Page 81 of Dash

I love May. She’s a riot, but she’s the last person I want to see right now. She’s glowing, her bump prominent beneath her dress, like it’s mocking me,

Maylie, with an overbearing husband who watches her like she’s glass.

It feels like the universe is trying to dismantle what’s left of my sanity. Because now all I can think about is how it’ll feel to have my baby grow inside me, Dash’s hand on my belly. A baby I’m not sure I can keep if Dash doesn’t want it.

Suddenly, the room feels too small, Maylie’s rambling too much, and the hurt in my chest is too painful.

I want my baby, but that might not be my choice.

The following morning, I wake to a message from Dash—his usual check-in when he doesn’t stay over. It’s sweet, more than I deserve.

I have a message from Katie, too, asking if I’ve told him yet.

Shame burns through me, and I don’t reply. I can’t. I know I should have. He has a right to know, but I just need time to shore up my defences in case he doesn’t want this.

In case he doesn’t want me.

I have an appointment this morning, one to discuss my options.

And I hate how that sounds.

Options.

Like we’re discussing changing the wallpaper in the sitting room.

My stomach churns the entire time I’m sitting in the waiting room. The surgery is small. It smells like sickness and fear.

I tap my foot, waiting for my name to appear on the monitor, my hand on my stomach. My nerves are chewed to pieces and my nausea is relentless.

When my name appears, I head down the corridor to the room and when I push inside, I’m greeted by an older woman. She gives me that stern look doctors usually do, the one that says they know you’ve been treating your body like trash and now you expect them to fix it.

I sit at the side of the desk, feeling like I’m back in school and about to get told off.

“What can I do for you today Miss Harrington?” she asks.

“I’m pregnant.”

She looks at me over the top of her glasses, and I shrink under the scrutiny.

“You’ve done an at home test?”

“A hundred,” I joke. I haven’t. I’ve done one, but the doctor needs to lighten up.

She pulls her glasses off, placing them on the desk. “I’m not entirely sure why you’re here, Miss Harrington. You will need to speak to reception to get a referral to maternity services, but you won’t be seen until you’re twelve weeks.”

And suddenly, I really wish I was having this conversation with someone else, because I can already tell she’s judging me and I haven’t even said anything. “Oh.”

She stares at me a beat. “Are you planning on terminating the pregnancy?”

I blink, my hand automatically pressing against my belly. “I don’t know.”

It burns my throat to admit that, even if she is a doctor, even if she’s probably heard much worse than my pathetic confession.

Her eyes soften slightly. “There are options. Do you want me to tell you about adoption or abortion services?”

I flinch. “Please.”

She prints out information relating to both, handing it to me.

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