“ID and insurance card, please.”
“No health insurance. I’m paying with cash,” I say, handing her my driver’s license.
She makes a copy, then gives it back to me along with paperwork to complete. The waiting room is crowded, but we’re able to find seats across from each other. My nerves are shot to shit. I can’t stop my hands from shaking.
The next several hours stretch endlessly—urine and blood tests, an ultrasound, and finally a pelvic exam. I mentally check out through it all. I’m five weeks pregnant. That means conception happened the first time Sandman “put the tip in.”
“I’m sorry.” I pull my gaze from the stained carpet. “Can you repeat the question?”
Maggie, the office counselor, regards me with kind eyes from across her desk. “Are you here of your own free will?”
“Yes,” I mumble past numb lips.
She jots down my response, then moves on to the next question. “Have you considered other options?”
“There are no other options,” I reply sharply and immediatelyfeel like crap for taking my anger out on her. It’s not her fault I’m here.It’s his.
“There’s adoption—”
“There are no other options,” I repeat, balling my hands into tight fists. “Are these questions necessary?”
“They are.” Maggie leans forward and folds her arms across the desk. “It’s my job to ensure you’re aware of all possible avenues. What birth control methods have you considered post-procedure?”
“I have the pill, but I was already pregnant before I started taking it.”I would’ve taken other precautions had I known pregnancy was possible without full penetration.
Half an hour later, I’m on the exam table with my legs hoisted in the stirrups. A nurse stands beside me, holding my hand for emotional support. Guilt settles heavily in the pit of my stomach.
“You’re going to be okay,” she tells me, offering a friendly smile. “It’ll all be over soon.”
“I’m about to inject numbing medication into your cervix,” the doctor explains. “You’re going to feel a slight pressure.”
I close my eyes and pray I’m not making the biggest mistake of my life.
Three years ago
“Up and at ’em, lazy bones,” Zilphia says, a smile in her voice. “We’re going swimming.”
I look toward the door, finding her bikini-clad form standing just beyond the entrance to the tree house with two towels hanging over her arm. My greedy gaze touches on the multi-color fabric hiding her private areas from my view. My mind screams at me to stop staring, but I can’t help myself. Every inch of her is perfect, but it’s her silky caramel skin that I find most striking. God, I would give anything to be more than friends.
“Why are you staring at me like that?” Zilphia asks, laughter dancing in her beautiful brown eyes.
I instantly jerk my gaze away from her and pretend interest in the comedy playing on the television. “Can’t,” I comment gruffly, ignoring her question. “Didn’t bring any swim shorts.”
“Sam, you don’t need swim shorts. You’re wearing boxer briefs, right? Or maybe you’re a tighty-whities type of guy.” She waggles her eyebrows.
“I’m a boxer briefs guy, but that doesn’t matter. I’m not letting you see me in my underwear.” I don’t trust myself not to get an erection.
“Don’t be a party pooper,” Zilphia whines. “Boxer briefs are just like swimming shorts, and hello, I’m wearing a bikini.” She clasps her hands together, and it doesn’t escape my notice that the action causes her breasts to jiggle just a little. “Pretty please with a cherry on top.”
“We could get caught,” I say, hoping she drops it and puts some clothes on.
“We won’t,” she says with an impatient huff. “At dinner, my parents drank enough wine to knock out a horse, and Nolan’s at a party.”
I reluctantly leave my comfortable position on the sofa. “All right. Lead the way.”
My pulse beats a rapid staccato as I follow her down the stairs. A loose thread on her bikini bottoms hangs by the curve of her left ass cheek. It sways back and forth with every step she takes, taunting me. I tempt fate and roll the twisted fibers between my thumb and forefinger.
“Surprise!” Zilphia exclaims and whirls around.
