Page 97 of Love Sick

She chuckles. “I thought so, too.”

It’s another forty-five minutes before we’re gowned and gloved alongside our trusty scrub tech, Livia, in the OR. I sit on the stool, adjust the lights and place a speculum. What I see makes no sense. A shiny white cord protrudes from the woman’s dilated cervix. It looks like a—

Livia gasps. “Is that—?”

I grasp it with a clamp and pull, dragging out a term-sized placenta which lands with a splat into a blue basin, its rancid odor drifting up under our masks. I hold up the umbilical cord—cleanly cut in half.

All three of us stare at it in silence.

“Did—” Dr. Scarlett pokes at the placenta in the bucket. “Did she say there was a baby? She said she was miscarrying!”

But did she? The language barrier…

Livia turns away. “Oh my god.”

Images fillet my mind. A baby cut away from its mother, kidnapped, sold into slavery, trafficked away for nefarious purposes. Or worse, killed for being unwanted. Abandoned. Cold and alone.

The images won’t stop, each worse than the last. Because I’m staring at onlyhalfthe pregnancy.

A ragged breath drags through my lungs. “Where’s the baby?”

Grace

NOVEMBER, YEAR 2

My mind swims through the muck of my subconscious as a thump jostles it awake. Nights this month have worn me down. The fluttery anxiety at seeing Julian every shift change keeps me frazzled and on edge. Now that I’ve admitted to myself that I like him, I don’t know how to act around him.

The last time I felt this way…

Yeah.

It hadn’t ended well.

If I could, I’d shove this heat and longing for Julian aside, force its brightness into shadow. Instead, it only grows stronger. Each lingering glance, every small touch, they glow in my skin like sunlight.

The persistent urge to touch him. The constant awareness of him. Well, my sleeplessness isn’t only work-related.

Say it, and I’ll be there. Whatever you need.

Did he really say that this morning? Did he mean it?

The pounding on my door finally jolts me awake.

“Grace!”

I sit up, blinking at the darkness beyond the window. My phone tells me it’s 6:45 p.m.

“Grace, are you home?”

“Julian?” I call.

“Yeah.” A silence passes, and a final thump rattles the door. “Can I talk to you?”

I hop out of bed and dart into the bathroom. “Hold on. I was asleep!”

He’s silent, so I pee and brush my teeth at the same time, then lament my bedhead and pj’s. At least they’re the cute set—black shorts and tank with little gold stars.

With a swipe of the deadbolt, the door swings inward, pulling in a gust of cold air that snakes around my bare legs, raising goose bumps. Julian stands at the threshold, hands braced on either side, head bowed. He’s still in his Vincent scrubs, without even a jacket to protect him from the elements, and when he lifts his eyes, I’m struck by the hurt lurking in their depths.

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