The words land like a freight train. Fireworks. Jake’s bed. My dress on his floor. His shirt on my body. The condom wrapper in his hand. I turn to look at him.
Jake is staring at me like he’s watching his entire life get rewritten in real time. Shock, yes. But underneath that, there’s something else cracking through his expression. Something fierce and bright and completely unguarded that looks a hell of a lot like hope. And fear. And maybe a little wonder.
I don’t have room for any of that. My emotional capacity is currently maxed out.
“I’ll give you two some privacy,” Dr. Patel says softly. “Take all the time you need. The front desk can give you a referral to an OB-GYN if you need one.” She sets a pamphlet on the counter—Your First Trimester: What to Expect—complete with a cartoon stork that looks way too cheerful for the moment. Then she slips out of the room.
The silence that follows is deafening. Like being locked in a soundproof booth with only your own heartbeat and every bad decision you’ve ever made.
I stare at the pamphlet. At the pastel colors and the friendly font and the little list of bullet points I refuse to read. This cannot be my life.
“Natalie,” Jake says quietly.
I can’t look at him. I can’t. If I look at him, this becomes real in a way I’m not ready for. I fix my eyes on the wall instead. That stupid heart poster with that sage advice. Whoever wrote that has clearly never had their entire future ambushed in an exam room on a randommorning.
“It’s mine,” Jake says.
It’s not a question. It lands in the air between us with heavy certainty.I force myself to turn my head. To meet his eyes. He’s closer now, only a few feet away. He slides his hands in his pockets like he’s physically restraining himself from reaching out. His jaw is tight. His eyes are steady.
“I don’t want to assume anything,” he says, voice careful, measured. “But?—”
“It’s yours.” I cut him off, because if I don’t say it now, it’s going to choke me. “There hasn’t been anyone else. Not since you.” I swallow hard. “Not for a while before that, either.”
Something in his face loosens. Just a fraction. His shoulders drop half an inch. That flicker of relief is so obvious I almost want to punch him and hug him at the same time.
“Okay,” he says.
“Okay?” I repeat, half hysterical laugh, half challenge. “That’s it? Just…okay?”
I stare at him, waiting for the rest. Waiting for anger or panic or some sort ofWhy didn’t you call me?or anything that matches the chaos ricocheting inside my skull.
But he just stands there, looking at me like I’m something precious he’s afraid to touch too quickly. Like if he moves wrong, I might bolt. Which is a great idea.
“I need to get out of here,” I say suddenly. The room tilts when I stand, a slow, unpleasant roll. Jake is beside me in a heartbeat, his hand firm on my elbow.
“Easy,” he says. “Just breathe.”
“I’m fine.”
“I know. But let’s take it slow anyway.”
He keeps his hand on my arm, steadying but not controlling,guiding me out of the exam room and down the hall. The fluorescent lights, the harsh disinfectant smell, the shuffle of nurses—it all blurs at the edges, like someone smeared my life with their thumb.
We pass the front desk, where the receptionist is already pulling some printout off the printer for me. Something about referrals. I nod like I’m absorbing information when really my brain is just repeatingpregnantlike a skipping record.
Outside, the air hits my face—warm, bright, too clear. The sky is aggressively blue. People are walking dogs, juggling coffee cups, living their lives like the ground hasn’t just shifted three feet to the left.
“I can’t be pregnant,” I say, tipping my head back to stare at the sky, talking to the clouds or the universe or whoever decided now was a good time for chaos. “I just sold my show. This is everything I’ve worked for. I’m supposed to start in the writers’ room in December. I’m supposed to be on set in the spring. And now?—”
My voice cracks. I swallow hard, but it doesn’t fix the wobble.
“And now it’s all going to blow up,” I finish, quieter.
“Now we figure it out,” Jake says.
“You don’t understand.” I shake my head, frustration and fear burning hot behind my eyes. “You know what happens to women in this industry when they get pregnant? They get replaced. Pushed out. Everyone says they’re supportive, but the second you become ‘unreliable’ or ‘unavailable’ or ‘tired’ or ‘needing accommodations,’ there’s someone else waiting to take your spot. Someone without a uterus.”
“Natalie—”
