Page 69 of Watch Me Burn
Her scoff echoes all the way down the hall. “Did you hear that, Mr. Whiskers? Like she’s one to talk.”
The words stop me cold, but I force myself to keep moving. There’s no way Maren knows. She’s many things. Observant, intuitive, and possessing an almost uncanny ability to know when I’m lying, but actual mind reading isn’t part of her skill set. Though it’s strange that her normally infallible bullshit detector hasn’t seen through me and the secrets I’m keeping.
The next cramp almost brings me to my knees against the corridor wall. It feels like someone’s twisting my uterus. My breath comes in shallow gasps. Dizziness sweeps over me, and the overhead lights flicker, or maybe that’s my vision wavering.
I push away from the wall, though my body protests every movement, making it three more steps before the nausea surges.
Something is seriously wrong. I don’t know what yet, but I can make it, one foot in front of the other. That’s all I have to manage.
Just get outside, get to my truck, and get to Estes so I can figure out what the hell is happening to my body.
The examination room is cold, or maybe it’s just me. I sit on the paper-covered table in the thin gown, staring at the anatomical poster on the wall while waitingfor the doctor to return with my test results. The stirrups are already put away, the examination is over, but I still feel exposed.
When the door opens, Dr. Ritchie enters with my chart. She’s in her late fifties, with copper hair and kind eyes behind tortoiseshell glasses. The concern in those eyes makes my stomach ache more than it already does.
“Luna.” She sits on the rolling stool across from me. “How are you feeling now? Any more cramping since the exam?”
“A little. It comes and goes. So what’s going on? Is it just some kind of tear or…”
She folds her hands over my chart. “You have some minor vaginal bruising, but no tearing. Nothing that would cause the bleeding you’re experiencing.” She pauses, her dark eyes searching my face. “But is there anything you want to talk about?”
“No.”
She doesn’t move, doesn’t fidget, and doesn’t break eye contact. I caught the way her gaze hesitated over the fading bruises on my hips and scattered along my inner thighs during my exam.
The silence stretches. Outside the room, phones ring and footsteps echo down the hallway—the sounds of the clinic going about its business, but inside these four walls we exist in a bubble separate from all of that. She waits, patient and calm, giving me space to fill the quiet with whatever I’m willing to share.
I don’t.
“All right.” The words come out measured and careful. She’s been treating me since I was a teenager, long enough to know I don’t play games with my health.When something’s wrong, I speak up. When I need answers, I ask. “That said, the bruising isn’t my concern today.”
My hands grip the examination table, the paper crinkling beneath my palms.
“What do you mean?”
She studies me for a moment, then continues. “Your blood work shows elevated hCG levels. Combined with the bleeding and cramping…” She pauses, her voice gentling. “You’re experiencing an early miscarriage.”
“Miscarriage?” I echo, the word sounding wrong, impossible. “But I’m on birth control. I can’t be—I wasn’t—”
“No birth control is 100% effective.” She speaks with the patience of someone who’s watched this shock play out too many times to count. “Based on your hormone levels, you were about six weeks along. Many women don’t even know they’re pregnant at this stage. I’m assuming that’s the case with you.”
I stare at her, my mind racing back through the past weeks, counting days, searching for signs I might have missed. “Are you sure?” Maybe it’s… something else.”
“I ran the test twice to confirm the results. Your hCG levels are elevated well above the normal range. There’s no ambiguity here.”
“But I didn’t miss any pills,” I protest, as if arguing will somehow change the reality. “I’ve been careful.”
“Pills can fail for many reasons. Other medications, illness, timing variations.” She leans forward, her tone remaining steady. “And if you’ve been on antibiotics recently.”
Shit! How could I be so stupid?
“I had a UTI almost two months ago. I self-prescribed.”
She gives me that look over her glasses, the one that reminds me that even as a doctor, I’m technically not supposed to self-prescribe meds.
I hold up a hand before she can speak. “I already know what you’re going to say. I was just so busy. I ran the urinalysis myself and had amoxicillin on hand.”
“Luna, I know how busy you get up there, but you still should have called me even if you couldn’t make it down here.” She rolls the stool closer, removing her glasses to clean them, a gesture she does to gather her patience. “Next time, call and send me the results so I can add them to your chart. I can prescribe something from that if needed.”
