She nods, typing.“How long has the nausea been going on?”
I open my mouth with the intention of lying and then realize she will absolutely smell it on me.“A couple of weeks.”
Her fingers pause.“And vomiting?”
“It started today,” I admit.“But I’ve had the feeling longer.”
“Any new medications?”
“No.”
“Supplements?”
“Caffeine,” I say, deadpan.
Her eyes lift.“I’m serious.”
I exhale.“No meds.No supplements.Nothing new.”
She watches me a beat longer, like she’s building a map of my avoidance.“Any chance you could be pregnant?”
My brain doesn’t just pause.It shuts off, like someone killed the power mid-sentence.
Pregnant.
The word “pregnant” lands, and suddenly the room isn’t Monty’s apartment anymore.It’s my past.It’s my mother’s face before she disappeared behind hospital doors.It’s my dad trying to be strong while the world changed anyway.It’s me at eighteen thinking that I could choose my destiny just to find out that it’s impossible.Happiness isn’t guaranteed and life is always a clusterfuck that you can’t change.
“No,” I say too fast.“No.I mean—probably not.”
“When was your last period?”
My mouth opens, closes, and then I tell her about the Depo shot.The part where I missed my shot in early December and if we do the math it’s been six months since the last time I got it.Making it not impossible, but ...please, let it be something else.That Nordic virus or ...something.Dr.Ruiz looks at me and it almost seems like a whole, “Oh, you poor woman.You’re fucked, but I’m going to pretend that this isn’t the end of your world.”
“To be clear, you’re not current with your injections?”
I stare at her tablet like if I concentrate hard enough I’ll teleport into a different storyline.“As I mentioned, I missed my dose in early December.I was in New Zealand filming.I had an appointment.I rescheduled.Then I didn’t.”
Dr.Ruiz’s face doesn’t change, but her attention tightens.“So it’s been ...?”
I hate that I’m repeating myself.That quick explanation seemed fruitless.“Six months,” I whisper, and that number tastes like panic.
Dr.Ruiz nods slowly, like she’s walking me down a staircase I don’t want to descend.“Have you had sex in the past six months?”
I laugh—an ugly, nervous thing—because my brain is determined to make everything a joke so I don’t start crying in front of a stranger with a medical degree that might be threatening my future.
Then I catch her glance toward the terrace doors.
“Oh,” I say, because of course.“You think them and me.”My laugh goes louder, wilder.“No.We haven’t.Not since I was eighteen.”
I do not mention the way that summer night still lives in my skin.The one that taught me what it feels like to be held by more than one set of hands at once, cared for and wanted in ways that made me believe love could be big enough to hold the whole truth.
I do not mention that I’ve never stopped missing it—or loving them.
Dr.Ruiz’s expression doesn’t soften, but her voice shifts—firmer.“Ms.Lafontaine, I need you to take this seriously.I understand you’re scared and deflecting, but I need accurate answers.”
My throat gets too small for a second.I swallow it down.“Sorry.It’s just—my dad is sick.The camp is falling apart.I don’t have a project lined up.I’m waiting on approvals and budgets and people deciding if I’m useful enough to pay.”
The words come out harsher than I mean them to.Not at her.At the universe.
