She nods, and gestures to her nurse who starts to conduct my pre-exam.
"Any symptoms? Nausea, fatigue, breast tenderness?"
"Nausea. Vomiting. For about a week now." I glance at Saint. His face is blank. "I thought it was stress."
"Could be." She draws blood. "We'll run a quantitative hCG test. It measures the exact level of pregnancy hormone. More accurate than home tests."
"How long?" Saint's first words since we arrived.
"An hour. Maybe less." She labels the vials. "I'll put a rush on it."
He nods.
"You two can wait here unless you'd like to go out. There's a delicious bakery next door?—"
"We'll wait," Saint says. He settles back in his chair, staring forward, silent.
I want to reach for his hand and say something, but I don't. The distance between us feels insurmountable. Still, I can't sit here for an hour hoping that Saint would come around.
"Saint. About everything?—"
"Not now."
I close my eyes, taking a deep breath, trying to calm the anger that is brewing inside of me. "When?"
"I don't know, Gemma. When I'm not trying to hold my family together. When I'm not facing a coup. When my wife didn't decide to betray me the first minute, she didn't get what she wanted." His voice is flat. "Pick a time. Any time that's not now."
I close my eyes against the tears that prickle against my eyelids. I refuse to cry right now, but I'm feeling more emotional than normal. I hold back the tears, not wanting to cry in front of Saint. "I'm sorry."
"I know."
"I love you."
He doesn't respond.
The silence is worse than his anger. At least when he's angry, he cares. This…this is horrible.
Finally, Dr. Reeves returns. It's been the longest hour of my life.
Her face is neutral, but I see it immediately. The slight tightness around her eyes. The way she sits down slowly.
"The results are negative," she says gently.
I knew they would be the second I saw her.
"What?" My voice sounds far away.
"Your hCG levels are at 2. Anything under 5 is considered not pregnant." She pulls out the report, shows us numbers that mean nothing to me. "I'm sorry."
"But the test was positive. I saw it?—"
"The test you used was likely from a faulty batch. It happens more often than you'd think—manufacturing defects, expired reagents, improper storage." She looks sympathetic.
I can't breathe.
For the last five hours, I had hope. Sweet, desperate hope that maybe this could work. Maybe we could be saved.
False.
