Flash.
And for half a second, I’m sixteen again, learning how to look fine when I wasn’t.Learning how to keep my face calm while my body begged to be chosen.
I blink and hold the smile.
We can get through the season.
Maybe through Vesper’s pregnancy.
Maybe through the noise, the desire, the wanting that never learned how to die—and the worst part is knowing the only thing that could ruin us faster is giving in.
ChapterTwenty-Two
Vesper
Not going to lie—today, I was hoping for something else.
Something small.Something annoying in a normal way.A delayed flight.A broken zipper.An email from my editor that says,Hey, Ves, can you rewrite this entire script by noon?,so I can roll my eyes, drink my fancy tea-latte thing, and pretend my most significant problems are caffeine and deadlines.
Not this.
Not me, sitting in a medical office that smells like sanitizer and lemon floor cleaner, perched on crinkly exam paper like I’m a deli sandwich waiting to be wrapped, waiting for confirmation of something I really, really don’t want.
According to the internet, false positives happen.But so do alien abductions and detox foot baths.
Two of them don’t matter.I’m clinging to “false positive” anyway, because denial is my most consistent relationship.
I swing my legs.Not because I’m impatient.That would be sane.I do it because the alternative is sitting perfectly still while my brain pulls up a highlight reel of Worst-Case Scenarios and forces me to watch it in high definition.
I sigh, loud enough that the poster on the wall deserves an apology.
It’s a diagram of a reproductive system, and I refuse to look at it directly.I don’t need a labeled uterus judging me today.I’m doing a great job judging myself.
Instead, I focus on the clipboard I filled out earlier—one of those forms designed to make you feel like a malfunctioning appliance.
Are you alive?
Check.
Do you drink alcohol?
Check.
How often?
Mind your own fucking business.
(Again, not what I wrote.I wrote: two to three glasses of wine a week, unless I’m trapped at an event where everyone speaks fluent pretension.)
Any history of goat-related illnesses?
No, but now I’m concerned this is a thing, and who has decided to make this a question?
And fine, it says “livestock exposure,” but wouldn’t goat-related sound more fun?I’m just trying to entertain myself while fighting the whole, losing my shit.
Then the real gut-punch section.Family history:
Mother: Deceased.
