I think about last night—his kitchen, my hands on his shirt, the way his voice went hard and then soft again. The door slamming as I left. I can still hear it. If I’m pregnant, I have to talk to him. He has a right to know.
I rub my thumb over the ridge of my knuckle. I can’t picture his face when I say the words. I can, but I don’t know which version is real: the careful lawyer who will ask for facts and timelines, or the man who carried me to bed and held me until morning. Maybe both. Maybe he’s always been both.
A cart rattles past in the hall. Footsteps stop, move on. I watch the handle even though it doesn’t turn. I tell myself to make a plan that isn’t just panic.
If it’s positive, I’ll ask for a printout and the name of an OB. I’ll text my own doctor for an appointment. I’ll tell Caterina I need to step outside for air so I can think. I won’t say anything in front of the whole family. Not here. Not with her uncle Antonio in the ICU down the hall.
What about the comp codes? The warehouse? The word that stuck in my throat last night—mafia. I don’t know how any of that fits with the word pregnancy. I don’t know how to put those in the same sentence without feeling sick again. I put a palm on my belly like I can quiet itfrom the outside.
I hear a polite knock two doors down and a low conversation. My heel starts bouncing, and I force it flat to the floor. I try to count backward from a hundred. I lose my place and start again. The sink drips. The clock on the wall ticks one second at a time, driving me crazy.
Is he wondering where I am? Probably. He notices everything. He’ll finish the donation, stand up, look around. He’ll ask a nurse. He’ll be told I got rerouted for screening. He’ll draw the right conclusion in two steps because he’s smart and the timing is what it is.
The handle turns. I sit up straighter and wipe my palms on my knees, ready to hear a yes or a no, even if I don’t know what I want the answer to be.
A nurse steps in with a folder held to her chest. Mid-thirties, tired eyes, professional smile.
“Olivia?” she says.
“Yes.” My voice comes out thin and hollow.
She sits across from me and sets the folder on her knee. “I’m Carrie. I reviewed your screening and the rapid urine test.”
My fingers knit together hard. “Okay.”
“The result is positive.” She says it simply and quickly. Rip the bandage off, I guess. “That means this quick test detected HCG. These tests are very good, but we still recommend confirmation with a quantitative blood test and a follow-up with your OB/GYN.”
Positive.
Her mouth keeps moving; I try to keep up.
“Because of that, you won’t be able to donate today. That’s standard—pregnancy is an automatic deferral for your safety. No cause for alarm. Do you have a doctor you can call?”
I nod slowly. “Yes.”
“I can print your result for your records and give you a list of OBs affiliated with the hospital, if that’s helpful.”
“Please,” I say. The word feels like it belongs to someone else.
She slides two papers from the folder, checks my name at the top, and passes them across. A pink highlighter line marks “positive.” Behind it is a one-page sheet: Next steps, prenatal vitamins, who to call. I stare at the lines until they stop swimming.
“Do you feel dizzy? Nauseated?” she asks, clinical and kind.
“No. I’m okay.” My palm is flat against my thigh to keep it from shaking.
“All right. I’ll note the deferral in the donor system. If you’d like the serum test while you’re here, we can draw it now and send it to the lab. Results would route to your doctor.”
“In this building?” I ask.
“Down the hall,” she says. “But with everything going on upstairs, you may prefer to call your doctor and schedule for later. It’s your call.”
I nod again. Upstairs. ICU. A family in plastic chairs, counting minutes. “I’ll call my doctor,” I say.
“Good,” she says, standing. “Take your time here if you need a minute. When you’re ready, you can exit down the corridor without going back through the donor bay. If anyone asks, just tell them you were deferred for screening.”
Deferred. The word feels mercifully vague.
“Thank you,” I say.
