Six to nine weeks.
My mouth opens.Closes.
Cally’s thumb strokes along my arm, as if he’s trying to keep me here.
Dr.Ruiz continues.“Next step is bloodwork tomorrow to confirm your hCG and establish a baseline.Then we’ll refer you to an OB and schedule an ultrasound soon to confirm dates and location.”
Location—like ...my uterus?
“Location,” I repeat, stupidly.
She nods, reading my face like she’s had this conversation with a hundred women who suddenly feel like the floor is no longer trustworthy.“We need to confirm it’s intrauterine.Most pregnancies are.But with uncertain dates and vomiting, we don’t guess.We check.”
My breath comes out too small.
“I’m going to give you a list of warning signs,” she continues, not understanding that she’s just flipped my entire life.“If you have severe abdominal pain, one-sided pain, shoulder pain, heavy bleeding, dizziness that feels like you might faint, you should go to the emergency room immediately.Don’t wait.”
I nod like a robot.
Cally’s hand tightens on my arm like he can’t help it.Monty’s arm stays locked around my waist like he’s built a rule:Vesper doesn’t fall.
“We’ll be monitoring her,” Monty says, voice flat with intent.Then he looks at Dr.Ruiz like he’s negotiating a contract.“How do we help her keep food down?She’s barely eating.”
Dr.Ruiz glances at him, then at me.“Ginger helps some people.Small, frequent meals.Hydration.Vitamin B6 and doxylamine can help with nausea.If she can’t keep fluids down, we intervene sooner.This is not a ‘tough it out’ situation.”
“We can get a nutritionist.A chef.Whatever she needs.”
“Please don’t hire a chef for my uterus,” I manage, because if I don’t joke, I might start screaming.
Neither of them laughs.
That’s when I know I’m in trouble.
I stare at the strip on the counter.
Two lines.
A verdict.
My future.
And then—because my body has a vicious sense of timing—the nausea surges again, fast and mean.I slap a hand over my mouth and bolt for the bathroom.
Behind me, both of them move at the same time—footsteps, curses, urgency.
Dr.Ruiz’s voice cuts through the scramble, firm and controlled.“Only one of you goes with her.The other—bring water.Find a bucket.Now.”
The door swings open, and Monty’s there, instantly.He kneels behind me and gathers my hair back without a word, his other arm banding around my ribs to keep me from tipping forward.
“Breathe,” he murmurs near my ear.“I’ve got you.”
I make a broken noise that might be a laugh.“Congratulations,” I rasp between heaves.“You’re officially best friends with ...a nightmare.”
“You’re not a nightmare,” he says, voice low, unwavering.“You’re going through something big.I want you to know that you’ll be fine.We’ll make sure of that.”
We’ll be fine sounds like a lie.A bedtime story.Something people say when they need the room to stop spinning.
This isn’t fine.
