The Marriage Rival

It is fucking hot in here.

One lady—her stomach enormous—mentions the word triplets. It hasn’t even dawned on me that Presley could be expecting twins, or even triplets. Suddenly, the room does begin to feel even hotter as I tug my collar away from my neck trying to get some air on my heated skin.

Triplets, holy fuck, talk about saying goodbye to any sex. It would be the end of any intimacy between Presley and me, not that I have been getting any lately. Presley complains she isn't feeling well or has a headache. If I try to touch her, she pulls away, annoyed I woke her up even though she doesn’t look like she is sleeping.

The cold, hard reality is that I haven’t touched her in two weeks but do my best to control my overbearing sex drive knowing her body is going through changes.

Jerking off has become the new norm.

I lace my hand into Presley’s in an effort to calm my wild thoughts, admiring her perfectly manicured nails and platinum wedding band nestled on her finger.

She doesn’t say anything, reading an email on her phone.

“Put your phone away,” I gently scold her. “Work can wait. Just enjoy the moment.”

“This is important.”

I grab the phone from her, placing it inside the pocket of my pants. Grimacing, she folds her arms with an annoyed pout, letting out a frustrated huff as the receptionist calls her name.

We follow her down the narrow corridor and into a small room. The area looks similar to the one we last visited in Manhattan—a bed, plastic chair beside it, and the sonographer’s equipment.

The receptionist offers for me to take a seat while Presley gets comfortable on the bed.

“Are you excited?” I ask, watching Presley pull her blouse up to expose her stomach. “Can they tell the sex now?”

Presley doesn’t make eye contact, and I sense her nerves. Presley always wants to be in control, and when she can’t control a situation, she acts just like this. Careful not to stress her out, I touch her hand and rub it gently.

“They can’t tell the sex now,” she states, matter-of-factly.

The sonographer, Anne, walks in and greets us hello. She is an older lady, probably mid-fifties with a blonde bowl haircut. It’s rather unusual and comical, but I keep my amused opinion to myself for now.

“Are you ready, Mrs. Cooper?”

Presley nods with a smile.

“So, this is your second pregnancy, correct?”

“Yes,” we both answer at the same time.

“Let’s see how far along you are.”

Anne places the lubricant-looking stuff on Presley’s lower abdomen and pushes the stick-looking thing around. She slides back and forth, typing with her left hand as she continues.

It is hard to make out anything on the screen, just a bunch of black and some white lines. Given that Presley isn’t far along, the sonographer tells us to hang tight as some odd noises played over the speaker. However, not far into the appointment, the sonographer places the scan device down and removes her glasses. She turns to face us with a sympathetic expression.

“Mr. and Mrs. Cooper, unfortunately, we don’t have a viable heartbeat.”

I don’t understand, my gaze fixated on her face waiting for some sort of joke to play out. The words refuse to register, my body numb on this stupid and uncomfortable plastic chair. I’m trying to connect my thoughts, but they begin to jumble up.

“I… I don’t understand. The pregnancy test was positive,” Presley stutters.

Anne turns the machine off. “Most pregnancy losses are due to factors women can’t control. Miscarriages early into a pregnancy aren’t uncommon. Around eighty percent of miscarriages occur in the first trimester.”

My eyes wander toward the ground, staring at the floor. How did this happen? Did we do something wrong? I didn’t understand.

“But… but… how did this happen?”

Anne takes a deep breath. “I understand this is devastating news, and it’s best to make an appointment to see your doctor. There could be a number of reasons including genetic issues. Again, the best thing to do will be to speak to your doctor.”