She smiles, a genuine, crinkling of her eyes. "You're definitely not sick. In fact, your levels look very strong."
I blink, the room tilting slightly.
"I don't understand."
She steps closer, resting a hand on my arm.
"Della, your HCG levels are high. You're pregnant. I'd estimate about five or six weeks along."
The world stops. The air leaves the room. The sound of the ocean outside, the hum of the lights, my own heartbeat—it all goes silent.
"That’s..." I whisper. “I… I was told... I couldn't."
"Medicine is a science, not a prophecy," Dr. Bristol says softly. "And sometimes, the body heals in ways we don't expect. Stress, time, hormonal shifts... or maybe just the right moment."
The right moment.
My mind flashes back. Lake Geneva. The lake, the stars outside, the ruby, the fire inside. The way we clung to each other, desperate and raw, trying to bridge the gap of five years in a single night. The math is perfect. The dates align with terrifying precision.
"We need to do an ultrasound to be sure of the dating and check for viability," she says, moving toward the machine. "But the blood test is definitive. You are pregnant."
I lie back, numb, as she applies the warm gel. I stare at the ceiling tiles, afraid to breathe.
Don’t hope. Not yet.
The screen flickers to life, showing a dark void with a tiny, white sac inside.
"We don't have sound yet," Dr. Bristol says, adjusting the probe, "but watch the center of the gestational sac."
And then, I see it.
A tiny, insistent flicker, like a grain of rice pulsing in the darkness. It’s a rhythmic, relentless spark of light. I can see it.
"There," the Doctor says, pointing to the screen. "That’s your baby."
The dam breaks. A sob rips from my chest, raw and violent.
My hands fly to my face, covering my mouth as the tears come—hot, fast, uncontrollable.
"Is this real?" I choke out.
"It's very real," she laughs softly, handing me a tissue. "Congratulations, Della."
* * *
I walk out of the clinic and into the blinding San Diego sun, toward the boardwalk, dazed, my hand resting protectively over my flat stomach.
A secret. A miracle.
A baby.Our baby.
I stop near a low wall overlooking the restless waves. I close my eyes, picturing Dorian. I see his dark eyes, usually so guarded, softening when I tell him. I imagine the look on his face—the shock, and then... the awe.
"You’d be a wonderful father, Dorian,"I remember telling him that night in the park, watching him smile in the dim light beneath the oak trees.
Now, I will get to say it again. And this time, it’s not just a dream. It’s real.
Happy, ridiculous joyful tears run down my cheeks into the salty breeze. I pull out my phone. I can't text this. I need to hear his voice. I need to tell him to come get me, that I’m ready to come home, that… I have news.
