Callie snorts. “Mason and I were overdue for a break. But we wrapped up the honeymoon in epic fashion.”
I raise an eyebrow.
She shrugs, mock-innocent. “Let’s just say we relived our first time.”
I blink. “Oh no.”
“Oh yes. Business class lavatory. Just like last December. Only this time I wasn’t worried about losing a shoe.”
I almost laugh. Almost. “You’re disgusting.”
“Don’t slut-shame your ride-or-die.”
Andrea comes back in just as I’m trying not to cry again. She lays the paperwork down and snaps on gloves.
“Whenever you’re ready,” she says.
Callie squeezes my hand. I nod. Move to the table. The gown’s cold. The stirrups, colder. I keep my eyes on the ceiling.
Andrea walks me through everything. I don’t hear most of it. I just hold Callie’s hand and breathe.
The removal takes less than a minute. A pinch. A pull. Then it’s gone.
Andrea steps back, discards her gloves, and waits for me to sit up before she says, “You did great.”
She passes me a bottle of water. Then the prescription pad.
“Mifepristone tonight. Misoprostol tomorrow. I’ll give you full instructions, and you can text or call anytime.”
I nod. “Side effects?”
“Bleeding, cramping, nausea. It’ll feel like a bad period. You’ll want to rest, stay hydrated. Ideally someone’s with you.”
Callie nods. She’s not going anywhere.
Andrea tears off the sheet and hands it to me. “You’re not broken, Nina. And you don’t have to do any of this alone.”
That’s what does it. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. My eyes sting. Then blur. I press the back of my wrist to them like that might stop it, but the tears spill anyway—quiet and hot. Relief I didn’t ask for. Shame I thought I’d buried. The sudden ache of being seen when I was braced to be alone.
Andrea doesn’t speak. Just rests a hand on my shoulder before stepping out, giving me space.
Callie helps me sit up. Helps me dress. I can’t seem to make my fingers work. She pulls my hoodie over my head like I’m breakable and doesn’t say anything about the fact that I haven’t stopped shaking.
We don’t talk on the way to the car.
We don’t need to.
By the time we pull out of the lot, I’m curled against the window, forehead to the glass. My body feels real again, but my head is far away. I know I’m supposed to be processing something, but I don’t have the room. Not yet.
Callie insists on making food the second we walk in. I don’t fight her.
She disappears into the kitchen, sleeves already pushed up, calling back something about grilled cheese and soup like it’s a prescription. I murmur a thank you and head for the bedroom. The bedside lights are dim enough to be comforting. I sit on the edge of the bed and peel off my shoes one at a time, then crawl under the covers still fully dressed.
The pill is in me now. Swallowed with a mouthful of water in Andrea’s office, just like she said. Mifepristone. The first step. The one that cuts off support to the pregnancy, like shutting down a power grid before the demolition starts.
I try not to think about it in those terms.
I try not to think at all.
