Page 39 of City of Wind and Lies

I don't even know if he wants kids; that could’ve been a topic we broached tonight at dinner with the erratic pace of our relationship so far. His face was so hard to read when the doctor broke the news, that stoic mask of his fell and one of bewilderment took its place. We didn't even get a minute to ourselves to absorb the news because as soon as Doctor Katz dropped that bomb on us, a nurse was right behind him, ready to get me up here for the procedure.

"Okay, deep breath for me, Wren," Doctor Stevens' voice coos as she pats the inside of my ankle. "You're gonna feel that pressure and pinch. On the count of three, I want you to cough and we'll be all done, okay?"

I hum in response, taking as deep a breath as I can while she counts. I cough on three and my throat burns, my stomach cramps, knees snapping together as I groan at the wave of foreign pain that washes over me.

But then it’s done, and the pressure disappears like it never even happened.

Erin starts to clean off my stomach and fixes my gown while Doctor Stevens pulls the paper blanket down over my knees. "All done, sweetie." I press up to sit as she continues. "You might have some discomfort or spotting, but that's totally normal. If the bleeding becomes frequent or heavier like a menstrual cycle, or if you have a stabbing-like pain, get ahold of a doctor. But the fetus has a steady heartbeat, so I don't see any reason for concern."

"Okay." I rake a hand through my hair, trying to take it all in as Erin helps me off the table and back into the wheelchair.

The anxiety of facing Bowie whirs to life in my stomach like someone’s kicked over a hornets nest, a lump forming in my throat as she wheels me back toward the elevator.

"Oh. My. God!" Drea practically shouts down the corridor as we near my room for the night.

"Wren! Are you okay? Your face!"

"You should see the other guy," I manage wryly as Erin helps me get back into the bed.

Once I’m settled, Drea takes up a spot on the edge of the mattress, folding a leg beneath her as her face assures me that I look as bad as I feel.

"I was gonna text you, but I'm honestly not sure where my phone is," I say, reaching for the cup of water to take a drink.

"Dallas called," she supplies, flipping her phone over and back in her hands. "He told me you were attacked by creepy Allen and that I could find you here, but shit.” She hisses a breath in through her teeth, wincing. “I didn't expect you to look this bad."

"Gee thanks," I reply with a sardonic laugh.

She rolls her eyes. "You know what I mean! But really, are you okay? When can you leave?" She hooks a thumb over her shoulder, "I parked in the short-term lot, but I can move if it'll be more than an hour.

"So… I’m fine," I start, not really sure how to deliver this news to my best friend other than by just ripping the band-aid off. "But I have to stay overnight for observation because I'm… I'm pregnant."

Drea's eyes round in shock. "Shut the fuck up!" Her mouth hangs open as she darts her gaze between my face and flat stomach. "You are not!"

I twist my hands in my lap and nod. "I am. One hundred percent knocked up.”

"No!” she gasps, pressing a hand to her chest. “Is it Bowie's?"

Sinking my teeth into my bottom lip, I think back through the timeline again and there’s no doubt in my mind. The math just maths.

"Yeah, it has to be," I mumble.

"Oh my god, what does he think?!"

My shoulders lift in a shrug, fingers toying with the hem of the white cotton blanket while red hot tears prick at the backs of my eyes. "We haven't had a chance to talk about it yet."

"Oh, babe!" Drea chirps, leaning forward and wrapping her arms around me. "I’ve got you, girl. I'm sure it'll all be fine."

"Thanks," I sniffle into her shoulder, thankful that she can read all my reservations and fears without me having to actually say them out loud.

"And if he doesn't support you and your choices,” she presses back to look me in the eyes, her face splitting in a mischievous grin, “I'll slash his tires."

"I'll take that under advisement," I hear the deep timbre of Bowie's voice call out.

Drea releases my shoulders, turning and eyeing Bowie as his imposing form fills the doorway, a large black take-out sack with jute handles in his grip.

"Hey," I greet, my voice cracking. "I guess you guys haven't formally met.” I motion between them, “Bowie, this is Drea, my best friend. Drea, this is my, uh, Bowie."

He strides across the room with confidence, pausing near the foot of the bed and outstretching his free palm to her. "It's a pleasure.”

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