Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 102167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Surely if this doctor can deliver Stella St. Clair’s twins and keep it from the press for two WHOLE months, she can handle my currently fucked-up situation.
I push open the door, and it bangs against the wall with a thud. The waiting room is filled with women—expectant moms with bellies in all shapes and sizes—and the receptionist looks up at me with a raised brow. She’s in her late forties with glasses that rest low on her nose and the permanent air of someone who’s seen too much nonsense to have patience for it.
“Excuse me, can I help you?” she asks, her voice imbued with annoyance.
“I need to see the doctor,” I say in a rush, speed walking over to her desk. “Right now.”
“Do you have an appointment?” she asks, her tone making it clear she already knows the answer.
“No,” I reply, trying to sound calm and collected when, in reality, I’m seconds away from throwing myself across her desk. “But this is an emergency. One of those circumstances where you have to make an exception to the appointment rule.”
She blinks. “An emergency?”
“Yes,” I say, nodding furiously. “Like, a…possible baby emergency. Hence, the reason I’m here. At an OB-GYN.”
“We don’t usually do walk-ins,” she says, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. “But I can look at the schedule and see if Dr. Moretti has any openings this week.”
“This week?” I question, my voice rising in panic. “No, that won’t work.” I lean in, lowering my voice like I’m about to spill state secrets. “Listen. I need an appointment now. I might be pregnant. And I’m not supposed to be pregnant. Like, me being pregnant right now is absolute insanity and I need to figure out what in the hell is happening and I can’t just go to some rando clinic because do I look like the kind of girl who goes to rando clinics? Um, no. I need to see Dr. Moretti.” I pull a credit card out of my wallet and slam it down on the desk. “Charge me whatever, but I need to see the doctor.”
Her lips twitch and I think she’s about to smile, but she just shakes her head. “One moment.”
She picks up the phone and proceeds to have a quiet conversation that I can’t hear before she hangs up. “We don’t usually do this, but I recognize you from the news… You’re one of the island survivors, aren’t you?”
Panic floods my veins and makes my eyeballs widen comically. She shakes her head. “Don’t worry, I won’t say anything. I imagine you’ve been through enough.” Then she looks both ways before handing me a clipboard with a stack of papers on it. “Fill out this new patient registration form and take a seat. Dr. Moretti will fit you in.”
Quickly, I scratch down all my info on the sheet without even moving from the window, courtesy be damned, and hand it back to her.
“Thank you,” I say, and she nods then jerks her chin at the waiting room chairs. I comply, pulling a silk scarf out of my bag and wrapping it around my head. Now that she mentioned knowing me, I’m a little afraid everyone else will too. Luckily, the place is ridiculously fancy, with chandeliers, a coffee bar, framed photos of smiling babies on every wall, and a huge spread-out waiting room. It’s more spa than medical office, and I find a quiet corner away from all the other patients.
I don’t know how long I stare at the wall before a nurse calls my name, but I don’t think it matters. Time is a chasm, reality is warped, and I might be motherfucking pregnant. This isn’t exactly something I had on my schedule, and it takes as long as it takes. The nurse is young, with a bright smile and a clipboard that she clutches like it’s her lifeline when I get her in sight, waiting at the wooden door next to the sign-in desk.
“Ms. Banks?” she says, and I’m thankful they had the forethought not to say my first name, given the circumstances.
As I approach her, I smooth my hands nervously down my Prada jeans. “That’s me.”
“Right this way,” she says, leading me down a hallway lined with more baby photos. “So, you think you’re pregnant?”
“I don’t know,” I say, my voice tight. “But I need to know for sure. Like, immediately.”
She nods, her smile never faltering. “We’ll start with a pregnancy test, and Dr. Moretti will see you after that.”
I follow her into an exam room, where she hands me a cup. “You know the drill, right? Pee in this, bring it back to me, and we’ll dip a strip. Easy as that,” she says with a wink when my whole body locks up.
I trudge through the motions of pissing in a little cup via an unruly tool with which you can’t control the spray—kind of like putting your thumb over a garden hose—and blow out a breath when I manage to fill it halfway.