“Yes.”
“Any spotting? Cramping?”
“No spotting.” Not yet. “Mild cramping sometimes. Not like my cycle. Just… different.”
“Okay. Allergies to meds?”
“Amoxicillin when I was a kid. Rash.”
“Past surgeries?”
“Appendix. College. Wisdom teeth. That’s it.”
“Family history of genetic conditions?”
I shake my head, then remember. “My father’s side has a cousin with… I don’t know. Something that affects muscle tone? I never met him. My mother’s side—nothing I know of.”
She nods and notes. “Any cats at home?” she asks, and I blink. “Litter changes can be a thing,” she explains gently.
“No cats.” No anything, I almost say. Just a plant that’s barely hanging on and a couch with a dent shaped like my ass.
“Any medications besides the prenatal?” she asks.
“Just… antacids sometimes.” I don’t say I carry them like a lifeline due to stress.
She nods and notes it down.
She taps a few more fields, then indicates to the gown on the exam table. “Undress completely and put this on,” she says. “Tie this in the back if you want the coverage. There’s a sheetunder there, too. I’ll step out and give you a minute. If you need anything, there’s a call button right here.” She taps a little square like a doorbell on the wall near the bed. “Doctor Bianchi will be in shortly.”
Bianchi. I can’t pinpoint exactly why I picked her. Maybe it was Luca’s little note about discretion. Maybe it’s because she’s far enough out of town. Maybe it’s because her website didn’t feel like she was trying to sell me something.
Or maybe I picked her because it’s the only thing I feel like I can control right now.
Kerri pauses in the doorway. “You’re doing fine,” she says, like she can hear the noise in my head, and then she’s gone. The door closes with a whisper.
I look at the extra chair for the person who might sit there, and I look at the machine and the screen and the tray and the gel and the box of tissues. I listen for the particular cadence of Luca’s footsteps, which is ridiculous because I don’t actually know if he will come, or if he can. He said he would, and I chose someone on his list, but now I’m not sure.
What am I even doing? I’m trying to be two people at once: a woman who doesn’t need anyone and a woman who desperately wants to hold a hand.
I stand, and the paper crackles. I take off my shoes, then my skirt, then my underwear, folding them into the neat square of my blazer.
The gown is softer than I expect, not the scratchy kind from emergency rooms. I tie it behind me, and it doesn’t quite close, but it’s good enough, which feels like the thesis of this whole thing.
I sit on the edge of the bed and pull the sheet over my lap. My knees are pale against the paper. My hands find each other and lace together, then unlatch, then lace again. I stare at the screen, black and waiting.
There’s a sound in the hall—voices low, wheels rolling. I breathe in, and it smells like that same citrus from the waiting room, but also rather medicinal.
Another breath. Another. The clock above the door ticks as time passes. I want my mother with me so badly it makes my throat tight. I want to call Luca and demand answers. Where are you? Stay away. Why aren’t you here?
A small knock raps gently against the door. My body goes very still, and I sit up straight, the paper wrinkling under me.
I tighten the sheets in both fists and find my voice.
“Come in,” I say.
The door opens, and Luca slips inside before soft-closing the door with his palm. For a heartbeat, my breath catches, then it releases.
“I’m sorry,” he says immediately, voice low. “I’m late.”
