Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 103109 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103109 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
He must see the hesitation on my face because the worry doesn’t leave his. “But . . .?”
“But I’m scared.”
“Even having decided that you’re not moving? You’re still . . . You don’t trust me.”
“I don’t trust life. I don’t trust all the things out of our control. Things happen and choices have to be made and . . .”
“I’ll prove it to you, then.” He nods, and I see his determination in the set of his jaw. “I’ll have to prove you can trust me. That I won’t hurt you again.”
I press my palms against his chest and rise onto my tiptoes as I slide them up to his shoulders.
He dips his head, stopping with his lips a breath from mine. “When you pictured your future today . . . could you make any room in there for me?”
“No, Easton.” I shake my head, and his face drops. “I don’t need to make room because you were already there.”
He wraps his arms behind my back and lifts me off the ground, crushing my body to his as he kisses me. I kiss him back and try to ignore the nagging feeling that tells me I’ve invited heartache back into my life.
Shay
Do doctors’ offices intentionally turn down the heat in rooms where women are wearing these flimsy exam robes? Because as I sit on the edge of the table and wait for my doctor to join me, I’m practically shivering. I think my toes might be turning blue.
I wrap my arms around myself and sigh. The fact that I’m even here instead of just getting a quick STI panel drawn up at the lab speaks to the magnitude of my hypochondria. Symptoms? Exhaustion. Queasiness. And a side of I-could-fall-asleep-any-fucking-where.
I’m a doctoral candidate slated to defend her dissertation in less than a month. I don’t need to talk to my doctor. I need a nap. Or at least that’s what I’ve been telling myself for the past few weeks. But even when I made sleep a bigger priority, it didn’t make any difference. And according to the scale on the way in, I’ve lost weight.
Please don’t be cancer.
Fear is an icy hand on my lungs.
There’s a soft knock on the door.
“Come in,” I call.
Dr. Hassell steps into the room and closes the door behind her. “How are you, Shayleigh?”
I smile. I like my doctor. I started working with her in graduate school when the weight loss started destroying my body. It’s so weird. Everyone praised me for getting thin, but it was killing me. My hair was falling out, my periods stopped, and I could see my ribs when I stood naked in front of the mirror. Funny that vanity was the thing that made me finally accept that I had an eating disorder and needed help to overcome it. “I’m . . . tired.” I laugh, since that’s why I’m here. “But I guess you already know that.”
I expect her to stand behind the room’s laptop and start noting my symptoms, but she doesn’t. Instead, she takes the seat next to the table, sitting sideways so she’s facing me.
“I know it’s ridiculous to come in for being tired, but I lost my dad to cancer, and my mom’s primary symptom before her diagnosis was fatigue, and—”
“Shay, it’s understandable.”
My cheeks heat. “I feel like a hypochondriac.”
“When was your last period?”
“A few weeks ago?”
“And was it a full period or just a little bleeding?”
I shrug. I’ve been heavy, and I’ve been anorexic. My period was never regular until I got a handle on both and went on the pill. “It was light, I guess. That’s not uncommon for me.” Shit. My eyes instantly fill with unexpected tears. Am I going to have to get a hysterectomy before I’ve even had a chance to start a family? I wipe at my cheeks. “If it’s uterine cancer, do you think . . . will I still be able to have children?”
Dr. Hassell grabs a tissue from the box on the counter and hands it to me. “Shayleigh, I don’t believe your symptoms are from cancer—uterine or otherwise.”
I dab my cheeks gently then blow my nose with the grace of a trumpeting elephant. “Sorry. I’m just under a lot of stress right now, and it’s making me emotional.” I force a laugh. “And making me jump to conclusions, apparently. It’s just stress, right? All this . . .?” I wave a hand in front of my face to indicate the hot mess express that I’ve become.
“Stress could be a contributing factor to your symptoms, but according to the urine sample you gave my nurse, you’re pregnant.”
I blink at her. “I’m . . . Excuse me? What?”
Her smile is gentle. “Pregnant.”
My brain takes so long to make sense of the word that it might as well be from a foreign language. “How could I be . . . I’m not even . . . I’m on the pill. I haven’t missed a period.”