My mouth is suddenly dry, my throat closing. I can’t swallow. I can’t speak. All I want is to bolt from this room and not stop until I hit Palm Beach.
"Based on your last period, I’d put you somewhere between seven and ten weeks along," she continues, her voice muffled, distant, like she's in another room talking to someone else. "…an ultrasound will give us a clearer picture. For now, we should talk about options, prenatal vitamins, referrals to an obstetrician…"
I grab my bag, stumbling to my feet.
“I need to go.”
The nurse’s mouth opens, probably to explain the next steps, but the sound blurs in my ears. I can’t sit here while she lists vitamins and follow-ups. I’ll read the pamphlet later. Maybe.
“Ms. Harrelson?—”
But I’m already pushing through the door, down the hallway, past the receptionist calling my name. Sunlight blinds me as I burst outside, tears blurring everything into watercolor smears.
My hands shake as I pull out my phone and press Gemma’s contact.
"Hey, birthday girl!" Her voice sounds distant against the roaring in my ears.
"Gemma." My voice breaks. "I need you."
There’s a beat of silence, then Gemma’s tone sharpens. "Where are you?"
"The clinic. But I'm walking to the lounge." My throat works. "Gemma, I?—"
"Don’t move. I’ll meet you in the lounge in ten minutes."
The call ends. I stare at the floor until the edges blur. The air is heavy, like the whole hospital lounge is holding its breath with me.
By the time Gemma bursts through the door, my coffee’s cold and my hands won’t stop trembling.
“Janie?” She crosses the room and drops into the chair beside me, eyes scanning my face. “Jesus, you look like you’re about to confess to murder. What happened?”
“I’m…”
Her eyes dart to the numbers, then to me. “You’re what?”
My chest caves. “Pregnant.” The word is barely audible, but once it’s out, there’s no taking it back.
I stare at my coffee cup, the liquid now cold and sour in my stomach. "Eight weeks." The words scrape out, foreign and unreal.
Her brows shoot up. "And you’re sure?"
I nod, vision blurring. "One hundred percent. It was exactly eight weeks ago since I had sex with Warren. The only sex I've had in six months."
"But you're sure you're pregnant?"
"Blood test. I went three weeks without my birth control after the move." My hands shake around the paper cup. "My fellowship’s over, Gemma. Everything I’ve worked for is gone. I can’t do this alone."
"Hey, hey." She slides her hand over mine, cool and steady. "This isn’t the 1800s. Women have careers and babies all the time."
The panic swells. I bury my face in my hands. "I can barely keep up now."
"Which you’ve been doing pregnant," she reminds me, dry as ever. "Explains a lot, actually."
A strangled laugh bubbles up, then collapses. "I’m so screwed. You don’t understand."
"So help me," she says simply.
The words tumble out. "It’s Warren. My brother’s best friend. Practically my brother. Oh my god, Gemma?—"