trouble.
I could wait twenty minutes. I could finish one slide. I could do anything other than dial.
I dialed.
The on-call triage nurse answered after two rings.
She introduced herself as Carmen and asked for my date of birth, gestational week, and the extent of the bleeding.
I answered in clean, clipped sentences. Seven weeks, four days.
Started a few minutes ago. Mild cramping. No, not soaking a pad. No fever.
“With a prior ultrasound showing cardiac activity, we want to see you today,” Carmen said. “Can you make it to First Hill within the hour?”
The word *want* lodged in my throat.
“Yes.”
“If the bleeding increases to soaking a pad an hour, if the pain becomes severe, or if you feel faint, head to the emergency room. Is there someone who can come with you?”
I looked at the restroom door. Beyond it sat my bag, my laptop, and the presentation still hanging in the balance.
“Yes,” I said, though I hadn't called a soul.
“All right. We’ll see you at eleven-thirty. Please don't drive if you feel unwell.”
“Thank you.”
When I hung up, the clasp of my watch was open. I didn't remember touching it.
Priya picked up on the first ring.
“If this is about slide seven, that return arrow is lying,” she said. “You can’t route community care straight to the ER without passing through someone holding a phone.”
The laugh didn't come. Not even the attempt.
“I’m bleeding.”
Priya’s silence went sharp. I heard the hitch in her breath, followed by the scrape of a chair moving across a floor.
“How much?”
“A little. The clinic wants me there now.”
“I’m coming over.”
“No. Keep the document. I need you to tell Diane I have a medical appointment and won't be finishing the deck today.”
“Kate.”
“Priya.”
I didn't raise my voice. I didn't need to.
She let two seconds pass. When she spoke again, her cadence slowed down.
“I’ll cover the deck. But you don't have to walk into that clinic alone.”
I leaned against the tiled wall. The chill bled straight through my sweater.
“I’m calling Cole.”
“Good. Text me when you get there, even if it’s just a single period.”
“All right.”
“And don't go back to your desk to fix anything.”
The order grazed a faint thread of humor, but it died before it could reach a smile.
“That’s not in your job description.”
“Today it is.”
I hung up. Cole’s contact still read just his name. I’d thought about editing it after the ultrasound—adding a word less guarded than the ridiculous parenthetical I’d used during the first few weeks. I hadn't done it. Now there wasn't time to figure out what label could carry a call like this.
He answered before the first ring finished.
“Hey, trouble.”
I had nothing to offer back.
“I’m at Halcyon,” I said. “I’m bleeding. The clinic wants to see me at eleven-thirty.”
The sink faucet dripped once behind me.
“Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
“Did you already call them?”
“Yes.”
“I’m coming to get you.”
“Cole, you don't have to—”
“I’m not going to force you to see me. But I’ll be in the parking lot. If you want to go in alone, I’ll walk you to the door and wait outside. If you want me to drive you, I’ll drive you.”
His voice didn't waver. It didn't take on that terrible, fragile softness people use when they’ve already decided you’re about to break.
I sat down on the closed toilet lid. The metal watch clasp bit into my palm.
“I don't want to drive.”
“Then you’re not driving. What floor are you on?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Ten minutes, maybe twelve with traffic. Call me if it gets worse.”
“All right.”
“Kate.”
I waited.
“I’ll be right there.”
I hung up, pressing the phone to my chest. The crying didn't come. Instead, a hot wetness tracked down my cheek, and I wiped it away with the back of my hand, irritated by the reflex as if someone had imposed another waste of time on me.
When I walked back into my office, the screen was still displaying the blue arrows of slide seven.
The file name, *board_roadmap_v12_final_final*, sat in the top corner with insulting composure.
I closed the laptop without saving the last batch of changes.
My bag was beneath the desk. I picked it up and found the ultrasound envelope wedged between a notebook and a charger.
I didn't want to touch it. I slid it into my coat pocket anyway.
The phone buzzed.
Priya: *Diane already knows you have a doctor’s appointment. Didn't ask questions. I’ve got the deck with the honest arrows. Get out.*
The cramp hit again. I stayed standing, one hand braced on the edge of the desk, until it passed. The dark window glass reflected a woman in a structured coat, bag over her shoulder. She didn't look like she needed a thing from anyone. It was one of my best performances.
The door opened before I could reach the hallway.
Diane wore dark jeans, a crisp white shirt, and her hair swept into a braid resting over one shoulder. Without a boardroom around her, she seemed less untouchable and more tired. One hand held her phone; the other carried a folder containing the printed notes I’d left behind.
“Priya mentioned you have a doctor’s appointment,” she said.
“Yes.”
“The deck can wait.”
“It shouldn't. The board—”
“Kate.”
She cut me off without raising her voice. She gestured toward the chair opposite my desk, though I didn't move toward it.
“I’m not asking for details. I’m asking you not to turn being sick into a loyalty test for this company.”
The sentence struck a place I had no armor built for.
I looked away toward the wall calendar for May, marked with blue blocks for New York.
The previous Monday, I’d agreed to lead the IPO readiness roadmap on one condition: delegating any review that didn't demand my operational judgment.
Six days later, here I was on a Sunday grinding through a completely separate presentation.
“Priya has the latest notes. She can handle implementation questions. I’ll review the final draft tonight if needed.”
“It’s not needed. If a decision requires your judgment, we’ll call you tomorrow. And if you don't want to pick up, you don't pick up.”
It was a reasonable offer. Which was why it cost so much to take.
“Thank you,” I said.
Diane nodded, as if expecting nothing more. At the door, she turned back.
“Close work email for a few hours. That isn't decorative advice.”
On any other day, I would have laughed. This time I just nodded, waiting for her to step out before taking the elevator down.
In the elevator, I unhooked my watch clasp and left it loose. The empty slack against my wrist felt more honest than the snap.
* * *
Cole was leaning over the steering wheel of the truck when I walked out the front entrance.
He’d pulled into the loading zone with his hazard lights flashing, an impending municipal ticket undoubtedly logging into some city database.
He wore a gray hoodie, training pants, and a dark ballcap that failed to corral the sand-brown hair tumbling over his forehead.
When he spotted me, he pushed open the passenger door and stepped onto the pavement.
He didn't jog over. He didn't shout questions from the curb. He stayed beside the hood, tall and steady, hands at his sides.
“Hey,” he said.
The air smelled of old rain and diesel exhaust. Outside the Halcyon entryway, concrete planters held rosemary that facilities kept alive through sheer obstinance. I stopped in front of Cole, fixing my eyes on the seam of his hoodie just below the small Sentinels crest.