I blink. “Didn’t you just come back from a resort? Isn’t your bloodstream still 70% ceviche?”
She smiles, small and crooked. “Marcella said she defrosted some soup, but it’s not enough for everyone. She’s still having trouble holding a knife with her right hand, so we promised her takeout tonight. Pull your car out and park in front. I’ll drive.”
“You don’t want to shower? Or lie down for a year?”
“I want a gallon of lemonade and twenty minutes alone with you where no one under the age of three is yelling.”
Before I can answer, the front door opens again. Mason steps out, takes a glance in the backseat just to make sure nothing got left behind and then plucks Zoey out of his mother’s arms and blows a raspberry on the little girl’s belly.
I can’t hide my flinch at the baby’s squeal of delight.
“I’ll let them know. Meet me in front,” Callie says, giving my arm a squeeze.
She heads up the steps, and I slide back into my car, hands tightening on the wheel as I put it into reverse.
Marcella’s seated in the shade of the porch bench, beaming at her son and granddaughter. Zoey babbles excitedly the second she spots Callie, tiny arms reaching. Callie scoops her up, spins her once, presses kisses to her cheeks. Mason watches from the porch railing, arms folded, love written across every line of his face.
I back out and parallel park at the curb on the other side of the bougainvillea-shrouded fence that blocks their small house from the street.
She says nothing as I slide into her passenger seat, puts the car into drive, and glances over, expression even.
Twenty minutes.
We’ll see if I make it that long.
Callie doesn’t speak right away, and I’m grateful.
She’s driving, but she’s not distracted. Her hands are steady on the wheel, her posture open—calculated calm. It’s her doctor persona, but with less condescension and more compassion. I’ve seen her use it on patients too scared to ask the real question. It’s the silence she offers in place of pressure. The kind that says: I’m here when you’re ready.
I swallow hard.
This isn’t new. Callie’s always been like this—steady without being rigid, always measured and intentional. It’s why we work. Why I’ve always trusted her to be the one person who wouldn’t try to fix me.
But it’s different when I’m the one with something to hide.
She waits until we’ve cleared the worst of the traffic. Until I’ve had time to breathe, or fake it. Then she just says, “So.”
I almost laugh. Almost fill the space with bullshit.
Instead, I shake my head.
“I’m late,” I say. Flat. Small.
She doesn’t respond or ask what I mean, because she knows.
She waits.
“I haven’t taken a test yet,” I add, because I need to do something. “I’ve been telling myself it’s just stress. That the IUD is still in. That it’s not possible.”
Callie nods once—acknowledgment, not agreement.
“But I can’t stop feeling like something’s wrong. And I haven’t been able to sleep. And my boobs hurt. And everything smells like metal.”
The words spill faster now. Less thought, more defense. If I say it clinically, maybe it won’t count.
“I threw up this morning. I mean—I gagged. It was just tea, and I didn’t actually puke. But I felt it. Like my body was trying to reject itself.”
Silence again.
