"That was two weeks ago."
"Then it's the flu." I take another sip, hoping the sugar might settle my stomach. "Everyone at Northwestern is sick."
Gemma narrows her eyes, tapping one manicured nail against her glass. "You're a hypocrite. You tell patients to go to the clinic, but you won't take your own advice?"
"It's not the same?—"
"It's exactly the same. You're a healthcare professional with unlimited access to free testing who won't get healthcare."
I sigh, rubbing my temples where a headache threatens. The truth is, I've been exhausted no matter how much I sleep, nauseous at the slightest smell, dizzy when I stand too quickly. But admitting it means acknowledging something might actually be wrong, or that I'm not built for this level of work.
"Fine. I'll go to the hospital clinic tomorrow on my break. Happy?"
"Ecstatic." Gemma raises her glass again. "To Janie, finally using her fancy medical knowledge on herself."
We finish our drinks with a final clink, though mine stays mostly full. My stomach won't tolerate more than a few sips.
"I'm holding you to that promise," Gemma says, her voice gentler now. "No excuses."
The fluorescent lightin the hospital makes everything look flat and unreal, like a medical TV show set. Antiseptic stings my nostrils as I perch on the edge of the exam table, paper crinkling beneath my legs. The room is ridiculously cold, but maybe it's just me.
Happy birthday to me. Adult birthdays are so shitty.
I pull my hoodie sleeves down over my hands, balling the fabric into my fists as I scroll mindlessly through Instagram. Photos of classmates celebrating the weekend blur together. None of it matters. I just want them to rule out or confirm if I have the flu, Covid, strep, or whatever, and leave.
The door swings open, and the nurse practitioner walks in, clipboard in hand. Her scrubs are covered in cartoon frogs wearing stethoscopes.
"So, Jane, still experiencing nausea and fatigue? Any body aches, fever?"
"It's Janie. And yes, definitely fatigue for about two to three weeks now. I don't think I've had a fever, but honestly, I haven't checked."
She nods, making notes. "We'll do a flu swab first, then draw some blood for a basic panel. Better to be thorough."
"Great." I lock my phone and shove it in my pocket. "Thorough is good."
The flu swab makes my eyes water, and I wince when she draws blood. She labels the vials carefully, promising to be back soon, leaving me to my thoughts and the steady hum of medical equipment.
I check my messages again. Nothing from home. Nothing from Warren.
It's been over two months. I seriously need to stop checking. Message received loud and clear.
The minutes tick by slowly. I count ceiling tiles, read every poster on the wall twice, and flip through a tattered parenting magazine someone left behind.
The door opens again, and the NP walks in holding a folder against her chest. Something in her expression makes my heart skip.
"Ms. Harrelson." Her voice is softer now. She sits on the rolling stool, eyes steady on mine. "I have your test results."
My mouth goes dry. "That was fast. Do I have the flu?"
She shakes her head. "No. You’re pregnant."
The word lands like a punch. The room tilts, my ears humming as if I’ve been dropped underwater.
"That’s not possible," I whisper, though the lie curdles even as I say it.
Warren. The night before Chicago. No condom. Myprescription, lost in the move, me telling myself I’d be fine, that I’d start fresh next month.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.