Page 40 of The Hitch
"Correct," Dante says with all the confidence in the world. I grip my thighs, feeling the sharp points of my almond-shaped nails dig into the flesh. All I can offer is a tight smile and a hesitant nod.
"Mrs. Lyons, when was the date of your last menstrual period?"
Dante answers for me, noting the start and end dates. Just about three weeks ago, meaning I'll be starting back up soon enough. Dr. Hamish types into his computer with a blithe smile.
It all feels sorealnow. I know this is what Dante wants me for. I know this is what the contract I signed—even if I don't remember it—is for. The doctor is pleasant, professional, but I can't help but feel… strange. Anxious. Dante's hand on my thigh slides up to my shoulder, and he squeezes. I'd like to think that it's for reassurance, but it feels threatening.
I watch as the doctor wraps the blood pressure cuff around my arm and puts the little oxygen meter on my finger. He proclaims my blood pressure to be healthy, if a little elevated. He sends us down the hall to the phlebotomist, and I follow the instructions to a tee. My anxiety is forcing my consciousness down into a violent place.
But I don'twantto hurt these people for doing their jobs. So, I become pliant. Almost like I'm a video game character skipping through cutscenes. Dante asks Dr. Hamish questions when we return to the exam room, but I don't know what he said. I can't really hear anything right now. I can just hear the gentle woosh-woosh of my heartbeat. My blood flowing through my veins.
This is real. This isn't just a kink at play. Dante wants to actually, seriously, physically put a baby in me. I chew on my lower lip as I listen to the vague sounds of the men speaking. What if this happens? What if the baby ends up like me? Broken and violent? What if the other kids make fun of them? What if they fly into a violent rage at this, and we, the parents, have to clean up the kid's messes?
Normal baby mess doesn't bother me. But serial-killing-kid messmighthave a bit of an impact on my already fragile mental health.
"Do you have any questions for me, Mrs. Lyons?" The doctor's question snaps me out of my doom spiral. I flinch a little bit but play it off as a gentle cough.
"Um, where do we go from here?" I ask, my eyes ping-ponging between Dante and the doctor.
"Sure, I can go over it again." He smiles, and I feel the flush creeping up my neck. "We'll get the test results back in a few days. Based on my initial assessment, you seem to be exceptionally healthy. I recommend that you start tracking your ovulation. This involves little test strips. You can use the kind that look like a pregnancy test, with the plastic stick. Or you can use urine cups and dip-strips. They have approximately the same efficacy. I recommend monitoring for six months before coming back for further assistance."
Six months. I breathe a sigh of relief. Half a year, that's doable. "Thank you, Doctor Hamish."
"Of course, dear. Best of luck, you two!" He stands and makes a swift exit.
Dante hands me my clothes, and we leave in silence. Just outside the towering medical complex, I spot another sushi restaurant. It's different than the one Helena and I visited early in the week. I snag Dante's suit sleeve and tip my head towards the restaurant. "Hungry?"
"Starved," he says with a smirk.
We're quickly ushered to a cozy booth near the back of the restaurant. After ordering a healthy amount of rolls and a delightful bubble tea, my mind descends back into panic. Abstractly, yes, I'mmostlyokay with this. Pop out a baby and receive more money than I could use if I really tried. But my fucked-up genes could be setting a future kid up for failure before they're even conceived.
Even if I'm not around to see it happen, I could be fucking this kid up. Inexplicably, the thought makes a weird sort of pangerupt deep in my stomach. Dante seems perfectly content to let me disappear into my own head, as he's tapping away on his phone. Luckily, I'm not able to ruminate for very long. Our food arrives with little fanfare, but it looksincredible.
"You know, you're not supposed to eat raw fish when you're pregnant," Dante says around a sip of his espresso.
"Not pregnant yet," I reply and pop a slice of raw salmon into my mouth, moaning as I chew. It practically melts in my mouth.
"True. But I think you will be, soon. And you're going to be radiant."
Radiant? God, he says it so genuinely. I can only imagine myself as a hormonal mess. Bloated. Uncomfortable. Prone to fits of rage—well, more than I am now. But at the same time, he hasn't really beenwrongyet. In his own weird, kind of psychotic way, he's been extremely right.
I did marry him. I did move into his house—not that I was really given much of a choice. And I'll probably get pregnant soon. Especially with how much we've been fucking. I can feel myself blush slightly at the thought. He's sogood. Based on his general vibe and attitude, I guess I assumed he'd be a two-pump chump.
That is exactly where I was wrong. And I've never been so happy to bethatwrong.
Dante
Ican almost taste the anxiety radiating off of Melody, and it's starting to put me off my sushi. I have no doubt that she'll be radiant—I meant what I said—but perhaps I can sweeten the pot a little for her.
"Are you almost finished? We have a few more stops on the docket today." I stretch my arms behind my head, hoping to exude a casual nature. She catches on immediately, as I'm starting to figure out.
"Dante, I just had my vagina poked by an old man. I am in no fucking mood. Can't you just take me back to the house and fuck off to whateverevil biddingyou normally do?" Melody air quotes at me. Fuck, she's cute.
"Oh, trust me, love. You'll deeply enjoy my evil bidding today." I smirk and gesture for the waiter to bring out our check.
A few moments—and about a hundred dollars—later, Melody angrily follows me back to the car. Angling my phone away from her view, I tap out a message to Roman.
Out of office for the day. Taking the wife out.
