Page 54 of One Spicy Summer

“Absolutely not.” We go in together.

“Hi, I’m Renee,” the nurse chirps. “I’ll be doing your bloodwork and vitals. Then the doctor will be right in.” She gestures to the scale. I step on. “One-sixty-five,” she mutters, jotting it down.

I wince internally.What?

“What brings you in today?” she asks, slapping a blood pressure cuff on my arm.

“Bad stomach pains.”

She rattles off questions, last period, sexual activity, eating habits, anyone else sick? I answer honestly: Period two weeks ago. Sex three or three and a half months ago. Eating like a pig since the breakup. No one else sick.

“Alright, we’ll grab some blood and a urine sample,” she says with a bright smile. I try to mirror it, but it feels fake.

Once the blood draws are done and I drop off the urine sample, I sit nervously on the paper-covered bed.

“You scared?” Agatha asks.

“Yeah. I hate doctors.”

“Me, too. But it'll be okay.”

I wish I believed her. Instead, my mind drifts, to Rygaard. Is he hurting, too? Or am I just some faded memory already?

The door opens, snapping me out of my spiral. The doctor, young, nerdy, cute, comes in. “Hi, I’m Dr. Jennings. I hear you’ve got some stomach pains.”

He checks my breathing, my pulse, my throat, then has me lie back. His hands are cold as he pokes and presses on my stomach. “Does this hurt?” he asks, pressing under my ribs.

I wince. “Yeah.”

He presses lower, frowning thoughtfully. “What about here?” he asks, tugging my jeans down slightly to access my lower stomach.

“It’s tight... Like my skin’s stretching.” I laugh weakly. “Probably all the breakup snacks catching up to me.”

He hums under his breath. “I’m going to check your labs and be right back,” he says, hurrying out.

Agatha steps closer, poking my stomach. “Jesus, Presley, how much have you been eating?”

“Everything. Youknowhow rough it’s been.”

“Yeah, but...” She presses gently. “Your stomach’shard.”

“Maybe 'cause I had a snack after peeing?” I joke, laughing nervously.

Agatha’s about to say something when the doctor returns, face serious.

“How old are you, sweetheart?” he asks.

“Sixteen.” He shares a heavy look with the nurse. “What?” I demand. “What’s wrong? Am I dying?”

He actually chuckles. “No, no. You’re not dying.” He clears his throat. “But... you’re pregnant.”

The room tilts.

Agatha clutches my hand.

“You’re about three to three and a half months along,” he adds.

If I thought my world had fallen apart before… This?

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