In the end, I went to twelve school dances with Sullivan London.
After each one, we sat on his front porch. Even if it snowed. Or rained. Or mosquitoes nipped our ankles.
And I always went home with roses tucked beneath my arm.
And a little bit of magic in my heart.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
ellie
THE NEXT MORNING, AFTER sleeping on Maple Street for the first time in God knows how many years, I went to my appointment with Maternal-Fetal Medicine.
As agreed, Sully did not come with me, despite his brief efforts to get me to change my mind before leaving last night—another thing he’d attempted to dodge, I might add. He’d thrown me questioning, pleading glances before I encouraged him out the door.
This was for the best, I continually reminded myself. Things between us were tumultuous. Our emotions ran high every time we were in the same space together. And for this appointment today, I needed a clear head. When Sully was around, my brain fogged up like a mirror during a steamy shower.
Everything inside me ran hot at even the thought of him. Especially when I thought about the way his broad body had covered mine yesterday while lying on the floor. About the way I didn’t want to leave that spot ever. About the way we’d been in that position before, naked on a mattress. Most recently, the night I got pregnant.
Which led me here.
To my Maternal-Fetal Medicine appointment.
Delaney’s intuition had been correct; both this new physician—a middle-aged woman with cat-eye glasses named Dr. Lewis—and my physician in California wanted me to start taking Lovenox soon. Today, Dr. Lewis had discussed the ins and outs of my high-risk pregnancy and then wrote my prescription so I could get it filled and start the injections over the weekend.
She’d been patient with me, talking me through the process and easing some of my worries about it. Since the medication was preventative, the dosage was low, a different scenario completely than when I’d been taking blood thinners to treat an emergency situation. And it was as safe as possible for the baby since it didn’t cross the placenta.
And while all of that was good news, my fingers still trembled a little as I left the appointment.
I was weird about medicine. Notanti-medicine because I certainly believed in it; I did, I really, truly did. I believed in always listening to medical experts and in the power of science. In theory, I thought medicine was amazing, truly miraculous in what it could do. I owed my life to it, and Iknewthat.
But I also had this ingrained worry that all of the rare, life-threatening side effects of medications—you know, the ones that are rattled off almost comically at the end of commercials—would most certainly happen to me.
Because one time, they did. Or, one did. One side effect from a seemingly innocuous medication that millions of women take. Onelife-threateningside effect that was the reason for all these needles and the cause of the fear that ruled my brain.
I couldn’t be more grateful for the health I’d been gifted in the years since having a pulmonary embolism. I’d been tested nine ways to Sunday, and no other sort of clotting disorder had been found, which was wonderful.
Except it meant that the pill took full responsibility for the incident. More specifically, thehormonesin the pill were the thing responsible for the scare that had always stuck with me.
And you know what happens when you get pregnant?
Hormones.
Hormones happen.
It was a risk factor for any woman, truly, but especially women like me, who already knew how their body would react. Women who’d experienced clotting once were at a higher risk of experiencing it again.
Just a little side effect of pregnancy.
I took a few deep breaths in my car, trying to regulate my nervous system, before I decided to swing by the Pontoon Patio to see my mom. I had time to kill before my medication would be ready for pickup, and I didn’t think I’d be able to concentrate on work today.
Plus, this was overdue.
We’d chatted on the phone and texted a time or two, so she knew I was back. But I hadn’t wanted to stop over while she was home because, frankly, I was afraid of what I’d find.
My mother was kind to everyone she met. She loved me, had always shown up for me when it mattered, but she struggled with her hoarding tendencies and online shopping addiction, something that had always put a strain on our relationship because our home had never felt likeoursgrowing up. It was filled with her things, leaving no space for mine.
It was why I’d spent so much time across the street with the Londons and why I didn’t have any desire to step back into that house and see what had become of it.
