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“Come on. I’ll keep it professional,” I insisted, already knowing deep down in my gut that I absolutely could not do that.
“You just called me a voyeur,” she spat, a little hint of venom in her words. “You call that being professional?”
She was right. I could admit that. “Won’t happen again,” I said, raising my right hand and crossing my left over my chest. “Scouts honor.”
Her eyes narrowed, suspicion clouding her vision. “You were a scout?”
“Well, no, but?—”
“Ugh,” she scolded in disgust, turning on the ball of her foot. “I’m out of here.”
I was on my feet before I could even make the decision. I bolted to the door, each step matching two of hers, and caught her wrist in my hand only a meter from the doorway.
She swiveled again, bright blue eyes blazing as she glared up at me. I held her wrist tight enough to ensure she wasn’t going anywhere, but loose enough not to hurt her. Not only did I not want a medical malpractice lawsuit on my hands, but something about her made me want to hold her, comfort her. “Listen to me,” I said softly, my gaze flicking down the hall to ensure we were alone before landing back on her captivating stare. “You’ve set aside your time and your money to be here. You want this. There isn’t a better treatment facility in Boston, and you know that. Get your money’s worth, Sophie. Talk to me.”
Her face softened a little, though still etched with annoyance and anger around the edges.
“I’ve looked at your file,” I continued. I pulled her toward me, just an inch, and she let me. Her breath hitched, her pulse below my fingertips a steady, too-fast drum. “I know why you’re here. Let me help you.”
She steeled her jaw as she mulled over her options. I could practically see the gears turning in her mind.
“I can help you,” I whispered. “I want to help you.” I meant it. Truly, from somewhere deep in my iced-over heart, I wanted to help her. I’d seen patients like her before, I knew how hard it was.
Slowly, she wiggled her wrist from my grasp and rubbed the skin I’d covered. “Fine,” she murmured, “But you’re not putting anything inside of me.”
I snorted, unable to contain the chuckle sneaking up my throat. “Deal,” I said firmly. I tried to disguise my grin.
————
“So, you have polycystic ovarian syndrome, correct?”
She nodded her reply. The conversation was heavily one-sided, with me asking questions about her health and her giving short, one-word answers or nothing at all, and for once I found myself wishing that my patient would have a conversation with me during the questioning process.
“Did your mother have any issues with pregnancy?”
“No,” she said. I waited for more, but she didn’t open her mouth again. For fucks sake.
“No problems at all? That’s unusual. Often reproductive issues like this are hereditary.”
“If she did, she never told me. She had my brother, Aaron, when she was twenty-three. Then me four years later.” Her gaze was fixed on one of the posters on the wall—a mother holding her baby, smiles on both of their faces, and below them, quotes from thank-you notes our office had received. My patients always stared at that one, always imagining themselves as the mother in the photo, but it broke my heart to watch her do it.
“Okay. Let’s get some bloodwork done to check your hormone levels and see what’s going on there, alright? In the meantime, we’ll need to do a pregnancy test to ensure you’re not currently pregnant as the medications we’ll need to put you on could interfere?—”
“I’m not pregnant,” she cut in, her words like a knife.
“I understand. But we need to double check, okay?”
She crossed her arms over her chest as she slowly dragged her gaze back to me. “Fine. Whatever.”
Quickly, I shot a message to Jan, requesting she take Sophie for her pregnancy test before we got into the nitty-gritty. Might as well get that out of the way before I said what I needed to next—I knew she wasn’t going to like it, but it was standard procedure for our PCOS patients. “We’ll also need to do an internal ultrasound to make sure there are no cysts inside your uterus.”
Her face paled as she stared me down, her lips parting just a hair as she breathed in. “I don’t feel comfortable with that.”
“I’ll schedule it with our ultrasound technician. I wouldn’t be the one to do that,” I explained. Relief washed over her face, and I kicked myself for hating how much she clearly didn’t want me to touch her. I can change your mind.
“Fine.”
A knock on the door cut the tension. Jan poked her head inside, a little plastic cup held in one hand.
