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“I’m pregnant.”
Black dots mar my vision. I inhale. Breathe. “That’s…wow.”
“I guess you have super sperm.”
“Yeah, I guess I do.” The mattress sinks beneath my weight.
“Don’t tell anyone. I mean, it’s early.”
“Yeah, yeah. It’s early. Of course. And I wouldn’t…” We agreed no one would know it’s mine. Why would I tell anyone?
“Well, I guess…yeah. I can’t believe it.”
“Right. Well…” I rub my forehead, thinking things through. “Ahm, when will you go to the doctor?”
“I…I’ll search it up.”
“Do you…would you want to come to Houston? Or…” I can find her a doctor here, no problem, but with an OB, that’s probably not the wisest course of action.
“Maybe. I don’t know. Let me look into it.”
“I’ll look into it, too.” I should’ve researched all of this shit already. What is wrong with me? “Ahm…” I hesitate, scrubbing my fingers through the hair on the back of my head. “When you…if I…maybe…ahm”
“Ian?” Her concerned tone snaps me out of whatever fog I’m in.
“I’d like to be there at the doctor's appointment. If it’s possible. For you. Be there for you.”
“That’s really sweet.”
I’m not trying to be sweet. I just… hell, it’s late. I can’t decipher my rattled thought processes. “I’ll give you a call tomorrow. I’m in surgery all morning, but…later.”
* * *
My surgeries pass without any complications. Last night, I considered getting on my laptop, but instead I popped some melatonin and forced myself to get some shuteye. Priorities.
But with the surgeries done, I can do some quick research. Or should I call her?
I’m not sure there’s any protocol one has to follow in situations like this. But I do a quick search for information on when to see a doctor when you're pregnant. It’s probably something I should remember from med school, but I don’t. One quick Google search later, and I see we don’t need to see a doctor until she’s eight weeks gestation, and now she's, like, three weeks pregnant. Or, no, the way they count it would be from her last period, which would be approximately five weeks. So, we’ve got some time to research doctors. Hell, Sunny probably already has a gynecologist. She might want to stay with whoever she already sees.
My office door clicks shut, and I dial Sunny. It rings and rings. I set the phone to speaker and open my email on the hospital computer.
“Hey, you.” Her tone is heavy with sadness, and all the energy buzzing inside me deflates, crashing down.
“Sunny?” She doesn’t really have to say more. I know.
“I guess I jumped the gun.”
“Got your period?”
“Yeah. I guess those tests aren’t as reliable as they claim.” Or she miscarried. It’s highly probable she miscarried.
We sit there, on the phone, silent, for what feels like forever. There’s a heavy weight bearing down on me, and I don’t really know what to say. I wish I was with her so I could console her with a hug. She wanted this. “This weekend I’ll come into town and–”
“Don’t bother. I’m okay.”
“But–”
“There are four weddings this weekend. If you’re coming into town for me, don’t.”
