She snorts and leans back, breaking contact with me. It’s worth it to hear her laugh.
“Give me a break, Conti,” she says, a little bit of Long Island seeping into her voice. “You’re fooling exactly no one.”
“It’s a good thing I’m not trying to.” I lean back and grin. “Anymore.”
The balled-up napkin hits me right in the forehead.
Chapter Twenty Two
Elena
The waiting room looks more like a hotel lobby than a doctor’s office. Soft chairs the color of sage, real plants instead of those waxy impostors, a wall-sized photograph of a shoreline that’s probably supposed to be calming. Even the air feels different, filtered and faintly citrusy.
It’s the nicest doctor’s office I’ve ever been to. Of course it is. It was one of the names on Luca’s list—the one with the added note about “discretion assured.” I told myself that’s why I picked it. I told myself that out of town makes sense, reduces the chances of running into anyone from the courthouse, makes it less likely that anyone would see me and ask questions.
I told myself a lot of things. None of them stops my knee from bouncing.
There’s a couple across from me, her hand under his in that absentminded way that says we do this all the time now. The woman on my left is maybe late thirties, wearing leggings and a sweatshirt with a yoga studio on it, staring into the middle distance like she’s listening to something only she can hear.
A grandmother type by the window is knitting something yellow with the speed of a person who learned to pass the time in waiting rooms a long time ago. There’s a drink station along the wall with a pitcher of water with cucumbers and mint, and all the glasses are real glass, not paper or plastic.
I filled out the forms online like a good modern patient, so the tablet on my lap is just consent screens and acknowledgments that feel like the end of a trial: sign here; initial there; we own your data unless you say otherwise.
Luca said he would be here.
I look at the door like I can conjure him through it. He shouldn’t be able to get here without tripping a dozen alarms. I know that. And I picked an office out of town, despite everything he said and promised, so if he doesn’t come, that’s on me. Good. Better. Safer. My heart doesn’t agree.
I tell myself I don’t want him in a room like this with me. I tell myself I’m a grown woman who doesn’t need a hand to hold. Itell myself I can do this alone because I’ve done harder things alone in courtrooms. I tell myself a lot of things.
Where is he?
“Elena Pennino?” a nurse calls brightly. I stand too fast and nearly drop my bag. She smiles like this happens, which it probably does. Pregnancy brain and all that. “Hi there. I’m Kerri. Come on back.”
The hall is quiet and warm. Doors on either side are closed, and each bears a little watercolor of a flower over a discreet room number. No screaming colors. No fluorescent buzz.
We pause at a scale. “If you could step on,” Kerri says, and I do. Numbers blink. She writes them on a chart and doesn’t say them out loud, which I appreciate because I know that number will be changing soon.
We pass a framed print that says “breathe” in a loopy script. I want to roll my eyes and also obey, which is infuriating.
Kerri opens a door onto a room bathed in the kind of light that makes everything feel fresh and clean. There’s a machine on a rolling stand with a screen the size of a small TV, covered with a paper drape.
A counter with neatly organized gels and boxes. A chair for someone who isn’t me. A bed with a fresh sheet pulled tight and a paper cover that I know will wrinkle loudly when I sit on it.
The corner holds a basket of folded gowns and another of socks with little grippers, like I’ll be walking around in them.
“Go ahead and have a seat for just a second,” she says, and I do. My hands smooth my skirt because it gives them something to do. “The doctor will be in shortly. First, I’ll run through a few things with you.”
We go through dates and math about my last period, and I give her the day and the time and the certainty. She asks if I’ve traveled recently, and I say no. She checks a box and moves on. It’s oddly merciful.
“Any nausea?” she asks.
“Some,” I say. “Whenever it feels like it, really.”
“Vomiting?”
“A couple of times. Mostly it’s just… waves. It comes in rolls.”
She nods. “We can talk remedies if you need them. Taking a prenatal?”
