I think back to the dates. Before the trip. Before San Diego. The boat, the nights at the lake house…
My hand drifts unconsciously to my lower stomach.
Impossible. Doctors said… close to zero chances.
"Silvia," I say, my voice steadying. "I'm going to the clinic. Alone."
Silvia frowns. "What? Why?"
"Because you need to get to work,” I say, walking past her to the bedroom, moving in slow motion to keep the room from spinning. “And I… I need to run some blood tests. Just... a checkup. To be sure."
"To be sure of what?" Silvia follows me, looking confused.
I don't answer.
I can't say it out loud.
If I say it, and I'm wrong, it will break me.
But if I say it, and I'mright...
* * *
The coffee shop across the street from the clinic smells like roasted beans and cookies. I sit at a small table near the window, staring at a cup of herbal tea I haven't touched. I keep my hand clasped round the cup to stop them from shaking.
Don’t do this,I tell myself, pressing a hand to my churning stomach.Don’t build a castle just to watch it crumble.
I look at the ocean in the distance, trying to find the peace I felt in the canyon, but my mind keeps replaying the words of the specialist from five years ago.
Scar tissue. Hostile environment. The chances of natural conception are close to zero.
"Close to zero" isn't zero I dare to hope. But it’s a cruelty to hope for the decimal point.
I check my watch. Almost 10:00 a.m. They said they’ll have the results from the lab around ten.
I take a sip of tea, forcing it down.
I’m here to prove myself wrong and that specialist right. I’m here to get a prescription for whatever meds and a lecture about stress management so I can go back to the equilibrium I just found in my life.
That’s the plan.
My phone buzzes. I smile. A poem from Dorian is exactly what I need now. It usually comes in the morning, and I’ve become addicted to the small anchor it provides.
But it’s not a text. It’s a call from the clinic receptionist.
"Ms. Toma? Dr. Bristol is ready to see you now."
* * *
I sit on the edge of the paper-covered table, my hands gripping the edge so hard my knuckles are white as Dr. Bristol walks in.
She’s a woman in her fifties with kind eyes and a tablet in her hand. She doesn’t look worried. She looks... bright.
"Well, Della," she says, closing the door. "We have your blood work back."
My heart hammers against my ribs.
"Is it... am I sick? Is it a virus?"
