Jasper nodded, relief flashing across his face before he schooled his expression back to careful neutrality. “I can pick one up on my way home,” he said. “Or if you’d rather—“
“I’ll get it,” I interrupted, not wanting him involved any more than he already was. “There’s a pharmacy in town. I’ll go this afternoon.”
Jasper nodded again, accepting the boundary without pushing. “That works,” he said. “And whatever the test says, we’ll figure it out. Together, if you want. Or I can just point you toward the right resources and step back. Your call.”
The offer hung between us—support without pressure, help without strings. The kind of thing I’d never asked for and wasn’t sure how to accept.
“Thanks,” I said, the word inadequate for what he was offering. “I’ll let you know what it says.”
Jasper smiled, the expression warming his whole face. “I’m here either way,” he said. “Whatever you need.”
We sat at the table in silence for a moment, the bread and soup between us going cold. Outside, the afternoon was fading toward evening—light slanting through the kitchen windows, turning the hardwood floors gold, then amber, then the deep brown that meant sunset was twenty minutes away.
“I should get back,” Jasper said finally, pushing his chair away from the table. “Decker’s expecting me for dinner. But call me, okay? Whatever the test says. Day or night, I mean it.”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak, and walked him to the door. At the threshold, he turned back, his expression serious.
“Whatever’s happening,” he said, his voice quiet, “it’s not something you have to handle alone. You know that, right? There are people who care about you. Who want to help.”
The words landed somewhere beneath my sternum, making it hard to breathe for a second. I nodded again, not trusting my voice, and watched as Jasper made his way down the drive to where his truck was parked.
The bread and soup were still on the table when I went back inside, untouched but somehow less intimidating than they had been. I moved them to the refrigerator with careful attention, then stood at the kitchen window, watching the light fade from gold to amber to the deep purple that preceded full dark.
A home test. Then the clinic if needed. Simple steps in a process that shouldn’t apply to me.
I’d go to town tomorrow, I decided. Pick up the test, follow the directions, get a definitive answer one way or the other. Then I’d know, and knowing was always better than wondering.
Always had been. Always would be.
Except this time, for the first time in thirty years, I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to know the answer.
* * * *
The home test was positive. Two solid lines, no ambiguity, the kind of result that came with instructions specifically designed to prevent user error.
I stared at it on the bathroom counter for longer than I’ll ever admit, then picked up my phone, scrolled to Jasper’s number, and put it down again without dialing. This wasn’t a conversation for the phone. This wasn’t a conversation I was ready to have at all.
So instead of calling Jasper, I drove myself to the clinic in Billings, told the receptionist I needed to see a doctor, and sat in the waiting room with my hands folded in my lap and my face arranged into something that wasn’t panic.
The clinic was quiet for a Tuesday afternoon—just me and an older man reading a magazine in the corner, plus a nurse behind the desk typing something into a computer with methodical attention.
The walls were beige, the chairs were blue, the magazines on the side table were six months out of date. Normal doctor’s office stuff. The kind of environment designed to be as unremarkable as possible.
I filled out the paperwork with a hand that didn’t shake—name, address, medical history, reason for visit. Under “symptoms,” I wrote “nausea, fatigue” and left it at that. Under “possible causes,” I left a blank space that seemed to grow larger the longer I looked at it.
The nurse called my name twenty minutes later. I followed her down a hallway that smelled like disinfectant and floor wax, into an exam room with pale green walls and a poster of the human digestive system. She took my vitals with practiced efficiency—blood pressure, temperature, pulse—then handed me a paper gown and a plastic cup.
“The doctor will be with you shortly,” she said, already moving toward the door. “You can leave the urine sample in the cabinet when you’re done.”
The door closed behind her with a soft click. I changed into the gown—paper crinkling, ties too short, the whole thing designed for someone half my size—then used the bathroom attached to the exam room.
The plastic cup was cold in my hand, the process awkward in ways I hadn’t anticipated. I left the sample in the designated cabinet, then sat on the exam table with my feet dangling and my hands folded in my lap, waiting for whatever came next.
The doctor arrived ten minutes later—a woman in her forties with short dark hair and a no-nonsense expression. Sheintroduced herself, shook my hand with a firm grip, then pulled up my chart on the computer in the corner.
“So,” she said, her eyes on the screen. “Nausea and fatigue. Any other symptoms?”
I shook my head. “No fever, no pain, no other physical issues.”
