She notes it. Low conversation buzzes around her, and there’s the steady beep of a scale nearby. She loops a blood pressure cuff around my arm. “We’ll get a baseline,” she says, and hits the button. The cuff tightens. I stare at the chart on the opposite wall and breathe.
“One-ten over seventy,” she says. “You run low?”
“Usually,” I say.
“Good hydration helps. Any recent tattoos, piercings, dental work?”
“No.”
She flips to the next page. “And last menstrual period?”
I open my mouth to answer automatically and stop. I run backward through the calendar pinned in my head: opening weekend chaos, the week before that, the gala, the rehearsal dinner tasting, late nights. I try to tag a date, and it slips. A month and a half ago? Maybe more.
Anna glances up. “If you’re not sure, we can estimate. Rough week?”
“Rough couple of weeks,” I say.
She waits, pen poised. “Ballpark?”
“A month and a half,” I say, hearing how thin it sounds. I swallow. “Maybe longer.”
She nods once, still calm. “Any chance you could be pregnant? We screen out donors if there’s a possibility.”
I let out a laugh that’s more air than sound. “No,” I say, then hear myself and feel my chest go tight. The laugh dies. I count back again. My mouth goes dry.
Anna pauses, pen above the paper. “Is there?”
The world narrows to her face and the form and the blood pressure cuff still warm against my skin. Somewhere across the room, I can hear a chair creak, a nurse asking someone to squeeze a stress ball. I try to picture a calendar page, and all I see are his hands braced on either side of my head while he thrusts into me, empties into me.
I drag in a breath that doesn’t feel like enough.
“Olivia?” Anna prompts quietly. “Is there a chance you could be pregnant?”
I nod, barely. The realization settles on my chest like a weight.
“Yeah,” I whisper.
I sit in a small room now, four chairs, a poster about hydration on the wall, a sink that drips every few seconds.Someone handed me a plastic cup, pointed to a bathroom, and told me to wait here for the results. They took my clipboard and said they’d be right back.
My hands won’t stay still. I lace my fingers, unclasp them, smooth my skirt, then stop because I’m making noise. I keep my eyes on the door because if I look anywhere else, my brain starts running in circles I can’t slow.
Before they walked me out, I looked for Roberto. He had a cuff on his arm, a tube running to a half-full bag. He was watching the nurse adjust the line. He didn’t see me leave. Good. Or bad. I don’t know.
What does he think now? That I left the building? That I just left him behind? Will he go hunting for me?
What am I going to tell him?
I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth to steady my breathing. The timeline is a mess in my head. The day in the elevator, so long ago now. The night in my office. The night of the ball. And it wasn’t just once for some of those nights either.
I’m on the pill. Even without a condom, it should be a pretty slim chance.
My phone is in my pocket. I don’t take it out. I could text Caterina and say I got redirected. I could text Roberto and say I’m fine. I don’t know what “fine” means in this room.
Think through the basics. If it’s negative, I’ll stand up, donate, walk back upstairs, sit in a plastic chair, and keep my eyes on the ICU doorslike everyone else. If it’s positive… my stomach flips. Then what? Tell him? Tell no one?
The longest month of my life has been the last forty-eight hours.
That’s what it feels like.
