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In the shower, I let my mind run free, thinking through best case scenarios for this baby I’d agreed to before I knew just how bad things were going to get with my father. I lifted a hand toward the ceiling, scrubbing my armpit area as I processed it all.
Absently staring at the soap running down my skin.
Until my eyes focused on theslightestscar.
On my arm.
Where… my birth control implant was.
Fuck.
FUCK!
I dropped my armandmy cleansing net, covering the scar with my hand like someone was there to see it or like it would help anything if they were. Eyes wide, I glanced around the bathroom, looking for… nothing.
Anything.
FUCK.
I blew out a sigh, finding the wherewithal from somewhere to rinse the rest of the soap from my skin and leave the shower. In the mirror, I could see the panic in my eyes but quickly shook it off, searching the counter for my cell phone.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Where —Oh.
Shit.
It was just under my towel.
I snatched the device up, quickly dialing my doctor’s private emergency line after hunting down the number buried in my notes app.
I’d never had to use it before.
Her nurse answered after just a couple rings, immediately going into problem-solving mode after I frantically rattled off my problem the second time.
The first time, I was incoherent.
I hung up the call with an understanding that I was going straight to the office before work. Removing the tiny hormonal device was a quick outpatient procedure that ideally would only take a few minutes.
Still.
I was frazzled.
With how quick the proposal and wedding had happened, on top of everything else, setting up an appointment to remove the device that would prevent me from conceiving a child had simply fallen by the wayside. If things had progressed on a more reasonable timeline, it was the kind of thing I would’ve undoubtedly taken care of and my doctor would’ve wanted me on some sort of plan, starting vitamins, a special diet, something.
Shit.
This… wasn’t good.
Shit.
I took as many deep breaths as it took to calm my racing heart, then hurriedly got dressed. I wasn’t leaving the house nearly as polished as most days, but I was calling it a win that I got out of there at all without running into Orion.
The man sniffed out bullshit too easily.
At the office, true to what I’d been told, the removal took less than thirty minutes. Some imaging to find the exact location, which they marked, a shot to numb the area, a tiny incision, removal, then cleaning and bandaging. By the time I left, I felt about five hundred pounds lighter, but I still messaged Demetria to ask what I should do about my unintentional breach of contract.
Her advice was to not say a fucking thing, considering how early I’d corrected the issue. Even if it had been top of mind, it could’ve taken this long to get a regular removal appointment anyway. And the chances of me getting pregnant during the period between now and the wedding weren’t a hundred percent.
