Page 67 of Fatal Sloth

Sebastiano's brows shoot up in disbelief. “Am I being kicked out?” he asks, taking offense to Dr. Harlow’s request.

After a few huffs, he agrees. “Fine, but I'll be right outside,” he says, giving Dr. Harlow a stern glance before pressing a kiss to my forehead and exiting the room.

Alone with the doctor, I can't help but feel a flutter of nerves creep in. It's strange—when Sebastiano was in here, he seemed nervous enough for the both of us. Now it's like waiting for the results of a test you didn't study for, mixed with the anticipation of a surprise party you know nothing about.

"So, you said you got sick a few weeks ago as well?" she asks, her tone gentle but probing.

I shift uncomfortably in my seat, not eager to relive the memory of that dreadful day with Karen and her hideous dress. "Yeah, but it was just nerves," I reply, hoping to steer the conversation away from my fashion-induced panic attack.

"Are you using protection?"

My mind reels for a moment before I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. "No, Sebastiano won't let me touch his guns," I say, only realizing the stupidity of my response when I see Dr. Harlow stifle a smirk.

My cheeks burn with embarrassment. I quickly correct myself. "I mean, yes, I am on the pill," I stammer, feeling like a fool for the misunderstanding. "So, I'm not... no, I can't be. I never miss a day, so it's like Fort Knox down there," I ramble, unable to stop the word vomit from flowing.

Dr. Harlow arches an eyebrow, her expression unreadable. "We'll still need to run some tests, just to be sure," she says, her tone gentle but firm. And suddenly, the possibility doesn't seem quite as absurd as I'd hoped.

"I've got enough on my plate without adding a tiny human into the mix, you know?" She chuckles in response, and for a moment, the tension in the room eases. "Trust me," I continue, "if I were pregnant, you'd hear the screaming all the way from here to Sicily."

The doctor laughs, a genuine smile spreading across her face. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that," she replies, “but let's take a test so that I can rule it out.” Now, that uneasy feeling is coming back as I agree to take the test.

Handing me the pregnancy test with a small smile, Dr. Harlow jokes, "Not the fanciest, but it gets the job done."

I hop off the bed and make my way to the bathroom, my mind racing with a mix of nerves and anxiety. While I've never taken one of these tests myself, I've seen enough dancers at Juilliard go through the drill.

I return to the room, holding the pee stick like it's a ticking time bomb, wrapped in tissue for extra protection. I hand it over to Dr. Harlow like the little stick holds the fate of my entire future.

I mean, I guess it kind of does.

After what feels like an eternity of waiting, the stupid test comes back inconclusive, leaving me feeling like I've stumbled into a plotline straight out of Grey's Anatomy.

"Well, that's disappointing," I mutter, half expecting a laugh or comment to chime in. But the stoic professional asks if she can draw blood for further testing. "Great, just what I need," I say. She gives me a sympathetic smile, her eyes twinkling with amusement as she carries out the procedure.

"Well, at least I'll get a sticker out of this," I joke nervously, trying to add a little humor. She chuckles softly, her focus never leaving my arm.

Once the blood draw is done, I whip out my trusty pack of birth control pills from my purse, presenting them to her as if to say, "See? No room for surprises here."

Dr. Harlow examines them closely, snapping a quick photo for her records. "Just being thorough," she reassures me with a smile, though her actions speak volumes.

After she finishes packing up her supplies, she slings her bag over her shoulder and I walk her to the front door. "I should have the results in about a day or two," she reassures me before stepping out.

I need to push this ridiculous thought out of my head, and a dance session is the perfect distraction.

Blaring “Iris” from the Goo Goo Dolls, I let the music wash over me, losing myself in the rhythm.

Just as I'm in my groove, the music abruptly stops. "Hey, that was my jam!" I protest, shooting Sebastiano a playful glare as he mutes the music.

He raises an eyebrow, his expression serious. "You should be taking it easy," he insists, crossing his arms over his chest.

I roll my eyes, trying to suppress a grin. "I am taking it easy. I'm dancing away my troubles," I say, throwing my arms wide to embrace the chaos in my mind.

Sebastiano sighs, shaking his head in mock exasperation. "You and your dancing," he mutters, but there's a hint of amusement in his voice.

But then, I sashay up to him with a smirk. "Though, I've got a few ideas for other activities that could really help me relax," I tease, waggling my eyebrows suggestively.

"You do? And what's that?" he asks.

"Can you help me stretch my leg?" I counter, flashing him a mischievous grin before I begin my leg extension, gradually lifting it until it's positioned above my head.

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