Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 104050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
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.