“Some women continue to have light periods at the beginning of their pregnancies.” She stands to look at her computer. She taps the screen and scrolls through something I assume is my chart. “As for your birth control, of course nothing’s one hundred percent, but the pill can fail if you’re on antibiotics. Have you been prescribed anything for a sinus infection or—”
I shake my head. “No. No antibiotics. Are you sure? Maybe they mixed up the cups or something?” But even as I say it, I remember the conference in Florida a couple of months ago. I got food poisoning and was sick for days. I rarely forget to take my pill and am sure I didn’t miss it on that trip, but how much good can it do if you can’t keep anything down? “I was sick,” I whisper.
She gives me a sympathetic nod. “That can happen too.”
I used condoms for two weeks after that food poisoning. Just in case. But that doesn’t account for the sex I had leading up to my sickness. In fact, before I ate the bad shellfish that made my weekend a total pukefest, it would have been better described as a sexfest. With a married man.
“I don’t do OB anymore,” she says, “but I can get you a referral if you’d like to continue with the pregnancy or even if you’re not sure yet.”
“I’m sure,” I say quickly. I understand why she might question it—a single woman with no boyfriend in sight—but of all the things I’ve been questioning about my life as I wrap up my doctorate, my desire to have a family is not one of them. When I visualized my future, I pictured children.
I just imagined they’d be Easton’s.
Fresh tears pour from my eyes as I imagine his face when I tell him the news. “Shit,” I whisper. “You must think I’m such an idiot.”
“Not at all. You had every reason to take the sudden change in your energy levels seriously. And I’m glad you did. We’ll make sure all the lab work looks good too, of course, and send those results over to your OB when you chose one. My staff can get your appointment set up for you.” She taps on her keyboard a few times then hesitates. “Do you . . . have a preference for your obstetrician?”
“Not my brother,” I blurt. Even if I was ready to drop this bomb on my family—and, hello, I’m not—I wouldn’t want him to be my doctor. I know he’s good at his job, but that’s just weird. My family is close, but not check-your-dilation close.
“I wouldn’t advise anyone to choose a family member. I’m sure your brother would feel the same.”
I nod along as she goes through some basic pregnancy advice, and I accept the pamphlets she offers. But I’m trapped in my own mind, nausea tearing me apart as I realize I have to tell George I’m pregnant. I have to tell his wife.
I’ve become the kind of woman I swore I’d never be.
Shay
October 15th, seven years ago
I’ve had months—hell, years—to prepare for this, and there’s still something so surreal about seeing my father in that casket.
The last days were a slow trudge to a finish line none of us was sure we wanted to see. When he finally crossed and we saw the end to his pain, we were all . . . relieved. We’ve grieved, we will continue to grieve, but death itself was welcome.
After a four-hour visitation, my feet are screaming and my fingers ache from all the consoling handshakes. I just want to go home to Mom’s place and curl up on the couch with a cup of hot chocolate, like I’m a kid wrapping up a particularly hard day of school and not a grown woman who’s about to bury her father.
“Almost done,” Mom says next to me, flashing me a shaky smile.
I nod. Almost done. Then tomorrow, we’ll return for the service and put my father in the ground. My throat thickens at the thought.
It’s been a day of whispers and respectful silence, but I straighten when the whispers change, when they seem to roll through the room and heads turn toward the door . . . where Easton Connor has appeared and is hugging Carter with the fierceness of an old friend who understands your heartache better than anyone.
I didn’t know Easton was coming. I didn’t ask. Didn’t even think about him until now.
A shiver races up my arms at the sight of him. He looks so impossibly broad in his black suit, but my mind instantly strips it off him, remembering the sight of him under me in his hotel room, the feel of his rough hands on my thighs as I rode him.
Mom squeezes my hand. “You’re flushed. Do you need to sit down?”