“Both of us,” Wyatt adds. “You’re not doing this alone.”
I nod, throat tight with emotion I don’t have words for.
The drive to the surgical center feels both endless and too quick. Wyatt drives me in my own car, while Chris follows behind us in his rental. The morning traffic is light, Southern California sunshine already warming the air. Halfway across town, Wyatt reaches across to take my hand in his and doesn’t let go.
“After this is over,” Wyatt says, “after you’re recovered, we’re going to take you somewhere. Just the three of us. Somewhere we can just... be.”
“Where?”
“Wherever you want,” he says, glancing over. “Beach, mountains, middle of nowhere. Your choice.”
“That sounds nice,” I say, even though we all know it probably won’t happen. There’s always another crisis, another mission, another reason to postpone happiness.
The surgical center is a gleaming building in Westwood, all glass and clean lines. Chris pulls in beside us in time to open my door and help me out, and they both walk me in, flanking me like bodyguards. Or maybe like partners. The distinction feels important, but my anxiety-riddled brain can’t parse why.
Check-in is a blur of forms and wristbands. Then a nurse in cheerful scrubs leads me back while Chris and Wyatt are directed to the waiting room.
“I’ll see you when you wake up,” Chris says, kissing my forehead.
“We’ll be right here,” Wyatt adds, squeezing my hand one last time.
Then I’m following the nurse down a sterile hallway, the sound of my heartbeat loud in my ears. She leads me to a pre-op room, hands me a gown and surgical cap.
“The anesthesiologist will be in shortly to place your IV,” she says with a professional smile. “Any questions?”
“No, I’m ready.”
She nods and leaves me to change. The gown is thin, the room cold. I sit on the gurney and try not to think about my mother, about hospitals, about the last time I was in a medical facility for something reproductive-related.
The anesthesiologist is a kind woman with steady hands who explains everything as she places the IV. Dr. Cruz comes in next, reviews the procedure one more time. She doesn’t ask again if I’m certain, a question I’ve had to reiterate on several forms as well as verbally since scheduling this procedure. Her calm, no-nonsense presence and acceptance of my decision without question finally puts me at ease. Maybe all it took was another woman’s understanding to validate that I was doing the right thing.
All she asks is “Are you ready?” in a gentle tone.
“I’m ready,” I tell her, and mean it.
They wheel me into the OR, the lights bright overhead. Someone places a mask over my face.
“Count backward from ten,” Dr. Cruz says.
“Ten... nine... eight...”
The last thing I think before the darkness takes me is how strange it is that the three of us found each other again, broken in different ways but somehow fitting together better because of it. Like kintsugi—more beautiful for having been shattered.
Then nothing.
33
Wyatt
The waiting room at the surgical center is aggressively beige—walls, chairs, carpet all designed to hide stains and anxiety equally well. The only color comes from a fake ficus in the corner and the muted television playing a home renovation show nobody’s watching.
Chris sits several chairs away from me. He’s been checking his phone every ninety seconds since we sat down.
“She’s fine,” I say.
His thumb hovers over the screen. “I know.”
“Then stop checking the time like you’re waiting for a ransom call.”
