Page 158 of My Only

“School’s out, so one less thing to stress about. That’s a win.” I shrugged. “What about you?”

“I get to see my favorite patient for her annual check-up.” She quirked a smile. “So I’m fabulous.”

I playfully rolled my eyes. “I know you say that to everyone, Dr. Whitfield.”

She gasped, pressing a hand to her hip. “I do not!”

I grinned.

Dr. Whitfield was in her early sixties, a highly respected Black OB-GYN with decades of experience. When I first came to her office, I’d researched everything—her credentials, her reviews, how long she’d been practicing. I even grilled her during our first appointment.

I didn’t want a rotating door of doctors.

I wanted just one.

Someone who knew me, who could follow my journey for years to come.

And I found that in her.

The appointment moved along in familiar rhythm.

She asked the routine questions about my health, cycle, any concerns. I had none. Everything was fine.

Until we reached the part I’d been dreading.

The part that had never made me nervous before.

Dr. Whitfield smiled knowingly.

“So…” she teased. “Are we renewing your birth control prescription today?”

I bit my lip, fingers curling around the edge of the exam table.

I didn’t answer.

Not right away.

She tapped my knee playfully, breaking the tension I didn’t realize had settled in.

“Ayla,” she mused, “every year I ask you about babies, and every year you tell me…” She pitched her voice high, mimicking me. “Not yet, Dr. Whitfield.”

I hollered a laugh. “I do not sound like that!”

“I’m just saying.” She smirked. “I think you like making me wait.”

I shrugged. “Well… this year might be different.”

Her eyebrows shot up.

I lifted a hand. “I’ll take the prescription renewal, though.”

Her expression softened.

I didn’t want to renew it.

But now wasn’t the right time.

I wasn’t going to tell her that, though.

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