Page 37 of Delayed Penalty

He’s in such a good mood he’s making such mundane things like driving through the city of New York seem like it’s the best part of his day and goddamnit it’s fucking hard not to smile at this moment, even though I’m still nervous as hell.

I mean, what if I get there and they say I was wrong? What if I’m not pregnant? What if this all ends up being just some sick joke that’s left me stressed out for weeks?

Then, why have you thrown up every day? Why have you peed on eleven pregnancy tests for every single one of them to have two pink lines if you’re not pregnant?

I know realistically I am, but damn, just being here makes me so anxious, it’s like I know my health is no longer just my own and I have to think about everything I’m doing and everything I’m putting in my body.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks as we pull into the parking garage attached to the doctor’s office, sliding into an open spot right by the elevators.

I’ve been staring off into the distance for most of the drive here and since he’s basically driven me all the way back into the city, I don’t blame him for thinking it’s weird. I don’t know how to express what I’m feeling right now and I’m really struggling with that.

“I—I don’t know. What are we even doing? I can’t have a baby! The night we had sex, I was drunk. What if that hurt the baby? Oh, and I read I’m not supposed to have deli meat and every day I went to work I had a ham sandwich, unknowingly possibly harming our baby. I’m obviously not fit to be a mother,” I say, my voice getting higher and higher—more frantic—as I let out some of my anxieties.

He doesn’t seem concerned, though, not even stressed out or fazed by my freak out as he squeezes my hand firmly in his.

“We’ve got this, Ave. There’s not even a reason to stress about this, but I understand why it can seem so overwhelming. As for the food and the drinks? I know my mom didn’t find out she was pregnant with me or my middle sister until she was at least eleven or twelve weeks, and we turned out all right, despite the binge drinking I’m sure she did in college.”

The thing about anxiety is—at least, in my case—it’s often a lot scarier to say the words out loud to someone, than it is to face it with someone.

Which rings true, because in this moment, outside of our appointment, it doesn’t feel as scary.

“Thank you,” I whisper, squeezing his hand in gratitude. “Let’s get in there before I chicken out.”

“Deal.”

I spend the walk making sure I’m as calm as possible, although with how badly I need to pee, it’s a challenge remaining calm, but I’ll be damned if I can’t pee on the stick to confirm. The waiting room inside the doctor’s office is calm, the lighting and the ivory walls working together to make it a comfortable vibe and I’ve never been more thankful of people paying attention to the little details than I am right now in this moment.

“Good morning,” I tell the receptionist as I walk up. “I’m checking in for an eleven o’clock appointment for Walston.”

She looks down at her computer and types away, looking back at me, then back to her computer before looking confused.

“I don’t have anything for a Walston at eleven, could it be under a different name?”

“No, ma’am, I made the appointment myself. My name is Avery Walston, I called last week.”

“I do have an Avery at eleven here, but it’s under the last name Humphreys.”

My blood boils—my pulse racing at that name, Peter’s last name. But that doesn’t belong here at all. His name has no place in this appointment at all.

“Where did you get that name?”

“Mr. Humphreys called and updated it last week.”

“Please, change it back.”

“I’m sorry, I’m unable to do that now that it’s already gone through to the insurance.”

I want to cry, my hands are shaking, and I feel the moment Harris stands up next to me, one hand going to my shoulder as he looks at the lady in front of us. I can’t help it, I turn into him, my face in his chest as I just can’t handle any more of this.

I was just starting to get excited and now this.

“Hello, Ms…” Harris starts.

“It’s Mrs. Fields,” she says, before folding her hands and waiting.

“Hello, Mrs. Fields,” he corrects. “If I’m not mistaken that insurance belongs to Mr. Humphreys and will no longer be used for this appointment, you can remove it from the records.” He says it so calmly, but I’m confused as I look up at him, then back at her as she waits for me to tell her what to do.

“Harris, I can’t afford this appointment without insurance, I…I—” I start, but he just pulls out his wallet and passes her a card.

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