Royal Wedding (The Princess Diaries 11)

“You’re pregnant, of course,” Dr. Delgado said, still looking down at my chart. “And according to your HCG levels, you are very, very pregnant indeed.”

I nearly fell off the exam table. In fact, if Michael hadn’t reached up and grasped my wrist—he couldn’t grab my hand, because I was clutching the white paper lining the exam table too tightly—I probably would have hit the floor.

“Uh,” I said. “No, that is not possible. There has to have been some kind of mistake.”

“Oh, no,” Dr. Delgado said. “There’s definitely no mistake. Both urine and blood work confirm it. But we can do an ultrasound right now if you like, just to make sure.”

Dr. Delgado’s office is on Eightieth and Park, quite far from any subway, and definitely not on a geological fault.

But I was sure I felt the examination table sway underneath me, anyway, as if there’d been an earthquake, or a train passing beneath me.

“Dr. Delgado, that is impossible, because I am on the pill, and I never miss one. I take them very responsibly.”

“She does,” Michael said somberly. “At the same time, every night, right before she puts in her mouth guard.”

“That’s very interesting,” Dr. Delgado said, closing my file. “And you’re telling me you’re experiencing no pregnancy symptoms whatsoever? No morning sickness?”

“Of course not,” I scoffed.

“No fatigue?”

“Well, I mean, I’m tired all the time, sure, but who wouldn’t be with my schedule? It’s inhuman.”

“No changes in appetite or unusual food cravings?”

“

Well, yes, I’m starving all the time, but that’s normal, given all the stress I’ve been under lately. I love salty things like cheese popcorn, and who doesn’t love Butterfingers? Those are very, very delicious. And wasabi peas . . . and chocolate cake frosting.”

I noticed both the doctor and Michael looking at me oddly.

“No nipple tenderness?” the doctor asked. “Bloating?”

“Well, yes, but—” I clamped my mouth shut, beginning to realize why they were looking at me so strangely. “That’s completely normal. It’s probably just that time of the month.”

“Of course,” the doctor said gently. “Speaking of which, when did you have your last period?”

“Well, that’s easy. It was . . . um.” Panic began to sweep over me. “Being a busy career woman, I don’t have time to mess with things like cramps, so I’m on that extended cycle pill, the one where you get your period only every four months, so it’s been a while, and with everything going on, I can’t remember off the top of my head, but I know it’s been . . .”

“You haven’t had it since Christmas,” Michael said firmly. “You should be having it now. But you’re not.”

“Well, that’s not true,” I said. “How would you even know?”

“Believe me,” he said. “I know.”

“Well, you’re mistaken. Let me see, I started my last pill pack on . . .”

And then I realized I had no idea.

Which is the worst, most embarrassing thing for a hypochondriac (or any responsible human being who lives in the modern age) to have to admit.

“I would have to go home and check,” I said. “But I’m sure I’ve taken them all exactly as prescribed. I haven’t missed one.”

“Yes,” Dr. Delgado said, in a bored voice, looking at my chart. “So you said. You do realize that most studies show that birth control pills are only ninety-one to ninety-nine percent effective against preventing pregnancy, even when used correctly.”

I swallowed. “Well, I mean, yes, I know that, but—”

“And you are a woman at peak fertility, Ms. Thermopolis,” he went on, “who travels frequently between time zones.”