Forus.
I’m not sure how yet.
But I know we’re about to find out.
***
Thankfully, the hotel is only a few streets from the clinic.
As soon as we slide into the car, Mercs takes my hand, not casually, not absentmindedly, he threads his fingers through mine like he’s anchoring me to something solid.
I stare out the window.
“So,” he says gently as we turn toward the hotel. “That was a lot to take in.”
A lot.
That feels like the understatement of the century.
I hum in response, because if I open my mouth properly, I’m not sure what will come out.
Hormone imbalance.
Lifelong condition.
Injections.
Infertility.
The word keeps echoing.
Infertility.
The car pulls into the valet area, and I unbuckle before it fully stops and step out, needing air, needing space. Mercs is right behind me, his hand reclaiming mine before I can drift too far ahead.
He doesn’t let go in the elevator.
The silence between us isn’t angry, it’s heavy and fragile.
When we reach the suite, I drop his hand to unlock the door and walk in first. The quiet of the room presses in on me immediately.
My chest tightens.
Too tight.
I start pacing before I can stop myself. Back and forth. The air suddenly feels too warm, too thin. A flush creeps up my neck, my skin prickling as panic nips at the edges of my breathing.
Mercs exhales slowly behind me and steps forward, catching my elbow. “Effa.”
The frown carved into his face makes everything inside me crack wider.
Marriage.
Babies.
Grandbabies.
I’d always pictured them so clearly. A future where music and family coexist. Now it feels like someone’s taken an eraser to the second half of that image. My bottom lip trembles despite my best effort to steady it.
