Present Day
The glossy tri-fold pamphlet the doctor handed to me two weeks ago is staring at me on the coffee table. It’s sitting right next to a half-empty cup of peppermint tea that’s long gone cold. I’ve memorized every single paragraph, backward and forward. It’s light and airy, giving off a seemingly innocent appearance until you read the title:Knowing Your Options, A Guide to Your Next Steps.
Most people would just think this is a fancy piece of paper, the kind of medical marketing clutter that litters a waiting room. As for me, well, it’s a physical manifestation of what I should and shouldn’t do ever since I saw those two pink lines.
“There goes breaking the cycle, Rosemary Odette Laurent.” The words roll off my tongue. This could have been completely avoidable if the stupid condom didn’t break, and even then, I could have marched my happy ass to the pharmacy the next day, but nope, I didn’t. Now I’m destined to be a single mother, exactly like my mother, minus the leaving your kid behind. Thank god for grandparents. The only problem now is thatthey’re gone; I’d consider myself fortunate for having them until my mid-twenties.
I still miss them to this day. I still ache to call my grandma on my way home from work or ask my grandpa for advice on whether I’m making a solid investment or not. And now, god, how I could use their wise words and arms wrapped around me right about now.
I stare at the information, pulling my legs tightly to my chest, resting my chin on my knees. My favorite oversized sweater wraps around me, and while it usually offers me comfort, there’s none to be found today. I’ve asked the what-ifs, had late-night panic attacks, and let’s not forget the suffocating weight of a future I didn’t plan for.
Option one: Parenting.
Option two: Adoption.
Option three: Termination.
Each path carries a completely different life and a completely different version of myself. I waited for a sign, a gut feeling, a lightning bolt of clarity, or was hoping and praying in that small crevice of my mind for a certain man to appear out of thin air. You know, the one I broke up with, the one who didn’t say a single thing to make me stay.
I look at the stock photos, and for the first time, I don’t feel intimidated or confused. I just feel exhausted and incredibly annoyed at myself for looking at this thing so many times. Finally, realization washes over me, and the paralysis that’s been plaguing me suddenly snaps. A sudden burst of energy hits, causing me to swing my legs off the couch, feet hitting the solid hardwood with a slap. I reach for the pamphlet, snatching it off the table. My fingers dig into the glossy paper, crumpling it in my fist, and I relish the sharp sound of demolishing it. Never again will I have to stare at the damn thing again.
I stand up and march straight to the kitchen, moving with a purpose I haven’t felt since finding out the news of my unplanned pregnancy. I step hard on the trash can pedal, the lid swings open, and I toss the balled-up paper into the depths of the bin. It lands with a thud, my foot comes off the pedal, and the lid closes shut.
“Good riddance,” I mutter out loud before exhaling a breath so deep it feels like I’ve been holding it for weeks now. My hands are still shaking, my nerves are still rattled, but this time, it’s not from feeling trapped in a corner. It’s from adrenaline. Before I can talk myself out of it, I turn on my heel and grab my phone off the kitchen counter.
My fingers fly across the screen to unlock it, pulling up my contacts, scrolling until I find the name I’m looking for:Harbor View Obstetrics & Gynecology.I don’t hesitate in pressing the call button and lifting the phone to my ear. The line rings, each pulsing tone feeling like a heavy, booming heartbeat echoing in my chest.
“Thank you for calling Harbor View, this is Tracy speaking. How can I help you today?” The receptionist’s voice is warm in her perfect and blissfully ordinary routine. For Tracy, it’s probably just another Tuesday afternoon, another call in a string of hundreds. The mundanity of it all is exactly what I need.
“Hi.” I swallow the thick lump in my throat, pull my shoulders back, lift my chin, and even though there’s nobody else in the room with me, I straighten my posture. “My name is Romy Laurent. I need to schedule a follow-up appointment, please.” My voice slightly cracks on the first syllable until I clear my throat and push forward, my tone becoming steadier and stronger than I expected.
“Of course, Romy. Are you an establish patient or are you a new patient?” Tracy asks the standard question.
“I was there a few weeks ago.” My fingers trace a small circle on the countertop. “For a confirmation appointment. I, um, need to set up a regular follow-up. I’m pregnant and I’d like to get a plan in place going forward.” Saying the words to another human being feels like breaking through a wall of glass. This is real now. My hand lowers to my abdomen, cradling the space where my unborn child rests.
“Alright, I’ll pull up your chart,” Tracy says. The gentle click-clack of a computer keyboard echoes over the line. I give her my full name, date of birth, and a day of the week that will work for me. “Perfect. Dr. Charles has an opening next Thursday at ten o’clock or three o’clock. Which works best for you?”
“Three o’clock, please,” I reply instantly. Taking off for the rest of the day before and after my appointment is much easier to handle than starting late.
“Great, we’ll get you scheduled for you first prenatal checkup. Come hydrated. Routine bloodwork will be involved, plus an ultrasound and a meeting to map out your care plan for the coming months. Bring any questions you have, okay?”
“I will. Thank you, Tracy.”
“You’re very welcome, Romy. We’ll see you next Thursday afternoon at three o’clock,” she reiterates the day and time before the line clicks, followed by the steady beep of a dial tone. I lower the phone from my ear, keeping it gripped tightly in my hand. I stand in the middle of the kitchen for a long moment, listening to the absolute silence of my apartment. The heavy, suffocating air that has hung in the room for weeks seems to have lifted, replaced by a cool, clean stillness. I don’t have all the right answers. I don’t have any answers, really. I don’t know how I’ll afford everything, and if I’m completely honest with myself, I’m absolutely terrified. I walk to the other side of the kitchen, grab the notepad off the side of the refrigerator, and write down my appointment date and time.
Thursday, 3PM, Dr. Charles
My penmanship is neat, deliberately cursive, and I smile a tiny, fragile script. Another memory of my grandfather sitting at the kitchen table practicing my handwriting on a Sunday morning after we read the paper together. He’d be proud, maybe not that my child will grow up fatherless, but he’d be proud all the same, and that makes me smile for the first time this week.
CHAPTER TWO
vik
Istare at the city skyline from my office chair, my desk to my back, as is the rest of the world. A sprawling grid of millions of twinkling lights plays across the floor-to-ceiling glass, but tonight, it feels like a mockery of my life. My fingers tighten around the heavy crystal tumbler that holds a generous pour of premium vodka. I didn’t bother with ice or a mixer, the burn is all too welcome on a night like tonight. I swallow a mouthful for a second time since making the drink, and it does absolutely nothing to dull the miserable ache in my chest.
It’s been a long time, too damn long, and I’m not admitting how many days I’ve counted since I’ve seen Romy. I gave her space, telling myself she only needs a minute to breathe, to think. Except the minutes turned to hours, the hours into days, and the days into weeks. I’ve texted her, but the messages go unanswered. I call and am sent directly to voicemail. She’s muted my contact. At least she hasn’t blocked me yet.
Worst of all, she’s been entirely scarce at Sterling Capital, along with all of the other events after Rafe and Seraphina’s wedding day. And believe me, Romy is usually a fixture here in the building, visiting the girls, having meetings with the head of marketing department, and stopping by my office when noone is looking. The brightness she usually carries with her is now gone. My office feels hollow, and for a man who’s used to control, it’s driving me out of my fucking mind.
