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"Okay." I go into the bathroom, pee in the cup, and put it in the cabinet. I return to the exam room and put on the gown. I sit on the crinkling paper, scrolling through invoices on my phone until Dr. Alvarez knocks and lets herself in with my chart tucked under one arm.
"Alright, Lainey." She settles onto her rolling stool, glancing at her tablet. "Your urine culture came back positive."
My shoulders tighten.
He gave me an STD!
"Positive?" I barely get out.
She nods, keeping her face neutral. "Yes."
My stomach drops before my brain catches up to why. I blink hard. "What STD do I have?"
"Oh, it's not an STD."
"Oh, thank God!" I blurt out, relieved.
Dr. Tricorn stares at me.
"Do I have a UTI? I've been peeing a lot."
"Lainey, you're pregnant."
I gape at her. When I recover, I shake my head. "That's not possible."
"I know this might be a surprise."
"It's not a surprise. It's not possible." My voice comes out higher than I mean it to, a little wild around the edges. "I haven't— I mean, there hasn't been anyone in months. There's no way I'd be that far along without knowing."
Dr. Alvarez's expression doesn't change, which makes it worse. "Let's get you in for an ultrasound and see exactly where we're at. Sometimes cycles are irregular enough that women don't clock the missed periods the way they'd expect to, especially if there's spotting that mimics one."
I think about the last four months in pieces. The exhausting schedule I built specifically to avoid thinking about anything else. The light spotting back in February I chalked up to stress and the missed period in March I blamed on the same thing. Never once did I consider the alternative. That would require admitting that one reckless night at a cowboy bar might have consequences that don't go away with an apology or a bruised ego.
New Year's Eve.
No. No. NO! Not with him!
"Lainey?" Dr. Tricorn's voice pulls me back. "You still with me?"
"Yeah," I lie. My whole body's gone numb and is buzzing at the same time. There's no version of explaining that out loud that doesn't require unpacking four months of denial in front of a woman who's known me since I was twelve.
"Yeah, let's just—can we do the ultrasound now?"
"Sure." She offers a kind smile, but it only makes me panic more.
I can't be pregnant.
They're wrong. It's a false positive.
The next few minutes are a blur. They wheel in an ultrasound machine, and the tech squeezes cold gel across my stomach. I stare at the ceiling tiles instead of the screen, because I'm not ready to see whatever's about to prove this real.
The tech presses and glides the wand with a little bit of pressure. The room fills the silence with a heartbeat. It's fast, steady, and undeniable.
My whole face crumples before tears stream out.
"There we go. Baby looks great. Strong heartbeat, good measurements," the tech gently states. "Look."
Through tears, I force myself to stare at the grainy black-and-white shape on the screen, a curve of spine and the flutter of what must be a heart. And it doesn't look like a mistake. It just looks like a person, small and stubborn and already taking up more space in my life than I ever agreed to.
