Page 86 of Leave Before I Love You
Now, it’s my turn to laugh. “Get real, Juni. You have to have sex to get pregnant.”
But you are having sex,my mind reminds me.A lot of it.
Holy hell. That’s right. I’mnota virgin anymore. Not by a long shot.
“Finally, a life update!” June says through a snort. “So, I guess my best friend doesn’t have any man in her life at the moment.”
Her words are another punch to my already tenuous gut. It wasn’t my intention, but I’ve been keepinga lotof shit from my best friend.
Not only does she not know about my pre-Henry virginal status, but she doesn’t know about my post-virginal status with Henry either—my brother’s best friend whom I’ve been fucking every chance I get for the past several weeks.
June starts talking about something adorable Addy did the other day, but I’m mentally spiraling.
Henry and I have sex without protection—lots. Sure, he pulled out on the island and I’ve been on birth control since we got back, butnothingis foolproof. If thatFriendsepisode with Ross and the condom company is anything to go by, there’s literally nothing when you’re fucking that is one hundred percent safe.
Immediately, my stomach tightens—and it’s not from the nausea.
“Avery? Are you even listening?” June asks.
“I gotta go,” I blurt out. “I have a…” I pause, my mind moving ninety miles per hour as I try to pull a random excuse out of my ass. “A Botox appointment. Yeah. Totally forgot about it.”
“Botox?” June repeats, confused. “On a Sunday?”
“It was the only time Fredrick could fit me in. And he’ll be so pissed if I’m a no-show,” I say, grabbing my purse before tossing oneof my credit cards down onto the table. “Lunch is on me. Love you!” I call over my shoulder as I head straight for the door.
I should feel like the world’s worst best friend, but fuck, I can’t focus on anything but the giant pregnant elephant in the room.
As I step outside, the Miami sun feels too bright, too hot, and my mind is racing.
I’ve got a bad feeling all that vagina-taunting to June is about to bite me right in the center of my own cooch.
Pregnant?
Shit.Talk about committing, Avery.
Avery
I’m in full-on panic mode, and every possible worst-case scenario is playing out like a bad Lifetime movie marathon, and as luck would have it, that’s when I’m my very most efficient.
Rules?Don’t know them.
Laws?For breaking.
Waiting my turn?Who’s she?
I need some answers, and I’ll be damned if I’m not going to get them—conscious decision-making or not.
I don’t even remember deciding to go to an OB-GYN, but next thing I know, I’m standing in front of the receptionist at Miami’s most expensive OB practice. The sign on the door says this place is run by Dr. Sofia Moretti—the same Dr. Sofia Moretti who’s been quoted in magazines as being the go-to OB for celebrities. She’s also one of very few doctors in the city who takes Sunday appointments—though, you are supposed toschedulesaid appointment rather than show up unannounced—and apparently, she delivered Stella St. Clair’s twins last year—yes,theStella St. Clair, international pop icon and TikTok sensation.
Surely if this doctor can deliver Stella St. Clair’s twins and keep it from the press for two WHOLE months, she can handle my currently fucked-up situation.
I push open the door, and it bangs against the wall with athud. The waiting room is filled with women—expectant moms with bellies in all shapes and sizes—and the receptionist looks up at me with a raised brow. She’s in her late forties with glasses that rest low on her nose and the permanent air of someone who’s seen too much nonsense to have patience for it.
“Excuse me, can I help you?” she asks, her voice imbued with annoyance.
“I need to see the doctor,” I say in a rush, speed walking over to her desk. “Right now.”
“Do you have an appointment?” she asks, her tone making it clear she already knows the answer.
