Page 88 of Say My Name

The question makes the guilt worse. He believed the night in my bed was another attempt, and he has spent almost two weeks waiting for this result with me. We agreed I would test before the clinic appointment and tell him as soon as I knew.

He checked on me anyway. Never enough to crowd me. Just a quiet signal that he was counting, too.

Me: I’m disappointed.

It is the most honest answer I can give without telling him the rest.

Dominic: So am I.

I stare at the words. He wanted the test to be positive. He wanted to believe the night meant what I told him it did, and I used that hope because I couldn’t ask him to come over for the reason I really wanted him there.

The second clinical appointment is still scheduled for this afternoon. We have a plan, another chance, and an established process that doesn’t require either of us to talk about why he stayed in my bed until morning.

Me: We still have the appointment today.

His answer takes longer this time.

Dominic: We do.

I throw away the test, wash my hands, and get ready for work. I dress for the office, ride the elevator down, and file the explanation I owe Dominic under things to deal with later.

The clinic’s confirmation email arrives after my first meeting.

I read it twice, confirm the appointment, and forward it to Dominic because the attachment includes the arrival time and the instructions he needs to follow before providing his sample. The process is familiar now. Show identification. Sign the chain-of-custody paperwork. Arrive fifteen minutes early. Report any medication changes or positive home ovulation results that could affect the timing.

The last instruction makes my fingers stop over the keyboard.

I forward the message anyway.

A few minutes later, Dominic appears in my doorway.

He’s wearing a charcoal suit and the expression he usually brings into a meeting when someone has buried a problem in the footnotes. Maya looks up from her desk outside my office, glances between us, and reaches for the phone on her second ring without commenting.

“Do you have a minute?” The question is formal, a cold shock after the intimacy of his messages this morning.

“Yes.”

He steps inside and closes the door.

My stomach twists. I set my pen beside the forecasting notes and minimize the clinic email, although we both know he has his own copy.

Dominic remains near the door. “Did you report the positive test to the clinic?”

There is no useful answer. I try one anyway.

“The appointment was already scheduled.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.” His voice is quiet, blade-thin. A cold knot forms in my stomach; evasion is impossible.

“I didn’t report it because the pregnancy test was negative.”

His face gives away almost nothing, but his voice becomes quieter. “You told me the clinic’s projection changed because you got a positive result at home.” He lets that hang in the air. “The email still lists their original window and asks you to report any positive test. So, did you report it?”

I turn the pen until the clip presses into my thumb. “No.”

“Why?”

“Because there was nothing for them to change.”