“Stronger stuff,” I say. “Coffee. Cleaner. Random mold. And…” I hesitate. “Certain people.”
“Certain people?” she echoes.
“Sterling,” I admit. “His soap. Aftershave. Like someone turned the volume up.”
She’s quiet for a beat. I can practically hear her filing the data away. “Okay,” she says. “Last one, and then you can yell at me. When was your last period?”
My hand tightens on the phone hard enough to make the plastic creak. The mirror shows my face going blank. “I don’t know,” I say.
“You don’t know, or you don’t want to say?” she asks, annoyingly calm.
“Both,” I say. “Time’s been… weird. I stopped keeping track.”
“Ballpark it then,” she says gently.
I stare at the grout by the tub and force my brain to work. Missions, moves, and the last time I swore about cramps. The number I land on is bad enough. “Longer than it should be,” I say. “That’s as precise as you’re getting.”
“Okay,” she says. “Listen. Trauma and stress can absolutely throw your cycle, appetite, and equilibrium into chaos. That’s real.” Relief spikes, then stalls. “But that particular combo you just rattled off?” she adds. “Nausea, smell sensitivity, dizziness, fatigue, late cycle. It’s not just nothing.”
I focus on breathing.In. Out. Don’t hurl.“I called you because I don’t want this in any government chart,” I say. “If it’s nothing, great. If it’s not, I need to know before it turns into a group project.”
“Good instinct,” she says. “You don’t need a committee involved in your insides.”
A startled laugh slips out, raw around the edges. “You have a way with reassurance, Doc.”
“Here’s what I can do…I can’t diagnose you over the phone, and I’m not playing guess-the-hormone. You need to be seen in person somewhere that doesn’t log your name in a shared system.”
“My lifeisa shared system,” I say. “That’s the problem.”
“Then don’t play on their turf,” she says, like it’s obvious. “If you’re anywhere near town, come to my place instead.”
I blink. “Your place.”
“Yeah,” she says. “House. Four walls, a roof, a tragically normal couch. There’s no receptionist, no forms, no one putting your name in a database. You remember the street?”
“Yeah,” I say slowly. “I remember.”
“Good,” she says. “You knock on my back door, I’ll let you in, run with what I’ve got, and we either cross this off the list or don’t. Either way, it stays between us unless you decide otherwise.”
“What if I can’t get away tonight?”
“Then you come when you can,” she says. “Tonight, tomorrow, whenever you can slip out without setting off the alarms. Text me from this number before you head over so I’m actually home and not elbow-deep in someone else’s crisis.”
A humorless smile tugs at my mouth. “You make a compelling sales pitch.”
“I make a safe offer. Whatever this is, you deserve to know without three agencies looking over your shoulder.” She gives me the address again anyway. I file it next to the list of bad ideas I’m probably going to follow through on.
“Thanks, Doc,” I say.
The bathroom feels smaller when the line goes dead. I set the phone on the counter and look at myself in the mirror again—pale, pupils too wide,chapel dust still clinging to my hairline. “You’re allowed to find out,” I tell myself. “Quietly.”
Unlocking the door, I hear cabin noise spill in—Cam’s low voice, the clink of ceramic, Sterling moving around the kitchen. I step back into the light, tucking the burner into my back pocket like it’s just another bad habit. Cam looks up as I reappear, like he’d been counting the seconds. “You didn’t face-plant,” he observes.
“Sorry to disappoint,” I say, sliding back into my chair. “Bathroom tile survived another day.”
Sterling’s eyes track me all the way down, like he’s waiting for gravity to change its mind. When I stay upright, his shoulders loosen by half a centimeter. “Eat. Now,” Cam demands, shoving a plate in my direction.
I blink. I didn’t even hear him get up, but there is a full plate in front of me—toast, scrambled eggs, a few apple slices, a shade too green. “When did you…” I start to ask.