My throat feels tight. “How long?” I ask quietly.
“Three minutes,” she says. The words come with a heaviness that weighs on me. “Five, if you like suspense.”
“I’m pretty sure I have hit my suspense quota for the week.”
Dr. L gives me a look—sharp, assessing, fondly —in a way that makes me want to both stay and bolt. “I’ll be in the kitchen making tea. Yell if you need me.”
“Got it.”
I lock the door after she leaves. Staring at the box in my hand, my pulse picks up.Fuck it. I rip the box, the wrapper crinkling as I tear it open. The instructions are insultingly simple. But my hands still fumble like I’m defusing something that might explode. “This is ridiculous,” I tell myself. “You’ve done worse.” My reflection doesn’t disagree; she just stares at me, hands hovering like we’re both waiting to see if I actually follow through.
Huffing out a breath, I grab the plastic stick and squat down on the toilet.Who knew pissing on a stick would be so nerve-wracking?When I’m done, I set the test on the counter with exaggerated care, like that’s going to change what it decides to be. The little window stays blank. “I hate you,” I inform it. If I stare at it, I’ll start trying to force the outcome with sheer spite. Washing my hands longer than necessary, I watch as the water swirls down the drain, soap bubbles popping. The S on my hip throbs in time with my heartbeat, a phantom brand under my skin. Somewhere under his ribs, my name is doing the same, whether he’s sleeping peacefully or pacing a groove into the cabin floor, ready to ring me a new one.Three minutes. I can survive three minutes. I dry my hands and force myself to leave the test where it is, then head back down the hallway that feels too bright.
Dr. L is sitting at the table with two mugs. The lights over her head are a warm yellow, too gentle for the assessment in her eyes when she looks up at me. “Timer’s on the counter. Sit.” My legs don’t argue—they’re smarter than my brain tonight. The mug nearest me smells like chamomile and something sweet underneath. Wrapping my hands around it, I lean into the heat, pretending it’s enough to steady me. “Are you going to tell me what you’re hoping for?” she asks, like we’re discussing lab results and not the axis of my entire life fucking tilting.
I exhale something between a laugh and a sigh. “Is no outcome an option?”
“Not in this universe, Love,” she says gently. “You’re either pregnant, or you’re not. The only thing you get to control right now is how honest you are about which one scares you more.” The word lands between us, heavy and undeniable.Pregnant. The room seems to narrow around it.
“I’m watched by people who think of that as data,” I say finally. “A line in a report about Phase IV viability. I can’t let them have another piece of me.”
“And what do you think of it as?”
A thousand unwanted images flash in my mind: files, restraints, my mother’s voice, Sterling’s hands, the feel of his breath against my throat in a ruined chapel. “I don’t know yet,” I admit. “But I know I don’t want them anywhere near this...”
Dr. L’s gaze softens, even as her jaw sets. “Good,” she says. “That, at least, is a start. That tells me you haven’t become completely numb. Scared is a feeling, and it’s valid.” The timer on the counter beeps. My heart stops beating normally, the pace picking up with whatever answer. She doesn’t move right away, just watches me over the rim of her mug. “Do you want me to look,” she asks, “or do you want to do it yourself?”
“You,” I quickly rush out, “before I can talk myself out of it.”
Her brows lift, a tiny, unsurprised twitch. “Okay.” She sets her mug down; the ceramic click is too soft for how loud my pulse is. “Stay put. You look like you’re about to vibrate through the floor.”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Only to anyone with eyes.” Dr. L pushes her chair back and heads to the bathroom, coming back with that plastic nightmare. The timer’s already gone silent, but it still feels like it’s ticking.
The silence stretches. My fingers tighten around the mug until the heat starts to hurt. “Well?” My voice comes out thinner than I want it to. “Is it going to explode, or…?”
Dr. L exhales once, slowly. Then she sets the test between us and turns, keeping it angled so I can see the window from here. “It’s positive.”
It’s like one of those horror movies when the intensity picks up, and all the sound just stops. I can’t move or speak. The kitchen dips, just enough to make my stomach roll with nausea. “Are you sure? It could be wrong.”
“This brand rarely throws false positives, Hun,” she says, her tone holding the smallest amount of pity. “I can pull blood and run it to a lab I trust. But for tonight?” She gives the plastic a small, decisive tap. “This is a yes.”
“Okay…” I draw out. “That’s… information. I can work with information.”
Dr. L doesn’t congratulate me. She doesn’t say I’m sorry. She just walks back to the table and sets the test on a folded paper towel between us.
“Look at me,” she demands. Dragging my eyes up to meet her eyes—sharp, tired, and awake. “This is not their result. They don’t know about it. They don’t own it. Right now, it’s between you, me, and whoever you decide gets looped in. That’s all.”
“You say that like they’re not going to notice if I start…expanding.”
“Eventually, maybe,” she says. “You’re not in eventually. You’re in the early stages. You have time before anyone else gets a vote if you want.”
“What if I don’t keep it?” The question comes out small, but at least it comes out. “What if that’s the line?”
“Then we talk about safe ways to draw that line,” she says, no judgment. “Medically safe. Nothing you try to handle alone with a search bar and a bottle of something strong.”
“Low opinions of my decision-making skills, I see.”
