Bette had stepped through the frosted glass door at that exact moment, and now stood frozen in the waiting room. I seethed at the sight of her. It was annoying enough that I was forced to go through this and that my medical history belonged to the government now, but did this woman have to announce everything to the waiting room?
The other times the receptionist annoyed me, I’d kept my mouth shut, but being hormonal meant I was unable to control myself this time.
“Listen,” I said, my tone icy and firm, “I get this isn’t exactly private and that everyone knows why I’m here, but if you could refrain from sharing my medical information with the waiting room, that would be nice. Despite the circumstances, I feel like I’m still entitled to a smidgen of privacy.”
Department of Fertility Barbie flushed and sat back, all the excitement melting from her countenance. “Yes. Of course. I didn’t really think about it like that. I mean, women are usually excited to see their baby.”
“This,” I waved to my stomach, “isn’t my baby. I don’t even know who the father is. You get that, right? I mean, I had no say in any of this. I’m here against my will. So, no, I do not want to announce to the world that I’m about to see the baby the government put in my body.”
The receptionist’s cheeks reddened even more, and she glanced away. Shifted. My gaze didn’t falter, and I felt sure Bette was judging me. Not that I cared. I didn’t have a say in much of what was happening to me, but I would stand up for the things I could control, and this was one. I deserved privacy. Everyone did.
“I–I’m sorry,” the receptionist stammered. “I’ll try to control myself.”
“Try?” I gave her an icy glare. “I think you should do more than that considering my best friend is an attorney. I’d hate to have to sue you for a HIPPA violation.”
She visibly paled even though my threat had no merit. I couldn’t sue the Department of Fertility. No one could. The president had deemed infertility a national crisis in 2046 when he established the Department of Fertility, giving them absolute authority and making them untouchable. Not that the receptionist seemed aware of that.
“Yes.” She nodded emphatically. “Of course. Again, I’m sorry.”
“Thank you,” I said, feeling smugger than this small victory should have warranted.
“You can sit.” She waved toward the waiting room. “I’ll let them know you’re here.”
I didn’t bother thanking her this time.
Unsurprisingly, Bette had watched this all play out. Surprisingly, she had a small smirk on her face, and she even gave me a conspiratorial wink when I passed her. Which confused the shit out of me. Despite some of her reactions during group, I still thought of her as being ontheirside. The Department of Fertility had given her the baby she’d so desperately wanted, after all.
I took a seat on the overstuffed couch and, to my annoyance, Bette walked over to join me rather than heading for the elevator.
“That was amazing,” she said in a low voice. “It’s disgustinghow they flaunt all our private information.”
She looked down, focusing on my stomach, and I stiffened, waiting for her to mention that I was pregnant. I’d refused to talk during the last support group no matter how hard Destiny had tried to draw me into the conversation because I hadn’t been ready to share my news, and being able to walk away without having to admit I was pregnant had made me feel more in control. Unfortunately, that control had been ripped away thanks to Department of Fertility Barbie. The bitch.
Before Bette could say anything about my condition, the frosted glass door opened, and Hilary stuck her head out. “Ara?”
I groaned inwardly. Seriously, being in this program was torture enough without having to deal with this chick all the time. I mean, it wasn’t like she was a doctor or nurse, so why did she have to be a part of this?
I got to my feet, not bothering to hide my irritation, and Bette gave me what I thought was an encouraging smile. I wasn’t positive what it meant, but I also didn’t care. I just wanted to get all of this over with so I could get to work and distract myself with the account I was currently working on.
Obviously picking up on my mood, Hilary’s eyes crackled as she pushed the door open wider, but she was still smiling. Of course, she was. The creepy bitch.
“Ultrasound time!” she declared in a sing-song voice that reminded me of a preschool teacher trying to get her students excited about learning.
“Good luck!” Bette called just as I stepped through the door.
I let it swing shut without replying.
“This way,” my fertility counselor said, waving for me to follow as she headed down the hall. She had her tablet in her hand, which she powered on as she walked. “How have you been feeling? Not too bad, I hope. Your wristband has alerted us to some morning sickness and disruption in sleep, but it seems to be fairly mild.”
I wouldn’t have called puking my guts out most mornings mild, but since I supposed other women had it worse, I simply said, “I’m okay.”
“Good, good.” Hilary typed something into the tablet, her gaze flicking from it to the hall as she worked and walked at the same time. “Any other issues?”
“I’ve been tired, and my breasts are sore.”
“Both are normal.” Her eyes flicked my way as she offered a bright smile that made me want to punch her. “Did you know that during the first trimester a pregnant woman’s body at rest is working as hard as someone running a marathon?”
“Um, no,” I replied, thinking about Owen.
