“Sounds great, Barry,” Wade says. He sounds as tired as I feel but we both know how huge this is. Not just for us, or for this tour, but for country music.
Once upon a time, it was only in the southern United States, then it expanded to reach the rest of the country, and now it’s taking on the world. It’s surreal to be a part of that and I can’t even think straight as I imagine visiting those parts of the globe.
“Have a great show tonight, fellas,” Barry says before signing off.
“Well, this calls for another celebration,” Mandy announces. “I’ll have someone bring in some party favors for after the show tonight. We’ll see if Midnight Bay can help us out with that.
The mention of Midnight Bay reminds me of Robyn. I hope like hell she’ll be joining us for this leg of the tour. The craziest part? I can’t even imagine it without her.
31 | Robyn
“MISS BREELAND?”
I glance up from the magazine I’ve been perusing. I’ll have to finish the article on the benefits of breastfeeding some other time. Or maybe not. Maybe I’m some crazy exception to the chemistry of home pregnancy tests. That could happen.
Suuure it could.
Ignoring my subconscious as it openly mocks me, I smile at the petite blonde in pale pink scrubs as she holds the door open for me.
“Right this way. You’re in here,” she says pointing to a door that’s ajar.
I step into the room and try not to have a panic attack. “Thanks,” I mumble.
She smiles again and I try to focus on her face. She’s giving me this sympathetic head-tilted, eye-creasing expression and I read more into it than I probably should. I’m not even wearing an engagement ring, but here I am. Hoping against hope that I’m not knocked up even though I suspect we both know that I am.
“Just undress completely and put this gown on.” She leans down to retrieve a pale yellow paper gown that’s practically see-through and then hands it to me. “Have a seat on the table and the doctor will be right in.”
I swallow and nod as she leaves me alone with my gown in hand. My tongue is thick and foreign in my mouth. Maybe I’m allergic to this place. Or this ridiculously thin gown. Why do they have to be so freaking thin? Couldn’t I open a flannel robe just as easily? Once you’re in the stirrups, it hardly matters.
Oh God. The stirrups.
I glance over and there they are, screwed to the end of the table like a medieval torture device. With all the advances in technology, surely there’s a better way.
You can do this. It’s fine. You have a great job, fantastic medical benefits.
I console myself with this information as I undress in what has now become a freezing cold meat locker instead of a warm and cozy doctor’s office.
But what will Mr. Martin say about traveling? What if I can’t? What if I can’t find a nanny willing to travel with me?
My breathing has accelerated to a dangerous level. I can see my chest heaving and I can’t remember if I was supposed to take off my bra. Surely I can leave on my bra.
I’m leaving my bra on.
It feels like a strange act of defiance but my breasts are sore and the idea of freeing them right now in this frigid room seems like cruel and unusual torture.
In just my bra, I slip the gown on only to realize it ties in the back. And I can’t reach.
That’s what husbands are for, Robyn. Duh.
My subconscious is an asshole. And stuck in archaic gender and societal roles that I will not succumb to.
I’ve thrown every excuse I have at Dallas. Telling him repeatedly that I think what I have is contagious so he won’t come by. He’s called to check on me half a dozen times and I just keep telling him I’m tired, which hasn’t been a complete lie. I blink back the tears and twist the stupid offensive ties together the best that I can.
I can do this myself.
My mind churns through the many changes I’ll have to make, checking off each one as totally doable. I can turn my small home office into a nursery. I can explain to Mr. Martin that I need maternity leave and to reduce travel for a while. I can put a crib together. How hard can it be? YouTube should tell me exactly how to do everything that I need to.
Shouldn’t it?
The magazine I was reading had articles on antibiotics, immunizations, vaccinations, breastfeeding, and several other topics that hadn’t yet occurred to me to worry about.
Fuuuuck.
But I can do this. I can. I will.
I got this.
“We got this,” I say while patting my still-flat belly.
If there’s no one in there, well, I’ll laugh at my own ridiculousness and go celebrate with a drink. Or two.
“Good morning, Miss Breeland. I’m Dr. Lassiter.” A gentle female voice accompanying a fair-skinned woman with shoulder-length auburn hair interrupts my mental breakdown. “How are you feeling today?”
I suck in a deep breath and smile. “Great. I’m feeling great today, actually.”
“Actually? Have you not been feeling well?”
“Um, well . . .” Licking my lips, I say it out loud for the first time ever. “I’ve been feeling kind of sick, not in the mornings, though. Mostly around dinnertime. And I’m a few weeks late. I also haven’t had a Pap smear in, uh, a while. So I thought it would be a good idea to come in and—”
“How many weeks?”
“Ma’am?”
“How many weeks late are you?” Dr. Lassiter looks down at the folder she’s holding. “Better yet, just tell me when your last menstrual cycle was.”
I know the answer, but I pause like I have to do math in my head.
“My last period ended September thirteenth,” I tell her on a sigh, because I know, I know that was two months ago and anyone who is two months late and thinks they might not be pregnant is half-crazy. Or completely delusional.
Thankfully Dr. Lassiter doesn’t pin me with a judgmental frown. She just jots something down before meeting my apologetic gaze. “Taken any home tests?”
“Three,” I answer honestly.
“All the same result?”
“One negative that I probably took too soon, one positive last week, and one that didn’t have a clear result.”
“I see here that you’ve been on Loestrin for a while now. Have you taken it regularly and at the same time every day?”
I take another deep breath. Maybe this will be good practice for explaining my situation to my mom.
“I travel a lot for work from time to time. I have missed a few doses. I tried to double up to make up for a few missed pills but then I read online that it isn’t a good idea to do that.”
She nods but her mouth turns down. “If you’d just missed one day, I’d say it would be okay. Missing multiple doses, however, not so much. Let’s go ahead and run some tests and see if we can figure out what’s going on with you. If it turns out that you aren’t pregnant, though I heavily suspect that you are, we’ll look at alternate forms of birth control. Ortho Evra, for instance, which comes in a patch you change weekly or possibly an implant that lasts even longer. I typically recommend those to women who travel or have unpredictable schedules.”
“Okay,” I say meekly.
“A nurse will be in to collect a urine sample and some blood shortly.”
With that, she smiles at me once more and exits the room, slipping my chart casually into a plastic bin by the door as if she didn’t just deliver huge news with the subtly of a deathblow in a George R. R. Martin novel.
If I ever own my own gynecological practice, which is unlikely, but still, if I do, I’m going to make sure that all rooms are stocked with cupcakes and expensive boxes of chocolates. Maybe a big screen connected to Netflix or with a Nicholas Sparks marathon constantly on repeat. Because this is seriously the most emotionally draining experience of my life.